Page 20 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

What if he keeps something in here? What if there’s a key? A note? A folder? A security log showing when my father was brought in—or if he ever was?

Something that tells me what happened. Something that gives me answers.

Chapter Six - Andrei

I lean back in the leather chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, the glass in my hand catching the amber light from the fireplace. The whiskey swirls lazily with each motion—measured, unhurried. Its burn is low and familiar on my tongue, something I’ve come to appreciate more for its patience than its sting.

The security feed flickers on the monitor in front of me. Grainy, colorless footage washing the screen in dull gray light. No sound. Just movement. Shadows.

There she is. Alina Carter.

Small, fragile-looking, but not fragile at all. Not really. There’s something inside her that refuses to be soft. I saw it the moment she screamed in that foyer. The moment she ran.

Now I see it again.

She’s in the bedroom I gave her, crouched at the door with her fingers wrapped around something delicate. A pin. Something pulled from her hair, likely. She works the lock with surprising care. Her breath is shallow. Controlled. Her movements tight and methodical.

Clever girl.

The door gives with a click she can’t hear, not with how fast her heart must be pounding, but I hear it. I see the moment her shoulders shift, the brief tremor in her exhale. Relief.

Did she really think escape was that easy?

I watch her slip into the corridor, bare feet ghosting over the polished floor. She doesn’t know she’s walking through a house that sees everything. There are eyes in every corner. Systems I built long before she ever became useful.

Yet I don’t stop her. I want to see where she goes.

She moves through the hall like a ghost—quiet, hesitant, alert. She hugs the walls, checks corners. A rabbit in the wolf’s den, but one that knows the wolf is watching.

She pauses by the den, the firelight washing over her legs. Her profile flickers into view as she turns her head, drawn in by the sound, the warmth. The tension in her body loosens slightly. Not trust. Nostalgia, maybe. A reminder of something she once thought was safe.

That hesitation will be her undoing.

She steps inside. Just one foot. A pause. A second of stillness too long. She stares at the fire like it’s speaking to her, like it might burn away the rest of her fear. I sip my drink and wait.

Then she’s moving again.

I flip through the feeds as she begins her descent. Her figure appears again on another screen—narrow staircase, right side camera. She’s careful. Too careful. Not the panicked stumbling I expected. She’s thinking. Plotting.

Good.

Fear without intelligence is useless. It burns hot and quick and dies without effect. But fear laced with thought? That’s power. That’s what reshapes a person.

Another feed. She passes the second den. Then the foyer. Then the hall that leads to the east wing.

She’s searching for the front door.

I finish my drink. Set the glass aside.

The feed flickers, following her as she bolts into the eastern wing. She’s quick—surprisingly so, for someone with no shoes, no bearings, and no idea just how many dead ends this house offers. She keeps low, tight to the wall, checking behindher every few seconds like she knows she’s being watched but still hopes she might beat the eye that watches her.

I let her go.

She darts past the dining room. The gallery. Pauses once at a locked exit. Pulls at it. Swears, even without sound, I can see it on her mouth. Her breath fogs the glass. Her fists pound once, twice. Futile.

I don’t move. I don’t call anyone.

I let her run. Let her think there’s still a choice left to make.

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