Page 24 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

“No,” I whisper, twisting hard in his grip. “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t.

His hands stay exactly where they are—tight around my wrists, holding me like something he owns. Something he intends to keep.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not ready to leave.”

My heart pounds so loud it makes me dizzy. “I wasn’t going to leave,” I lie, voice low and sharp. “I was just—”

He raises one brow. “Exploring?”

I scowl, jerking back again. “You can’t keep me here.”

His grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t soften either. “I can.”

I want to hit him. Scream. Something. Anything. The way he looks at me—too steady, too in control—makes my skin crawl.

He’s not angry. He’s amused.

“You were watching me.”

“I always watch,” he says.

“Why?” I breathe. “To see when I finally break?”

His gaze flickers briefly down to my mouth, then returns to my eyes.

“No,” he says. “To see how long you last.”

I go still. His voice—it’s not mocking. Not cold. If anything, it’s curious. Calculated. Like I’m a puzzle he’s taken apart and is now wondering whether to put back together.

“I’m not your experiment,” I whisper.

His head tilts slightly. “No. You’re something else entirely.”

His hands release me, slow and deliberate. I step back fast, putting as much distance between us as the hall allows. My skin burns where he touched me. I rub at my wrists, though the pressure is already fading.

“You should be asleep,” he says, as if the thought just occurred to him.

I shake my head, breath ragged. “I can’t sleep. Not in a place like this. Not when I don’t know what you’ve done to him.”

Silence stretches.

“You want to know about your father,” he says. The look in his eyes shifts—just slightly. “He’s alive,” he continues. “That doesn’t mean he’s whole.”

I flinch. “Where is he?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get tonight.”

I clench my fists. “I’m not your toy. I won’t play your games.”

Andrei steps forward once, and I instinctively take a step back.

“You are playing,” he says, voice low, velvet-edged. “Every time you run. Every time you lie. You think you’re the only one making moves?”

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