Page 25 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

My spine straightens. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He smiles—just faintly. “No,” he says. “You’re afraid of what you’ll do when I let you choose.”

I shake my head, throat tightening. “You’re sick.”

“Maybe,” he says. “I don’t lie, Alina. Not like him.”

The way he says it, my father’s name might as well be a curse.

“I will find out the truth,” I say. “With or without your help.”

“I expect you to,” Andrei says, already turning away. “That’s the point.”

I don’t move. Can’t. My back is already against the wall, my lungs tight in my chest, and my heartbeat won’t slow.

He comes closer. Deliberate. Silent. Like a storm you feel before it hits.

Then he’s there—right in front of me. Towering, sharp-edged, too composed. His presence is overwhelming, impossible to ignore. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, warm and heady and laced with something deeper. Woodsmoke. Spice. Something old. Something dangerous.

I try not to flinch as he raises his hand.

Fingers brush my jaw—not harsh, but possessive. Tracing the line of my throat until his palm settles there. Not squeezing. Just resting. Heavy. Certain.

His thumb presses beneath my chin, lifting it.

My breath catches.

His eyes lock on to mine. They’re dark, but not empty—no, there’s color there. Flecks of green threaded through the shadows. Subtle. Unexpected. Beautiful, if I didn’t hate him so much.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice like a low growl that vibrates down my spine. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The words hit me like ice water.

I shake my head, but it’s the smallest motion—barely more than a tremor. His grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t allow movement either.

“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper. “You don’t own me.”

His eyes narrow, and his thumb slides slightly up the curve of my throat, just enough to remind me that I’m not the one in control.

“I do,” he says. “I took you, and I keep you breathing. Every second you’re still alive is because I let it be so.”

The room tilts, just a little. My knees feel unsteady.

I hate that my body reacts this way. That his nearness makes my pulse stutter and my skin prickle with fear, adrenaline—or something worse. Something I don’t want to name.

“You think you’re strong,” he murmurs. “And maybe you are, but strength won’t change what’s already been decided.”

His fingers trace lightly along the side of my neck. My throat tightens around each breath. I try to speak, but nothing comes.

“You hate me,” he says, almost like he’s amused. “Good. Keep hating me. That’s better than fear. Fear fades. Hate stays sharp.”

My vision flickers at the edges. Black spots threatening to bloom. The weight of his hand, the intensity in his gaze—it’s too much. I can’t breathe.

“You’ll learn,” he continues, his voice softer now. “What it means to be mine. Not because I want to hurt you—if I did, I would have already. But because I need you to understand what’s real. What matters.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” I manage to choke out.

His smile is subtle. Cold, but there’s something else beneath it. Something raw.

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