Page 30 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

I lean in just slightly, enough that I can feel the heat of her skin radiating between us. “Then choose wisely.”

She opens her mouth again—maybe to fight, maybe to spit something cruel—but the words don’t come. She doesn’t look away. And that, more than anything, tells me what I need to know.

She’s still in this. Still fighting.

I enjoy that far more than I should.

Her jaw clenches, her knuckles whitening as her hands dig into the mattress beside her. I watch the thoughts swirl behind her eyes, fast and chaotic—rage, panic, disbelief—all tightening the muscles in her face until she looks like she might shatter from the tension alone.

Her chin lifts instead. Just a fraction, but it’s there—a sliver of defiance she doesn’t even realize she’s giving me. I’ve seen that look before. On men who thought they were untouchable. On liars moments before they bled.

“You think binding me to you will break me,” she says, the words sharp but low, as if she’s measuring the danger of every syllable. “It won’t.”

I step in, closing the space between us until I can see every flicker of emotion in her eyes, every tremble she tries to hide. I lower my voice until it’s just for her, intimate and cruel.

“No, Alina. Binding you to me will change you.”

Her throat works against a swallow. She doesn’t retreat, but I feel the way her breath stutters, how her body tenses like she’s bracing for impact. She wants to believe she still has control. That there’s still a version of herself she can cling to.

The truth is already working its way into her bones.

Chapter Nine - Alina

The room is too quiet. Too elegant. Too perfect. Every inch designed to remind me of what I’ve lost and what I’m being forced to become.

My gaze locks on the dress laid out across the edge of the bed—ivory silk, delicate lace, shimmering in the low light like a threat wrapped in beauty. A bridal gown. A noose disguised as grace.

I can’t breathe.

My pulse hammers beneath my skin, panic rising like a tide I can’t hold back. I pace the length of the room with quick, shallow breaths, arms wrapped around myself as though that might keep me from splintering apart.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

I’m being forced into marriage.

The words feel foreign in my mouth, even when I whisper them aloud just to make them lose power.

“Marriage,” I murmur, the syllables tasting like ash. “To him.”

I stop in front of the tall mirror by the armoire, staring at my reflection, as if I might find a version of myself there that still makes sense. But I don’t see me—not the girl who once wore red lipstick and danced barefoot at garden parties, not the one who argued politics at dinner tables and rolled her eyes at her father’s stern glances. All I see now is someone worn thin. Someone cornered.

Trapped.

The gown is a final insult. Its softness taunts me. The fine embroidery along the bodice—threaded silver vines twistingalong the neckline—is delicate, romantic. As if this were a fairy tale. As if the man waiting on the other side of this nightmare was a prince and not a monster with green-flecked eyes and a voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Why me?Why this?

I turn away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of that thing any longer. I dig my nails into my palms, try to slow my breathing, but the walls feel like they’re inching closer with every passing second. The windows are sealed, the door locked. My choices stripped away one by one, all dressed in silk and satin to hide the blood beneath.

The handle clicks.

I spin toward the door just as it opens and three maids step inside, each one quiet, composed, careful. They carry a tray of jewelry, soft slippers, a veil draped over one arm like it’s holy.

Something inside me snaps. “No.” The word leaves me in a snarl. “No, get that thing out of here.”

They freeze.

The youngest glances at the dress, then back at me, her mouth opening like she might try to soothe me. I don’t let her.

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