Page 33 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

The dress fits perfectly.

A soft knock breaks the silence. Not firm. Not threatening. Just enough to remind me I’m not alone, even if I haven’t seen anyone since the housekeeper left.

Then the door opens, and Dima steps inside with a tray in his hands.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he says, not unkindly, though there’s something wry in his tone. “You’ll need your strength.”

I blink at him, slow and tired. “Where’s Andrei?”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Expecting someone else?”

“He usually brings the food himself,” I say, ignoring the heat rising to my cheeks. “Doesn’t trust anyone else to watch me eat.”

Dima smirks, setting the tray on the small table by the fireplace. “He’s getting ready for the big day. Busy man, our Andrei. Tying his tie, polishing his shoes, deciding whether to put the bride in pearls or chains.”

I don’t laugh.

He glances over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the gown. “You wear it well.”

My stomach twists. “Don’t.”

“What? It’s a compliment.” He pulls a chair out and sits, elbows resting on his knees. “You look like every part of you wants to tear it off, but you wear it like armor. That’s something.”

I look away. The food smells good—roasted vegetables, warm bread, grilled meat—but it might as well be glass.

“Why are you really here?” I ask.

“Andrei sent me. He didn’t want you to miss dinner.”

“He didn’t want to see me?”

Dima shrugs. “He’ll see you soon enough.”

I stare at the plate, the gleam of silver against porcelain, the flicker of candlelight across polished surfaces. Everything here is too pretty. Too careful.

I’m being dressed for slaughter, and everyone keeps smiling like it’s a celebration.

Dima leans back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. For a man trained to kill, he moves with the ease of someone entirely unbothered by violence. Like it’s routine. Like this is just another evening.

He watches me a moment longer, then says, “You know, most people in your position would be begging by now. Crying. Bargaining. Not sitting like some marble statue in a dress they swore they’d never wear.”

“Maybe I’m not most people.”

“No,” he says, with something that might actually be respect. “You’re not.”

The compliment tastes bitter. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of this—not the gown, not the food, not the forced civility of a man who would stand beside Andrei and call it duty.

“Why does he want this?” I ask quietly. “Why marry me when he could have just… ended it?”

Dima’s eyes sharpen. “Marriage is messier. Slower. More permanent. A bullet burns for a second. A wedding? That carves a name into stone.”

My throat tightens. “So I’m just a message. A warning to my father.”

He nods. “In part, but I think it’s more than that now.”

“Why?”

Dima pauses. Then leans forward, folding his hands together. “He didn’t just want you to wear the dress. He wanted you to choose it. To feel it. He wanted to see what you’d do with it.”

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