Page 38 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

The furnishings are dark and rich. Wood so polished it gleams. Shadows stretch along the walls, soft and consuming. A fire crackles in the hearth, the only warmth in a room built like a cage. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace—white gown, pale skin, eyes wide and too green. I look like a ghost.

Then I see the bed.

It’s massive, draped in black sheets and framed in cold iron. It’s the centerpiece of the room, the only thing that truly matters here. And I can’t look away from it.

My stomach twists. Everything in me recoils, panic fluttering against my ribs like a bird trapped in wire. This is real. The ceremony. The ring still snug around my finger. The vows. My silence.

I am alone. With him.

My father—my father is somewhere behind a locked door. Bleeding. Starving. Paying a price for sins I never saw, never imagined. I should hate him. Part of me does, but I would’ve given anything to keep him from the wreckage he became today.

The floor creaks behind me. I flinch.

The door groans open, and Andrei steps inside.

His presence fills the room. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches me from the doorway, his eyes gleaming in the firelight, his expression unreadable.

I try to keep my breath even, my hands still. But I feel it—that instinctual shiver running down my spine, every nerve tightening as his gaze drags over me.

He smirks. “Scared?” he murmurs.

I say nothing.

He moves toward me, slow and deliberate, each step a calculated promise. His suit jacket is gone. He’s unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The tie is gone too. He looks… casual. Relaxed.

Like he’s waited for it.

I back away without meaning to, one step, then another, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

He stops just in front of me, eyes locked on mine.

Then he reaches out.

His fingers grip my chin, tilting my face up to his. The pressure is firm, not cruel. But it’s a reminder—I’m his now. Bound by a name I never asked for. Caged in silk and ceremony.

“Don’t look away,” he says, voice low.

I try not to, but the way he looks at me—hungry, possessive, like I’m something he intends to consume—makes my insides twist. My breath hitches. My shoulders tense.

He sees it all. Drinks in the fear I try to bury.

“I thought you’d scream,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “Beg. Fight.”

I force my voice out. “Would it matter?”

“No.” His hand falls away. “It would’ve been entertaining.”

I hate how calm he is. How in control. Like this is just another move on a chessboard he’s already won. He doesn’t need to force me—not physically. Not tonight. Because he knows the fear is enough.

He steps back, unhurried, and pours himself a drink from the bar near the window. The sound of the liquid hitting crystal is sharp in the silence. He doesn’t offer me any.

I stand there, fists clenched at my sides, still in my gown. Still frozen.

He watches me over the rim of his glass.

“You stood up there today,” he says, swirling the amber liquid. “Lied to them all. Lied to me. Said you were happy.”

I lift my chin. “You wanted a performance.”

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