Page 39 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

He takes a sip, then shrugs. “You gave one. Almost convincing.”

I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or admiring me. Maybe both.

He sets the glass down and moves toward me again, slower this time, circling like a predator waiting for the right angle to strike.

I don’t move. I can’t.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “Why protect him?”

I stare straight ahead. “Someone had to.”

He hums, like my answer pleases him. Or maybe it just amuses him. He reaches out again. This time, his fingers graze my collarbone, light as a whisper.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, and for a moment, it almost sounds sincere.

His touch lingers at the edge of my collarbone, warm and steady, and I hold my breath like that might somehow stop time from unraveling further. His fingers skim upward, over the hollow of my throat, to the soft curve of my jaw. Every part of me is wound tight, nerves singing, skin burning beneath silk and lace. He’s studying me like I’m a map he’s memorized but still enjoys tracing.

When his hand slips lower—across my arm, to my waist—I flinch. It’s not violent. It’s not hurried. It’s deliberate. Possessive. Like he’s reminding me, not only of what’s changed, but of what’s to come.

My voice escapes before I can catch it. “I’ve never… had sex before.”

The words are barely audible, but they land like thunder between us.

Every line of his body goes rigid. His hand halts at my hip, fingers twitching slightly, and then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes fully. His gaze darkens—less with shock, more with something else. Something greedy. Triumphant. Almost reverent.

His smile spreads slowly. “That’s good. Better, even,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with satisfaction.

I hate the way my body reacts. The flush in my cheeks. The stutter of my heart. The way my lips part involuntarily beneath his stare.

His thumb brushes my lower lip, slow and deliberate, like he’s already imagining all the ways he’ll teach me to obey, to yield, to crave.

“You’ve been untouched,” he says, more to himself than to me. “All this time… as if you’ve been holding out for me.”

I should slap him. Scream. Fight.

I can’t move. Not because I’m frozen with fear—but because something in me refuses to give him the satisfaction of running.

He leans in close. So close his breath brushes my ear.

“But not tonight.”

My stomach twists.

His hand slips away from my waist, trailing over my hip, then gone entirely. I’m left standing there, aching with tension, heat curling low in my belly. The air between us sizzles with something more dangerous than violence—anticipation.

“Why?” I whisper, before I can stop myself.

He smiles again, a devil’s grin. “Waiting makes it more delicious.”

He turns away like it costs him nothing. Unbothered. Confident.

He could have taken whatever he wanted. Could’ve ripped the rest of the silk from my body and ruined me right then and there.

I stand alone in the center of the room, skin flushed, chest heaving. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I can still feel his thumb on my lip, his breath on my ear, the cruel patience in his eyes.

I felt it too. Not just the fear. Not just the dread. Something lower. Warmer. A tension that refuses to settle. My skin still tingles from his touch, and every inch of me aches with the unspent energy of something that never fully ignited. It terrifies me how much I noticed him. How my body didn’t recoil when it should have.

I cross the room slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last, and sit on the edge of the massive bed. The sheets are smooth beneath my fingertips. The room smells like him—amber and smoke and spice. I press my thighs together, ashamed of the heat still lingering between them.

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