Page 43 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

“He give you what you needed?” he asks.

I glance at him. “No, but he will.”

Dima nods once, no surprise there. “Does the girl know where you are?”

I stop at the edge of the corridor, fingers adjusting the cuffs of my sleeves, blood long dried along the inner fold. My voice is low, but certain. “She’s not a girl anymore.”

The weight of the words hangs between us for a breath, then Dima simply nods again and turns away, already disappearing down another corridor to handle the rest. I walk alone to the car.

Rain slicks the pavement as I step out, the mist now heavier, catching the glow of the headlights as I slide into the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles to life beneath my hands like a sleeping animal stirred from slumber, eager to obey.

I drive with no destination, just let the city curl around me again. Familiar streets blur past the windshield, their colors softer now in the rain—streetlights bleeding into puddles, neon signs warping in reflection. The silence in the car is thick, broken only by the low growl of the engine and the occasional thump of water beneath the tires.

The city feels different tonight. Not because of the power I hold, or the blood I’ve spilled, but because the final piece has shifted into place.

Alina.

I see her in my mind like a vision drawn in fire and shadow—standing in white, trembling but unyielding, her lips parted beneath my kiss. She was afraid. She still is. But there’s something more now, tucked behind the fear. Something she doesn’t even see in herself yet. Submission waiting to turn into surrender. Innocence beginning to rot into need.

I think of the way she looked at me when I told her I’d return to her bed.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t beg.

She asked.

She wanted to understand. She wanted me to explain.

Every hour she spends under my roof, wearing my name, breathing my air, living at the mercy of my touch—she becomes more Sharov.

Chapter Thirteen - Alina

The office is quiet.

Dim light slinks along the edges of the room, barely enough to cut through the shadows. It smells of aged leather, expensive cigars, whiskey, and something more intimate—something unmistakably him. The scent clings to the dark walls, to the plush curtains that spill heavy and thick across tall windows, to the deep grain of the mahogany desk positioned like a throne at the center of the room.

Everything here is designed to command, to intimidate. Even the fire—low behind an iron grate—flickers like it knows better than to blaze too bright.

I shouldn’t be here.

I tell myself that for the third, fourth, fifth time as I stand at the threshold, fingers curled tight against my palm. My dress clings to my legs like it resents the chill in the air. The silence presses in around me, thick and waiting.

I don’t leave.

The thought of my father—where he is, what they’ve done to him—burns hotter than the shame twisting low in my belly.

I step inside.

He doesn’t turn at first. He’s by the liquor cart, pouring something dark into a crystal glass, the sound of liquid hitting glass too refined for the weight of this moment. His suit is immaculate, his movements measured, like he’s been rehearsing this scene alone.

Then he turns. His eyes find mine with ease. Like he was expecting me. Like this was inevitable.

He doesn’t look startled. There’s no surprise in him. Just quiet amusement curling in the corner of his mouth, a flicker of something deeper in the dark glint of his gaze.

He lifts the glass, takes a slow sip, and watches me. Just watches. Like he’s giving me time to unravel.

I stay standing. Still. Every muscle drawn tight. My voice, when I find it, sounds too quiet in the vast room.

“If I do what you want—” I swallow hard. “—will you let my father live?”

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