Page 46 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

He felt it. Every stutter in my breath, every shift of my body. He knows exactly what I’m trying to pretend didn’t happen—and worse, he knows I can’t take it back.

That I let him touch me. That I let myself want it. Even for a second.

My stomach churns as I force myself upright, adjusting the fall of my dress with shaking fingers. My skin still buzzes where he touched it, the ghost of his breath lingering near my ear.

Andrei doesn’t look at me again. He slips into his jacket, nods once to Dima, and crosses the room toward the door.

As he passes, he doesn’t speak.

He walks past me without a glance, murmuring something beneath his breath I can’t make out. It isn’t meant for me to hear. Maybe it’s not even meant for words—just sound, weight, dismissal. Then the door swings open again, and Dima follows after him, quiet and composed, leaving me standing there like the silence itself is mocking me.

When the door clicks shut, the room changes.

The heat he carried vanishes, leaving the air colder than it should be. The fireplace still flickers behind its iron grate, but it doesn’t help. It’s ambient, distant, decorative—nothing like the heat that radiated from him. That lives in him.

I wrap my arms around myself, but the chill sinks deeper.

My skin still tingles in the places he touched, my lips swollen from a kiss that never happened. I press my thighs together and hate the way I can still feel him there too—just the suggestion of pressure, of presence. Andrei never rushed. He didn’t have to. His hands lingered like he had all the time in the world to make me forget what resistance felt like.

What scares me most is how much of me already had.

I should be relieved he’s gone. I should be angry.

Except… I miss him?

The concept makes my stomach twist violently.

I clench my fists, fingers curling hard into my palms until my nails sting. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. My gaze snaps to the desk—the place where he left his drink. I move without thinking, crossing the room and reaching out, fingertips brushing the crystal glass he abandoned.

It’s still warm.

I snatch my hand back like it burned me.

What am I doing?

Why did I come here? What did I expect—that I could bargain with a man like Andrei Sharov? That I could trade myself for my father’s safety and walk away untouched? I knew better. I always knew better.

I should’ve run.

I could’ve. Hours ago. Before the wedding. Before the vow. Before the ring on my finger and his breath against my skin.

Now I don’t know what I’m more afraid of—what he’s doing to my father… or what he’s doing to me.

The fire draws me in, not for warmth, but for something steady to look at. I settle in front of it, sinking down to the carpet, arms folded tight across my body. I stare into the dancing flames until my eyes sting.

It doesn’t chase away the memory.

I still feel his fingers under my chin, along my jaw, his lips brushing my skin with calculated restraint. Not affection. Not even lust.

Possession.

My lips part without meaning to, and I can still feel the hitch in my breath from when he leaned close. My heart starts to race again, confused and traitorous.

I should feel used. Trapped. Sickened.

A part of me does feel all of that, but that’s not all I feel. There’s something else inside me now—twisting, taking root. It isn’t love. It’s not even hate.

It’s need.

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