Page 50 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

“Ortega’s ports have gone dark,” he says. “No chatter from the clubs. No new movement on any of their known fronts. It’s like they’ve gone underground.”

I nod once, adjusting the cuff of my shirt. It’s exactly what I expected.

“They’re waiting,” I say.

“For you,” Dima adds. “For your move.”

They want to see how hard I’ll hit. Or if I’ll hesitate.

My silence is answer enough. Dima reads it, as he always does. I don’t need to tell him.

He nods. “I’ll gather the inner circle. Tonight.”

Then he’s gone.

I move to the bar, fingers curling around the familiar shape of a crystal decanter. Vodka. Clean. No ice. I pour a short glass, just enough to burn the edges off the moment, and swirl it once before taking a slow sip.

Then I sink into the leather chair beside the fire. I let myself think of her. Alina.

The name moves through me like smoke—soft, curling, impossible to ignore. I see her again: the wild fire in her eyes when she screamed at me, defiant to the last. The way she shook when the guards grabbed her—but she didn’t plead. Didn’t beg. She fought. Not well, not effectively, but she fought.

There’s steel in her. It surprised me.

She was meant to be a loose thread. Something to tug, to unravel Carter’s empire. I expected fear. I expected resistance.

I didn’t expect… her.

The way she squared her shoulders, even as her voice trembled. The fury in her eyes when she tried to bargain—like she thought I could be swayed. That I might be reasonable.

It amused me.

It aroused me.

She doesn’t belong in this world. She’s too soft. Too raw. Raised in silk and illusion. She’s the kind of girl who should’ve never stepped out of her father’s shadow.

And she belongs to me.

She doesn’t understand that yet. Not fully. She thinks she has leverage. That her willingness to sacrifice herself for her father still gives her power.

It doesn’t. She gave that up the second she stepped into my office.

The second she trembled—and didn’t run.

I sip again, let the vodka burn clean down my throat. The fire crackles low in the hearth, shadows dancing up the walls like ghosts waiting to be named.

Her breath still lingers in my memory. The scent of her skin, warm and nervous. The feel of her muscles tensing beneath my hands. The way she leaned in when she thought I wouldn’t notice.

She’s trying to hate me. Trying to convince herself this is all for him.

I felt her pulse. I know the difference between terror and tension.

She’s a problem now. Not just a pawn to move across a board—but something closer.

A temptation. A risk. A woman I can’t afford to be distracted by.

And yet—

She’s there. In my thoughts. In the quiet. In the places where even blood can’t reach.

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