Page 53 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

His mouth crashes against mine, all force and possession, like he’s daring me to push him away. There’s nothing tentative, nothing sweet. His lips are rough against mine, demanding, shaping the kiss into something brutal and consuming.

I gasp against him, the sound breaking free before I can stop it.

My hands find his shirt without thinking, clutching the material so hard it pulls taut across his chest. For a moment, it feels like a fight—my fingers digging in, his mouth coaxing a war from mine. For a breath, it teeters on the edge of resistance.

Then it doesn’t.

Then I’m kissing him back.

Heat floods through me, fast and reckless. I don’t even feel him pushing me until my back meets the wall with a muted thud. My head tips back on instinct, the cold wood grounding me even as his mouth trails down my throat, setting every nerve in my body on fire.

I should be thinking about survival. I should be reminding myself that this is a deal, a transaction, nothing more. That my father’s life hangs in the balance and I’m just a pawn.

Instead, my thoughts spiral wild and helpless:this is wrong—this is survival—but why does it feel like something else?

The air between us grows heavier, thick enough to choke on. I can barely draw breath, barely think beyond the overwhelming sensation of him everywhere—his hands at mywaist, his mouth against my skin, the weight of his body caging mine against the wall.

Somewhere between a gasp and a breath, I whisper his name.

“Andrei.”

Not a plea. Not a demand.

A warning.

Or maybe something worse. Maybe a surrender.

His hands slide down my sides, deliberate and unhurried, until they find the back of my thighs. Before I can catch a breath, he lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing. My legs instinctively clamp around his waist, holding on to him because the floor is no longer beneath me and something inside me thrills at the loss of control.

I could tell him to stop.

The knowledge sits heavy between my ribs: solid, real. If I told him to, Andrei would let me go. Would set me back on my feet, no questions, no anger. He would obey.

Knowing that—truly knowing it—makes my pulse flutter harder. Makes my thighs tighten around him instead of pushing away. Somehow, that choice, that power, makes me weaker than any force he could use against me.

He carries me across the room with slow, sure steps. Every shift of his body rocks against mine, every movement another reminder that I’m pressed flush to him—bare under the flimsy robe, separated by nothing but thin barriers of fabric and willpower. His hands grip me securely, like I’m something precious—or something claimed. I can’t tell which feels worse.

The bed comes into view: massive, untouched, dressed in dark, cold sheets that catch the dim light like polished stone.

He lays me down without a word.

Not rough. Not tender either. Like a king laying down his tribute—a possession placed exactly where he wants it, knowing it already belongs to him.

The air is cold against my back. My robe slips open slightly at the thigh, baring more skin to the chill, but the heat rolling off Andrei makes it almost bearable. I watch him through heavy lidded eyes, my chest rising and falling faster now, unable to mask it.

He looms over me, one knee pressing onto the mattress, bending down until I can feel his breath stir the loose strands of hair around my face.

For a second—just a second—I look up at him and see something that roots me deeper into the bed, freezes my limbs more effectively than fear ever could.

It isn’t lust in his eyes.

It isn’t even victory.

It’s something worse. Something sharper, more cutting. Possessiveness. A dark, consuming hunger that no body, no single act could ever satisfy. The kind that lays claim to more than flesh—the kind that sinks into bone and never lets go.

Andrei doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask.

He waits.

---