Page 63 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Jackson Waters. Leaning in like he had a right.

Speaking to her like she was available. Like her body wasn’t already marked. Already mine.

The image is a rot in my brain, and I can’t cut it out. His smug mouth. Her laughter—real, open. That softness she won’t give me, but handed to him like it meant nothing.

I should’ve broken his jaw. I wanted to.

Instead, I brought her here. Where she belongs.

We reach my quarters, the double doors looming at the end of the hall. I shove one open and drag her in behind me, the darkness swallowing us whole.

The door slams shut. The sound rings out like a gunshot.

Before she can move, before she can breathe, I turn and press her back against the heavy wood, one arm on either side of her, caging her in. My hands brace against the grain above her shoulders, body crowding hers with all the heat I’ve held back for too long.

Her breath stutters. Her chest rises and falls fast—too fast.

She’s not struggling. She’s not trying to run.

Her eyes are wide, lips parted, the faintest tremble visible in her lower lip. She looks up at me with a fire she doesn’t understand. Not yet.

Her body betrays her first.

I feel it.

The shudder that goes through her when I lean in. The way her hands fist at her sides like she’s holding herself still, waiting. Wanting. Hating herself for it.

She’s trapped, and she doesn’t want to be free.

I lean in until my mouth hovers just above hers, close enough that I can feel the hitch of her breath against my lips, close enough that she can’t ignore the weight of me—what I am, what I’ve done, what I will do again. My voice cuts through the air like a blade, low and venom-laced.

“Did you like that?” I ask. “Having another man’s attention?”

She jerks like I struck her.

It’s not the words—it’s the truth beneath them, the accusation she doesn’t know how to answer. Her entire body goes taut, jaw tightening, breath stalling in her throat. She looks away, or tries to. I don’t let her.

I catch her chin between my fingers, not gently. Her skin is warm, flushed, and soft, but I hold her like I own her, like Ihave every right to demand she look at me. Her head resists at first, a flicker of that defiance still alive beneath the shame, but I tilt her face back toward mine until our eyes meet.

She looks up at me, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast. Her pupils are blown wide, her green irises barely visible in the dim light. There’s fear there. Anger. Guilt.

She hasn’t done anything wrong.

Not really.

The guilt is still there, pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. I see it in the way her shoulders bunch under the thin fabric of her dress, in the way her fingers twitch like she’s bracing for impact—or something worse. I know that guilt. I put it there.

Her thoughts spiral. I can feel it. She’s trying to justify it all. Jackson was just a man, just a conversation. She didn’t touch him. She barely spoke. Still, her heart pounds like she was caught in the act.

I study her—every flicker of emotion across her face, every breath she takes like it might steady her. I see the pulse fluttering wildly in her throat, the way her mouth opens just enough to speak, but no sound comes out.

Still pretending she has control.

I’m done waiting.

I crash my mouth into hers. It’s not a kiss—it’s a reckoning.

My lips press to hers with bruising force, a violent clash of need and ownership. There’s no gentleness in it. No tenderness. I kiss her like I want to destroy every lie she tells herself about what this is. My hand tangles in her hair, tilting her head back further, deepening it, forcing her to feel every inch of what she’s done to me.

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