Page 68 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

I replay the moment in my mind.

The gun in my hand.

The man kneeling on the floor, blood dripping from his split lip.

My finger tightening on the trigger.

Then—her voice.

Cutting through the haze. Cutting through me.

Clear. Steady. Terrified, maybe—but unshaken.

She shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have spoken. In any other world, in any other life, her interruption would have been fatal—for her, for the man at my feet.

I see it now. The mistake he made was serious. A betrayal of orders. A risk to everything I built, but it wasn’t worth an execution.

Not then. Not like that.

I allowed rage to cloud my judgment. I allowed emotion—not reason—to guide my hand.

She saw it before I did. That gnaws at me.

Control is everything. Precision is survival. I pride myself on never acting out of impulse, never letting anger dictate my actions. Men who lose their temper lose their empires.

Yet tonight, it was her voice—not my own discipline—that pulled me back from the edge.

She stepped into the fire without hesitation, without knowing if I would burn her down for it. She saw me slipping—and she stopped me.

No one else would have dared.

I set the glass down, the soft click loud in the stillness.

Leaning back, I stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her interference settle deep into my bones.

She isn’t just dangerous because I want her. She’s dangerous because she sees me in ways I haven’t allowed anyone to in years.

Why her?

The thought gnaws at me, sharp and persistent, refusing to be silenced no matter how many times I push it aside.

I’ve killed friends without blinking. Lovers. Traitors. Men who swore loyalty, who smiled in my face while sharpening blades behind my back. Their lives ended by my hand without regret, without even hesitation. I have been betrayed more times than I can count, and I have survived because I never allowed myself to need anyone.

Yet she gets under my skin like nothing and no one ever has.

Alina.

Young. Naïve. Stubborn to the point of recklessness. She has no place in my world—too soft, too untamed. A girl raised behind walls of wealth and protection, thrown into chaos she doesn’t even fully understand.

She should have broken already. Bent. Yielded.

Except there’s something inside her—a core that refuses to bend, no matter how much pressure I apply. A defiance that lives in her bones, even when her body submits.

I hate it. I crave it.

I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, staring into the glass as if it holds the answers I can’t find.

The memory crashes into me without warning—sharp, vivid.

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