Page 72 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

“Keep him under,” I order. “No moves unless I say.”

Dima hesitates, just for a breath. “What do we do about Alina?”

My mouth twists. “Leave her to me.”

He nods and leaves without another word.

I turn back to the window.

The city blurs slightly in my vision, the lights smearing into long, broken lines. My reflection stares back at me—hollow-eyed, sharp-mouthed, the monster I chose to become a long time ago.

There are a thousand ways to break a man.

Chapter Twenty-One - Alina

The garden smells like rain and roses and something older, heavier—wet earth clinging to the air, thick and musky.

Late afternoon sunlight filters through the tangled hedges, making everything look gold and green, bright but heavy, like the whole world is holding its breath. Stone paths weave crookedly between gnarled trees and wild, overgrown flowers, the manicured precision of the estate giving way here to something raw and restless.

I walk slowly, barefoot again, the soles of my feet cold against the damp stone. The dress I threw on clings to my legs with every humid gust of wind. Strands of hair stick to my neck and temple, and I don’t bother fixing them.

My mind’s too much of a mess to care.

Thoughts of Andrei gnaw at me from every direction, tangled and mean and impossible to outrun. I keep thinking of the way he looked at me last night—after the gun, after I stepped into his fury like a fool who didn’t know better. The way his eyes had stripped me bare without a single word.

I can’t stop thinking about the feel of his hands either.

The weight of his body over mine. The way I broke for him—and how he knew it.

The worst part—the part that knots tightest in my chest—is that I don’t know who I hate more for it. Him.

Or myself.

I kick at a loose stone on the path, watching it skitter and bounce down the trail before disappearing into a thicket of rosebushes. The act feels childish. Pointless.

Just like everything else.

Everything inside me feels tight, trapped, wrong—like a song played in the wrong key, over and over, until it warps itself into something unbearable.

I’m so caught up in my own head I nearly slam into someone.

“Ah—!” I jerk back a step.

It’s Yelena, the head housekeeper.

She steadies the tray in her hands, smiling gently, a few droplets of tea sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the cups. She’s older than most of the staff here, with kind brown eyes and a calmness that never seems to waver.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“No harm done,” she says, voice warm and familiar in a way almost nothing else in this place is. She’s one of the few who doesn’t treat me like a prisoner—or a trophy.

She was sterner with me at first, like that day I saw my wedding dress for the first time. She’s softened somewhat, now.

She shifts the tray to one hand and brushes a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Storm’s made a mess of the garden,” she says. “The roses are blooming later this year. A gift, maybe.”

I glance at the heavy red blooms sagging on their stems. Some petals are already starting to blacken around the edges.

“Maybe,” I say.

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