Page 85 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

My chest tightens, a raw, searing ache radiating beneath my ribs. It isn’t just fear anymore. I’m not just afraid of dying. I’m not afraid of what Matías might do to me—though the threat of that lingers, heavy and real.

I’m afraid of losing him.

I see him behind my eyes now—not as he was in fury, not even as he was in bed, but the moments in between.

The way his silence could say more than any shout.

The way he placed a steadying hand on the small of my back when I faltered—possessive, yes, but also protective.

The way he lowered the gun when I told him not to pull the trigger. Not because he had to. Not because he wanted to.

My throat tightens, and tears prick at the corners of my eyes, hot and unwanted. I blink hard, furious at myself, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. Matías can’t see me cry. He can’t see me break.

I won’t give him the pleasure. I bite the inside of my cheek until the sting distracts me from the way my vision blurs.

I don’t want Andrei hurt. I certainly don’t want him dead.

I want him alive. Whole. Fierce and unstoppable and burning. Even if I never see him again, even if he hates me for what I’ve become—I want him to live.

The realization cuts through everything else. It’s the one thing I know for sure.

It gives me something to hold on to.

I have to warn him.

Somehow, some way—I have to get a message out. I have to keep him from walking into this slaughter blind. I have to buy him time. Change the game. Anything. Everything.

Matías keeps circling, keeps talking, drunk on the power he thinks he has, blind to the storm building inside me.

Let him think I’m weak. Let him think I’m beaten.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Andrei—it’s how to survive. How to wait. Now I just need one chance.

One mistake. One crack in their plan.

***

Matías grows bored quickly.

I can tell the exact moment it happens. His smirk fades just enough to reveal the irritation beneath, the twitch of impatience tightening at the corner of his mouth. He wants fear. Panic. Screams. Something to feed on.

I give him nothing.

He circles once more, eyes raking over me like I’m a carcass he’s already picked clean. Then he scoffs and waves a hand at one of his men.

“Lock her upstairs,” he says flatly, already turning away like I no longer interest him. “Keep her breathing. Nothing more.”

The man who steps forward is younger, with a blank expression and the wary energy of someone who knows better than to ask questions. He grabs my arm roughly, and I stumble as he drags me toward the stairs at the back of the house.

The boards creak underfoot. Paint peels from the banister. The hallway above is dim, lined with doors that lead to nothing good.

He shoves one open and throws me inside.

The door slams shut behind me.

The lock clicks into place.

Silence.

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