Page 92 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

We’re cornered.

Trapped in what used to be some kind of storage room or back office—maybe in a warehouse, maybe the ruined shell of some estate long forgotten. There’s nothing left here but fire stains, concrete, and death.

Andrei slumps against a cracked support beam just feet from me, one hand pressed to his shoulder, blood soaking through his shirt and jacket in thick, wet streaks. His breathing is rough. Labored. His jaw clenched tight. He’s still upright. Still glaring.

Still alive.

Matías stands across the room now, gun trained on Andrei’s chest, expression gleaming with cruel satisfaction. There’s no hurry in him. He’s savoring this. His suit is torn, dirtied with ash and sweat and blood, but he still holds himself like a king about to cut down a rival in front of a crowd.

Only the crowd is gone.

It’s just us.

My heart punches against my ribs. Every second feels too long and too short at once. Every inhale tastes like soot and fear.

I glance at Andrei again—his face pale, jaw twitching with pain. I’ve seen him stand up for me before. I’ve seen him bleed,but not like this. Not with the weight of failure starting to settle in his shoulders, like he knows he might not walk out of this one.

Something tears open inside me. A feeling I don’t have words for.

I want him to live.

I want it with a desperation I don’t understand, can’t justify. He’s done terrible things. He’s scared me, hurt me, broken me open and forced me to see parts of myself I wish I hadn’t. He is violence. He is obsession.

He’s also the only one who came.

The only one who would, and now it feels too late.

I step forward. My voice shakes as I speak. I clutch the gun in my hands, not knowing if I can use it. To kill like this would make me just as bad at him. My hands waver.

“Please—Matías—don’t.”

His eyes flick to me. Cold. Dismissive. “Quiet.”

That one word silences me more than a slap would have.

He turns back to Andrei, tilting his head slightly, gun still raised. There’s almost pity in his smile—twisted, mocking.

“You should blame your girl’s father,” he says, voice low, almost conversational. “Not me.”

Andrei doesn’t answer. He just watches him. Waiting.

Matías’s smile widens. “He pulled the trigger. I gave the order.”

He says it like a confession. Like a gift. My breath catches.

He’s not done. “Maxim was my message,” he says. “To remind your Bratva what real power looks like.”

Silence follows Matías’s confession. Thick. Cold. Absolute.

Even the air seems to stop moving. The words hang there like a curse, like a death sentence: Maxim was my message.

Andrei doesn’t move. His eyes are locked on Matías, his body tense against the beam, but his gun hand has dropped slightly. His chest rises and falls, slow, controlled—but his knuckles are white from how tightly he grips the pistol.

I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.

Then—

A slow, deliberate clap echoes from the edge of the room.

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