Page 21 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

She won’t find a way out, but I want her to try. I want her to taste the illusion of control—just enough to feel the full weight of it when it vanishes.

On screen, she slows. She’s lost again, deeper now. Her hands tremble slightly as she tests another door, one that creaks open instead of resisting.

The smaller study. Dark wood, huge desk. Low ceilings. No windows.

She hesitates in the doorway, then steps in.

I don’t follow her with my eyes. I already know what’s inside.

Nothing.

Nothing for her, at least. No keys. No weapons. No maps or escape routes. No secrets. Just a wall of mismatched books, a worn leather armchair no one uses, and a desk that hasn’t held importance in five years. She’ll find that out quickly. The moment the drawer sticks. The moment she sees nothing inside but ledgers in Russian she can’t read.

She’ll stand there and realize she’s trapped. Not by force, but by design.

“She’s quick,” Dima says as he appears beside me, voice low.

I glance at him. He stands with arms folded, dark eyes fixed on the screen like he’s watching a game play out. In some ways, he is.

“What’s the plan?” he asks.

His tone is neutral, but I know the question buried underneath it. He’s been with me long enough to sense the shift. To know that this—she—wasn’t meant to matter.

She was meant to be leverage. Collateral. A pawn.

The sharp edge that would twist the knife deeper into Richard Carter’s chest the moment he learned what had been taken. The final insult. The ultimate humiliation.

Now? Now I’m not sure.

Something changed. Not when I first saw her, not even when she screamed and kicked and tried to run.

It was when she looked at me with those wild, green eyes—terrified, yes, but unbroken. When she screamed like a cornered animal and still found enough strength to fight. When she held herself like she might shatter, but wouldn’t let herself.

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

I reach for the decanter, refill my glass. Take a slow sip before answering. Then, “I’m still deciding.”

Dima exhales through his nose. A soft sound, like amusement or warning—could be either.

“You sure that’s wise?”

“No.”

We watch as she moves around the study. Her hands skim the shelves. She pulls open drawers. Finds nothing. Hershoulders slump. Her back bows slightly. She’s starting to feel it now.

“Want me to go get her?” Dima asks.

“No, I quite like watching her flail.”

Her fingers pause on the desk. She lingers there. The light catches the side of her face. The way she presses her lips together, just tight enough to keep from trembling.

“She looks like him,” Dima says suddenly.

I glance sideways. “Carter?”

He nods. “The mouth. The eyes too. Not the color—just the way she looks at people. Like everyone’s a problem she’s already solved.”

I stare at her a little longer.

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