Page 44 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

He raises a brow at the question, as if it’s quaint. Like the answer should be obvious.

He doesn’t offer one. Not right away.

Instead, he takes another sip, his attention never wavering from me. The silence stretches between us until it starts to feel personal, intimate. Almost cruel.

Then he moves.

Not quickly. Not threateningly, but with a slow, predatory confidence, like he’s circling something fragile—something he could break without effort.

He stops just in front of me. Too close. His presence is overwhelming. Not just the heat of him, but the weight. The way the room bends around him.

My breath comes shallower as he reaches up and tilts my chin with two fingers, forcing me to look at him.

His voice is soft. Final. “I won’t kill him.”

That’s all.

The words drop between us like a lead weight, colder than the room. It takes me a second to understand why they feel so wrong.

I never asked how he’d let my father go. I never said free. I never said safe.

Just… let him live. Now I realize what that omission costs.

He won’t kill him, but he never promised anything else.

My breath catches in my throat. I want to push the words out. To demand more. A real answer. A guarantee.

I know what he’ll say—or worse, what he won’t. Part of me is afraid that even pressing the issue might provoke something I can’t handle.

Then he reaches for me again, and this time I stiffen.

His fingers return to my chin, holding me there—not tightly, not painfully, but with the quiet pressure of someone who knows I won’t pull away. Someone who knows he’s already won this moment. His hand is warm, rough from use, but careful. Too careful. Like he enjoys drawing this out, enjoys watching me brace for something that hasn’t even happened yet.

His expression doesn’t shift. He watches me with that same unnerving focus—deep, cold, unreadable. There’s nothing kind in it. Nothing cruel either. Just total control.

I try to breathe evenly. Try to ignore how my chest feels too tight, how the fire crackling in the grate does nothing to chase the cold blooming beneath my skin. My heart pounds so hard that I’m sure he can feel it through his fingertips. Or worse—he can’t, and he doesn’t care.

He tilts my face slightly, adjusting the angle like I’m something to study. Like I’m already his, and he’s just inspecting what he owns. His thumb brushes slowly across the corner of my mouth.

I freeze.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. Not a caress. Not an accident. A deliberate question posed in silence: will you flinch?

I feel the tremor deep in my spine.

Then he leans in.

Not to kiss me—no, I realize too late. His mouth brushes just along the edge of my jaw, a ghost of heat that curls under my ear and lingers there, cruel in its softness.

My pulse spikes. My knees nearly buckle beneath me. He hasn’t done anything. Not really. The threat of it—the unspoken promise—sinks into my skin like a brand.

I tell myself this is for my father. That I can endure anything for him. That I’m here to negotiate, not submit.

That I don’t want this.

Even so, heat coils low in my stomach, thick and unwanted. My legs shift slightly, trying to alleviate the tension building with nowhere to go. I can feel the flush rising in my throat, spreading up to my cheeks. My breath stutters, too shallow now.

Andrei doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. I think he already knows.

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