Page 60 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

They lock on to mine across the space between us. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t call out.

He lifts a single finger. A command. A summons. Like I’m something owned. Something trained. A dog he expects to come when called.

Rage crashes into me. Humiliation follows. My throat tightens until it aches, but my feet move anyway.

Down the stone staircase, slow and mechanical. I feel every stare as heads turn. Eyes rake over me—this girl in a robe, barefoot, fragile and exposed, bleeding pride with every step. They judge me without words. I feel it in their silence.

Andrei doesn’t flinch.

The celebration sprawls out under soft amber lights, a brutal display masked in elegance. This isn’t just a party—it’s a statement. The Bratva has seized a cartel production facility. Notdefended their turf. Not negotiated. Taken. This gathering is the victory lap, and everyone here knows it.

The air stinks of dominance.

Vodka flows in cut-glass decanters. Cigars glow at the ends of thick fingers. Laughter is too loud, conversations too sharp, always tinged with the promise of violence. This isn’t about enjoyment. It’s about control—territory carved into every exchange, every glance. The suits are tailored, the smiles are rehearsed, but the undercurrent is unmistakable: the Bratva doesn’t play defense.

Andrei stands beside me.

Close enough that I feel his presence in every breath, but not close enough to touch. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t so much as look at me. He simply exists beside me—solid, imposing, a shadow with teeth.

I don’t know if it’s better or worse than the silence of his bed.

Around us, conversations buzz and flare, but no one addresses me. I’m not introduced. I’m not acknowledged. I’m a curiosity, a rumor made flesh. I see it in the sidelong glances, the way some of the men’s eyes linger too long, calculating. The way some of the women glance at me, lips twisting, eyes cool with subtle contempt.

To them, I’m not a person. I’m a possession.

A girl who was taken and kept.

A symbol of power—not my own, but his.

Still, I stand where I’m told to stand. I keep my shoulders back, my chin up, pretending I don’t feel exposed. The robe I threw on has been replaced—someone must’ve laid out a dress for me while I wasn’t looking. Deep green silk. Expensive. Impossibly soft. I look the part now. Pretty. Controlled. Silent.

Andrei still hasn’t said a word.

Then—he’s gone.

One moment he’s beside me, anchored like stone. The next, he’s melted into the crowd, laughing at something one of his lieutenants says, that cold, easy smirk sliding over his face like it belongs there.

I’m left abandoned, drowning in luxury I can’t touch, surrounded by danger I don’t understand. The hem of my dress brushes against marble. A glass is placed in my hand without my asking. I don’t drink from it. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any of this.

I want to run.

The silk dress does nothing to shield me from the cold marble or the colder stares. My feet are still bare, skin sensitive to every chill, every grit of stone. I don’t belong here among men who wear their power like tailored armor, who speak in half-truths and territorial threats while women laugh like nothing matters. I feel raw in comparison. Too aware of my skin. Too aware of my shame.

Then, someone steps into my peripheral vision.

A man—young, maybe early thirties. Clean-cut. American accent when he speaks.

“Looks like you missed the dress code,” he says lightly, holding out a fresh glass of champagne. His suit is sharp, but there’s no menace in his posture. His smile is easy, his eyes bright with something that isn’t hunger or violence.

Reluctantly, I take the glass.

“Thanks,” I murmur, unsure if it’s gratitude or caution guiding me.

“Jackson Waters,” he says, as if we’re somewhere civilized. “You’re… well. I think I already know who you are.”

His smile is too smooth, but it isn’t leering. Not yet. I let myself believe, for just a moment, that this might be harmless. That he might be harmless.

We talk.

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