Page 79 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

It always is, right before the storm breaks.

“Find them,” I say.

My voice is low. Lethal. No need to raise it. No need to bark orders when the weight of the words is heavier than any scream.

The men in the room straighten instinctively, something primal flickering in their eyes. They know what’s coming. They know what a command like that means.

I issue orders with brutal efficiency, each one sharp enough to cut.

“Lock down the ports,” I say. “Every private dock, every shipment checkpoint. Same with the airports—charters, helipads, even the ones they think are hidden.”

A nod from one of the men.

“Any known safehouses Waters might have used—burn them. I want ashes before the hour is out.”

Another nod.

“Sweep the city perimeter. Main roads, side streets, back alleys. No one leaves Moscow without my permission.”

The room hums with tension as they process, prioritize, disperse.

I barely notice them. In my mind, all I see is her.

Terrified. Alone. Dragged from the only shelter she had left—even if she hated it. Even if she hated me.

I imagine her struggling, trying to fight, trying to scream against a hand clamped over her mouth. I imagine Jackson’s hands on her, rough, unwelcome, daring to touch something he has no right to even look at.

A flash of pure violence ignites behind my ribs.

If even a hair on her head is harmed—if she sheds so much as a single tear because of him—Jackson will beg for death long before I’m finished with him.

I’ll make him bleed for every second she spends afraid, for every second she spends thinking I didn’t come for her.

My men scatter, the air vibrating with urgency as they rush to carry out my commands. No hesitation. No questions.

They know better than to question me now.

The room empties.

I cross to the sideboard, the motion smooth, unhurried, my pulse steady despite the fire raging inside me.

I retrieve my pistol from the drawer beneath the decanters of vodka and dusty crystal.

A simple, familiar ritual. Check the slide. Eject and reinsert the clip. Chamber a round.

The mechanical clicks are quiet, precise, like a drumbeat marking the start of something inevitable.

I tuck the pistol into the holster at my side, the weight of it a cold comfort.

Tonight, blood will spill.

As I secure the pistol at my side, tightening the strap with a sharp, practiced pull, my mind betrays me.

Images flash without permission, quick and vicious.

The stubborn tilt of Alina’s chin when she stands her ground, even when she knows she’s outmatched. The way her lips parted, the breathless sound of my name gasping from her mouth the first time I crushed it against mine. The fire in her green eyes, fierce and burning, refusing to be extinguished even when everything else in her crumbled.

Memories like knives. Sharp enough to cut through the discipline I spent a lifetime forging.

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