Page 36 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
But then I shift, and the heaviness of the dress clinging to my skin pulls me fully into reality.
I’m still in my wedding dress.
The velvet is wrinkled and clinging to my legs. My makeup is probably a mess. I sit up slowly, heart thudding as memories flicker behind my eyes—Adrian’s mouth on my neck, the terrifying intensity of his touch, the way I wanted to scream and melt at the same time.
No. I shove the thoughts away.
I push myself to my feet, strip the dress off like it’s on fire, and step into the bathroom.
The water is hot, stinging. Steam rises quickly, blurring the mirror and my thoughts with it. I stand under the spray, head bowed, letting the water drum against my scalp until I can breathe again.
But it doesn’t help.
Images from last night slip through the cracks—his hands, the rough way he gripped me, the way his voice dropped when he thrusted inside me.
God. What is happening to me?
I turn the water colder.
Why did I let him touch me? On the first night! When did I become so sex-driven?
Once I’m out, I wrap myself in a towel and walk back into the room. My luggage sits neatly by the wardrobe; someone must have brought it in last night.
I dig through it until I find a soft cotton dress—one of the only casual ones I packed—and pull it on.
Then I start searching. I tear through every corner of the bag.
No phone.
No laptop.
Nothing.
My heart slams against my ribs. I check the drawers, the nightstand, and under the bed.
Gone.
He took everything.
I rush to the door, fling it open—and freeze.
There are guards.
Two of them, suited and stone-faced, stand at opposite ends of the hallway. They glance at me but don’t move. They don’t speak. Just stand there. Watching.
I storm down the grand staircase, barefoot and furious, heart pounding with a cocktail of betrayal and helplessness. The house is too quiet, too polished. Every glossy surface mocks me.
And then I hear movement—from the dining room.
I follow the sound, my blood boiling. When I step in, I freeze for half a second.
Adrian is already there, walking in from the other side, a towel thrown over his shoulder, his hair still damp, water glistening along the carved lines of his chest. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but dark joggers that cling to his hips like sin. His knuckles are red, bruised, and bandaged again.
What the hell was he doing?
He stops when he sees me. His eyes rake over me slowly—my flushed cheeks, my heaving chest, the fury I’m not hiding.
“Good morning,kroshka,” he murmurs, voice low and too amused. “Did you sleep well in our bed?”
