Page 10 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva
Except heat.
Except want.
I wipe my knuckles on the dead man’s shirt, then turn to Zalar.
“Start the car,” I say.
Zalar nods once and walks out.
I stand there a moment longer, heart pounding, hands dripping, jaw tight.
It’s time.
No more watching.
No more waiting.
Jennie Whitlock is mine.
And tonight—
She’ll know it.
I step into the flimsy shower stall bolted into the back wall of the warehouse, stripping off my ruined pants and what’s left of my shirt. Blood circles the drain, swirling with rust and sweat and filth. I scrub my skin until it burns.
The water is cold.
It always is.
The bruises stay.
The anger doesn’t.
When I’m clean, I walk over to the metal drawer tucked in the corner. I always keep a change of clothes here. Habit. War prep. Slacks. A fitted black shirt. A watch I don’t check. I move with slow, practiced ease, sliding each button into place like nothing just happened.
Like I didn’t just beat a man’s skull in until it split.
My hands are still raw, knuckles torn and red. But they’re clean now.
I walk past the body.
He slumps sideways, face unrecognizable. The stench of death’s already settling in.
Three of my men are standing at attention by the wall. Silent. Waiting.
“Clean this up,” I say without looking at them.
They move before the sentence finishes.
Outside, the car is already waiting. Zalar’s in the front, engine humming. Professional. Efficient. Loyal to the bone.
I slide into the back seat, lean my head against the leather headrest, and exhale.
“Take me to her.”
Zalar nods, says nothing.
He doesn’t need to ask who.
