Page 101 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

Lukin mutters, “We did. You were too busy playing Rambo to hear.”

Kaz nods toward me, relief softening the hard lines of his face. “Is she okay?”

Adrian turns to me without hesitation, holstering the gun. “She’s safe.”

And then, as if the world pauses for a second, he steps aside so they can see me properly.

Kaz whistles low. “Damn, you really went through hell, huh?”

I nod slowly, unable to find words, still clinging to Adrian’s arm like it’s the only thing keeping me steady.

Lukin straightens and exhales. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before Zoe realizes I’m gone.”

Adrian looks back at me, and without waiting for anyone else, he scoops me up into his arms again.

“I’ve got her,” he says, and no one argues.

Chapter 22 – Adrian

Jennie doesn’t let go of me.

Even when the car rolls into the estate and my men are already scrambling to assess, repair, and report, she clings to me like I’m the last tether to sanity. And maybe I am. Because she’s holding me, but I’m the one who can’t breathe without her anymore.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions. Just wraps her arms tighter as I carry her through the doors and straight to our room.

I don’t hand her off to anyone. I don’t pause to give orders. Zalar and Kaz handle everything else because right now, this is all I care about.

Once we’re inside, I lock the door.

She’s trembling.

It’s slight, barely noticeable if you’re not paying attention. But I am. I’m fucking attuned to every blink, every uneven breath, every flinch when the wind shifts too suddenly.

I lead her into the bathroom and flick on the lights. My hands work on autopilot, adjusting the temperature, pouring bath salts into the running water, letting the steam fill the air. The scent of lavender curls up, warm and soft.

She stands there in silence, eyes following me. Her lips are pale. Her skin—marked. Cut. Bruised.

My heart clenches.

I turn to her slowly and reach out. “Let me take care of you,” I say, voice low, trying not to let the anger shake it apart.

She nods. Barely. But it’s enough.

I undress her like she’s breakable porcelain, my hands reverent and slow. I peel the ruined fabric away from her, each piece of clothing a reminder of what I almost lost. Her body islittered with bruises—some fresh, others faded—and I kiss every single one.

Her shoulder. Her hip. The side of her ribs where the skin is swollen. My lips press to each mark like I can erase them. Like I can absorb the damage and burn it into myself instead.

She lets me.

God, she lets me.

When I slide her into the bath, she sinks in with a soft sigh, like her bones are made of exhaustion. I kneel beside the tub, rolling my sleeves up, and bathe her—rinsing her hair gently, trailing my hands down her arms and over her legs, careful not to touch anything too rough. She never says a word, but her eyes stay locked on me the entire time.

Mine can’t stop moving. From her jaw to her lashes. Her collarbone. The bruises. The way her fingers twitch like she’s still scared it’s all a dream.

I can’t tell if I want to scream or cry or punch something again. I’m relieved. I’m raging. I’m goddamn happy.

It’s all crashing into me at once, and it’s giving me whiplash.