Page 23 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

And I take care of what’s mine.

Always.

The night is a blur beyond the windshield—streetlights streaking past like ghosts. I grip the wheel with one hand, knuckles still raw, blood dried into the creases of my skin.

Logan’s still alive.

Because of her.

Because I couldn’t stomach watching her break completely.

Because I wanted something in return.

Her.

The trade was mine to make. Life for life.

And I chose to give him one.

I slam my hand against the steering wheel, jaw locking.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I should’ve killed Logan on the spot. Should’ve carved a warning into his chest and left his body where all the rats could see. That’s what the Bratva expects from me. It’s what I’ve always done.

No softness.

No compromise.

No mercy.

But Jennie’s different. And she shouldn’t be.

She’s not built for this world. She has no place inside bloodstained corridors and power plays. I’m not saving her—I’m ruining her.

By marrying her, I’m dragging her into a kingdom built on corpses.

I press harder on the gas.

I don’t want to think this way.

I don’t want to question what I’ve already decided.

She’s mine. That’s the end of it. I’ve watched her for a year—protected her from shadows, from threats she never even knew existed. I didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. I told myself it was enough just to see her safe.

But it wasn’t.

And now…she’s caught in my hands, trembling, terrified. And I can’t stop thinking about her eyes—how they looked at me, not like I was a man, but a weapon she couldn’t outrun.

I don’t want to feel this.

I don’t want to feel anything.

Snarling, I turn the radio on and slam the volume all the way up. The car fills with sharp electric guitars and broken screaming vocals.

Loud enough to drown out every fucking thought.

I don’t slow down.