Page 38 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

Adrian’s jaw shifts as he chews slowly, then sets down his fork with precision. His eyes meet mine—sharp, unreadable. “He’s been allowed to leave,” he says. “He’s out.”

My breath catches.

“I’ll bring you proof soon,” he adds casually. “You’ll talk to him yourself.”

I don’t know whether to believe him, but my chest aches with the sliver of hope. “Then give me my phone. I want to talk to him now.”

“No.” His voice is flat, final. “You’ll talk to him with my phone, when I’m ready for you to talk to him.”

“Really? Are you serious? I need my phone. Now!”

“You haven’t behaved yourself yet.”

My eyes narrow. “Behaved?”

He leans forward slightly, and his smile is wicked, lazy. “When you act like a good girl, you’ll get your phone.”

I nearly choke on air. “You’re—God, you’re disgusting. Do you hear yourself? You sound like—”

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you,” he cuts in smoothly, his voice low, taut with warning. “My patience is wearing very thin,moya zhena.”

His gaze is pure heat and danger.

My heart slams against my ribs. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to claw this entire nightmare off my skin and run—but I can’t. Not with Logan’s life dangling by a thread that Adrian controls.

So I do the only thing I can do—I huff, spin on my heel, and storm out of the dining room. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I move fast, before the lump in my throat gives way to tears.

I’m not staying quiet. I’ll find a way out. I swear it.

One way or another—I’ll find a way.

I find myself in my bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. The sound echoes like a gunshot. I brace my palms against the door, forcing myself to breathe. One breath. Two. Three.

But it doesn’t help.

I feel trapped. Like the walls are closing in, pressing down on my ribs, stealing every last piece of control I have left. I pace, each step sharp and erratic, trying to walk the anger out of my bones.

It doesn’t leave.

I grab a book from my luggage—some cozy romance with a pastel cover that Violet gave me—and try to read. I make it two sentences before I realize I’m gripping the pages too hard, crumpling them. I throw it onto the chair.

Nothing works.

I cross to the window and pull back the sheer curtains. The sunlight is too bright. Mocking. Outside, the estate spreads out like something from a glossy magazine—expensive, perfect, cold. Guards posted like ornaments. Too much silence.

Too much control.

My eyes drop to the driveway just in time to see him—Adrian—speaking with one of his men near the garage. He’s half-dressed again, dark vest over bare arms, muscles flexing as he moves. Commanding. Dangerous. Calm.

He looks up.

I freeze, heart slamming into my ribs. I don’t know if he can see me through the window, but I don’t wait to find out. I yank the curtains closed and stumble back, my breathing unsteady.

God. I need to get out of here.

I need a plan.

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