Page 6 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

We kept in touch through the years, but it was sparse, and for most of the time, I didn’t know where he was or what he was up to.

And now….

Now this letter is telling me the only person left in this world who shares my blood is going to die. Because he stole from the wrong people. Because he played too close to fire.

And I’m being told to decide what to do with his body.

I press my fingers to my temples. The anxiety tightens around my throat, wrapping tighter and tighter, and I can’t breathe.

He’s not perfect. He’s never been perfect.

But he’s mine.

My brother.

And if he dies….

I’ll truly be alone in this world.

Chapter 2 – Adrian

The man screams again.

It’s hoarse now—shredded and pathetic.

Like his throat’s trying to give up before his body can.

I crouch in front of him, blood dripping off my knuckles, slow and steady. There’s an elegance to this one. He’s hard. Stubborn. Well-trained. Fighting hard against the metal chair I’ve bolted him to.

But he’ll talk. They always do, eventually.

I tilt my head, watching the sweat and tears streak down his filthy face.

“Still holding out?” I ask, voice calm. Too calm.

He yells something unintelligible, jerking against the restraints as if he thinks this round’s over.

It’s not.

I sigh and stand, flexing my aching fingers. My ribs throb from where he landed a lucky kick earlier. My side’s already going purple, but I barely notice it. Pain is background noise now. Has been for years.

The warehouse around us is hollow and quiet, except for the dripping faucet in the corner and the echo of breathing that’s not mine. Concrete walls. Steel doors. Rusted chains hanging from the beams. The kind of place we use when a message needs to leave a scar.

“Treat his wounds,” I mutter to Zalar as I step away from the chair, grabbing the towel he tosses me. “I need him proper for round two.”

Zalar nods and moves in. Efficient. Cold.

I wipe the blood from my hands—most of it not mine—and start rewrapping my knuckles with fresh gauze. My fingers sting, skin split in places, but I don’t stop.

I’m halfway through when I hear my phone ring.

My head snaps up.

Zalar’s already reaching into my coat pocket across the room, pulling out the secured phone we only use for family. He walks it over, silent, handing it off with a knowing look.

The number blinks on the screen.

France.