Page 66 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

Smaller, but too close.

Heat slams into me, followed by a deafening roar and a wall of smoke. I twist around, throwing my body over Jennie’s before the impact tosses us to the floor like rag dolls. We hit hard—dust and rubble raining down.

My back aches from the fall. Ears ringing. The smoke is thick, disorienting.

“Jennie?” I cough.

“I’m okay!” she wheezes.

I roll off her and help her sit up, shielding her from falling debris with my body. Through the dust cloud, I can barely make out Zalar limping toward us.

“I think they’re gone,” he pants. “Two timed blasts. No more signals on the scanner.”

My blood boils. Someone got into my estate. Someone touched my home. And they did it knowing I had her here.

“This wasn’t just a hit,” I mutter, my jaw clenched. “This was a message.”

I turn to look at Jennie. Her eyes are wide, terrified, but still locked on mine like she’s trying to steady herself with me. I reach out and cup the side of her face, brushing off soot.

“I’ve got you,” I say. “You’re safe.”

But inside, I’m seething.

Whoever’s behind this just made the biggest mistake of their life.

I slide my arm around her waist and pull her up from the wreckage. She’s coughing, her whole body trembling from the shock. There’s dust in her hair, ash on her skin—and blood.

Blood.

On her lip.

It’s a thin smear, probably from where she bit down during the fall, but it sets something off inside me.

My vision narrows.

Not now.

First, I get her out. Then I burn whoever did this.

I turn to Zalar. “Handle it. Secure the east wing. I want every inch swept. Inside, outside. Drones, infrared, scanners—everything.”

Zalar nods, already giving rapid-fire orders into his comms. “I’ll handle this, Boss.”

I don’t answer. I shift Jennie more tightly into my arms and carry her myself, away from the smoke, down the corridor, away from the fucking war zone someone just lit up in my house.

She coughs again and winces. “I’m okay,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

“No, you’re not.”

“I can walk,” she mumbles against my chest. “I’m too heavy.”

I huff a humorless breath, my jaw tight. “I don’t work out so my wife has to walk.”

She lifts her head just enough to glance up at me, her brows drawn. I tighten my grip, holding her closer.

“I can carry you very easily,” I say. “So shut up and let me.”

I walk us down the back hall, through a hidden entrance tucked behind one of the library shelves. The fingerprint scanner beeps softly, and the heavy steel door to the panic room swings open. It’s not some cold, metal cage—it’s a fortress, but one lined with thick rugs, polished wood, plush furnishings, and a king-sized bed with a silk throw folded neatly at the end. Jennie’s never seen it before, and I built it for this exact reason—to keep my family safe when the world goes to hell.