Page 78 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

Kaz hums low under his breath. “You think they’re working alone?”

“Who knows? Operations like this are usually tight.”

Kaz is saying something when we drive past the city’s older district, and something catches my eye. A flash of deepred velvet behind thick glass. A display of diamonds, elegant and sharp.

“Stop the car,” I say, tapping the window once.

Kaz leans forward from the backseat. “What the hell for?”

I don’t answer. Just tilt my chin toward the storefront ahead. The black letters etched across the sign say Lev & Sons—Est. 1905. One of the oldest, most discreet jewelers in the city.

The car pulls to a slow stop.

Kaz peers through the tinted window, then groans like I just asked him to wear a pink tutu to a funeral. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I unbuckle and open the door.

“This fucker is whipped,” Kaz mutters under his breath as I step out.

I smirk as the door shuts behind me.

I don’t turn to respond. He’s not wrong. But I’ve never minded wearing a crown for the woman who put fire in my chest.

Chapter 17 – Jennie

I wake up slowly, with the soft hush of the panic room settling into my ears like a whisper. The bed beneath me feels too big, too warm, and too empty. I blink against the filtered light, reach out my hand instinctively across the sheets—only to feel cold linen where he should be.

Adrian isn’t here.

A sharp ache blooms low in my chest, subtle at first, but persistent. I sit up with a yawn, rubbing at my eyes before scanning the space around me, hoping he’s just in the corner or maybe near the desk.

But the panic room is silent. Still.

Empty.

“Adrian?” I call softly, even though I know I won’t get an answer. My voice bounces off the thick, soundproof walls. There’s a weight that settles in my stomach—disappointment? Loneliness? I’m not sure what to name it, but I hate the way it feels.

I push the blankets off and swing my legs down. His shirt is still on me, loose and smelling faintly of spice, smoke, and him. I clutch the hem for a second, pulling it close like it might summon him.

It doesn’t.

The silence presses in harder.

It’s strange—how fast things change. A few days ago, I would’ve done anything to escape him. Now I can barely stand being in a room he’s not in. His presence does something to me. Anchors me. Infuriates me. Grounds me.

And right now, without him, I feel…unmoored.

I stand and pace to the edge of the room, glancing at the securely locked door. It’s still dim in here, and there’s noclock, no sunlight, nothing to tell me how long he’s been gone. Minutes? Hours?

Where are you, Adrian?

And why the hell do I miss you this much?

This is getting ridiculous.

I shouldn’t be feeling like this—shouldn’t be pacing the panic room like a lovesick girl waiting for her dark knight to return. I shouldn’t miss him. I shouldn’t crave his voice, his touch, his stupid possessive smirk that I now see in my dreams.

I press a hand against the cold metal of the panic room door. I should leave this room, but nothing excites me enough to make me want to. Without Adrian, nothing seems fun.