Page 84 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

I can’t fucking sleep.

I toss. Turn. Curse under my breath. Flip the pillow. Nothing works.

I miss her.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it? A man like me—who’s cut throats without blinking, who’s feared across half the fucking continent—can’t sleep because a woman isn’t lying beside him.

Not just a woman. Her.

Jennie.

She’s stubborn, mouthy, unpredictable—and mine. Every damn inch of her. And tonight, I locked her away because she pushed too far. Because I was mad. Because I didn’t know how else to get her to stop cutting me with words sharper than any blade.

But maybe I overreacted.

Logan’s her brother. Of course, she’d be worried. Of course, she’d lash out. I knew that. I just—fuck—I didn’t handle it right.

She also said she didn’t care about me.

And that?

That fucking hurt.

I let out a sharp breath and throw the covers off. My body’s tight with frustration. I can’t let this sit. Can’t let her fall asleep thinking I don’t care or that I don’t feel every damn thing she does—tenfold.

I grab my phone, stuff it into my pocket, and step out of the room barefoot, heading down the dark corridor toward the panic room. Each step echoes with the weight of everything I didn’t say tonight.

I should’ve told her she was right to worry. I should’ve told her she’s allowed to feel things, to need things, and that I’m trying—God, I’m trying—to be enough for her.

She softens me. And I don’t know if that’s a weakness or the beginning of something stronger than anything I’ve ever known.

I reach the panic room. The guards I assigned earlier are gone. I frown.

That’s odd.

Very odd.

They aren’t supposed to leave. No matter what.

A cold feeling creeps up my spine as I reach for the panel and enter the code. The door unlocks with a click, the metal groaning slightly as I push it open.

“Jennie?” I call softly.

I take my gun out before the door is even fully open, every instinct in my body sharp and alert.

Something’s wrong.

The second I step into the room, the air feels different. Cold. Still. Wrong.

My eyes sweep across the space—the bed is empty. The crumpled blanket. The empty gift bag. The gold chain. And then—

A smear of blood on the floor.

Jennie.

I freeze for half a second. Just one. Then something inside me snaps.

A roar tears through my chest, primal and violent. I slam my fist into the wall hard enough to make the panels rattle.