Page 10 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I tell myself it’s surveillance. That’s what I call it, anyway, as I linger outside conference rooms, watch the curve of her spine as she leans over a stack of files, track the way she glances sideways before stepping into a new corridor. Every move Talia makes is recorded, measured, cataloged.

That’s the excuse I feed to myself, to my second-in-command, to the invisible audience of my own conscience.

In reality, it’s something else. Something that slips through the cracks of my routine and pools in the quiet moments.

I watch her more than I should—more than I intend to. Through tinted glass as she crosses the courtyard, clutching folders to her chest, wind tugging at her curls.

From the head of a boardroom table, I see her slip in at the back, find a chair where she can observe but not be observed.

I watch the way her expression shifts—not mask to mask, like most in this house, but in small, honest flickers.

Curiosity wrapped in caution. Determination edged with the kind of softness men like me have no business wanting.

She isn’t polished. Not in the way my world prefers—all angles and calculation, all luxury and ease. She doesn’t bother with status markers or empty flattery. There’s a rawness in her, a quiet beauty that sneaks up on you, unexpected and sharp.

I should know better by now. I’ve spent my life building walls against this exact kind of thing.

My eyes find her even when she’s not doing anything suspicious. Especially then. When she reads, head tilted, mouth half open in concentration. When she walks the garden path at dusk, eyes tracing the stonework as if memorizing a map.

When she laughs with one of the younger staff, her guard dropping for a blink before she snaps it back into place.

It should be easy to keep her at a distance. That’s how I survive.

Lately, I find myself inventing reasons to keep her near. Small tasks that could have gone to anyone: update this report, transcribe these notes, sit in on a meeting she has no reason to attend. I redirect things her way, telling myself it’s for efficiency, for security.

The truth is, I want to watch how she handles proximity. I want to see if her composure cracks. I want to know if she’s as unaffected as she pretends.

My men have started to notice. Miroslav makes a pointed remark as we pass in the hall, his tone too casual to be accidental. “Careful, sir. Even wolves can get distracted by shiny things.”

I ignore him, as is my habit. I don’t allow distractions. Never have. Discipline is my currency, my shield.

There is something strange about Talia’s restraint.

She doesn’t flirt—never tries to charm or ingratiate herself.

She doesn’t chase my attention, doesn’t thank me for the favors that keep landing in her lap.

If anything, she seems slightly annoyed by them, as if the extra work is an inconvenience rather than an advantage.

That irritation unsettles me more than I want to admit.

The others try to read the dynamic. Yelena, for her part, has turned from open hostility to something quieter, more watchful. She’s begun to hover, appearing just as Talia is called in, always with a hand on my arm, a word for the benefit of onlookers. It’s transparent, but effective.

She wants to see if Talia will rise to the bait, if she’ll fight for attention, compete for power.

Talia never does. She waits, silent and steady, until she’s spoken to.

She doesn’t bristle or shrink, doesn’t drop her gaze.

It’s as if she’s mastered the art of standing her ground without seeming to push.

She speaks only when necessary, but when she does, it’s with the kind of clarity that makes people listen.

I find myself waiting for her input, seeking it out, weighing her words against my own.

In the rare moments we’re alone—late in the office, an empty hallway, a chance encounter in the archives—the energy between us tightens.

It’s not flirtation. Not exactly. There’s a tension, though.

Something unspoken. I sense her watching me too, as if she’s cataloging my reactions, looking for patterns, weaknesses, truths.

Sometimes I test her. I’ll leave a file unguarded, mention a name I know will catch her ear, watch how she handles the bait. She’s careful, but not infallible. Every so often, her eyes linger too long, her questions edge too close. It excites me and irritates me in equal measure.

There are nights when I catch myself thinking about her after hours wondering if she’s sleeping, or reading, or lying awake and replaying our conversations as I do. I hate that loss of control, that sliver of vulnerability. I can’t bring myself to stop.

I convince myself this is still the work. That her history is too clean, her timing too convenient, her lies too smooth. I tell myself I’m doing my duty, rooting out a threat, making sure my house is secure.

Even I know that’s only half true.

Sometimes I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. Does she know I’m watching? Does she feel the edge beneath every word, every silence? Does she sense how close I am to losing the distance I’ve always relied on?

Miroslav’s warning circles my thoughts, quiet but insistent.

Distraction. Weakness.

When I watch Talia move through my world, quietly refusing to bend or break, I know it’s already too late.

Some threats you recognize too late. Some, you invite in.

It’s late. The city outside my car is smeared with neon and rain, every red light stretching out behind the windshield like a wound.

I drive without purpose. Just loops around the estate’s perimeter, through the narrow streets downtown, out past the river where the lights go thin and the world feels quiet.

My mind runs restless, never settling. Always circling back to her.

I think about Talia more than I intend to.

The way she bites her lip when she’s trying to find the right word.

The curl of her hair, gone wild by evening no matter how she tames it in the morning.

The steady, deliberate way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. Even more so when she knows I am.

I take a turn without thinking, and suddenly I’m back home. I must have been driving on autopilot. The building is mostly dark, only a few pools of light left on the upper floors.

I know she’s still here. She works late more often now. Is it real dedication, or does she have her own reasons for lingering after hours? I tell myself it doesn’t matter, but of course it does. I find myself needing to know.

Inside, the air is different: quiet, humming with the low-frequency tension of unfinished work. I move through the corridors without hurry, without sound. Years of habit have made me a shadow in my own house.

I find her in one of the small side offices, a lone lamp burning on the desk.

She sits with her head down, hair loose around her shoulders, shoulders hunched ever so slightly as she types.

Her lips are pursed in concentration, brows drawn in a faint frown.

She’s so focused she doesn’t hear me enter. Something in my chest twists.

For a moment, I just watch her. I tell myself it’s analysis—assessing risk, measuring intent—but it’s something else entirely. I want to see her unguarded, want to know what occupies her mind when she believes she’s alone.

I step into the room and clear my throat, keeping my voice level. “You’re still here.”

It’s a simple observation, but it lands heavier than I mean it to.

The air tightens, aware of itself. She looks up, her expression shifting in the lamplight.

There’s a flicker of hesitation, a flash of alertness—like a wild animal pausing, testing the wind for danger.

Beneath it is something else, something that echoes the heat boiling under my own skin.

She’s not afraid. Not of me. That’s what makes her dangerous.

For a moment, neither of us moves. I see her weighing the situation, choosing her next words with care. I should leave. I should end this before it goes any further, before I risk losing what I’ve spent years building.

I don’t move. I don’t leave. Instead, I let the moment stretch, testing its edges.

She breaks the silence first, voice quiet but steady. “I wanted to finish this report tonight. I thought it might help if you had it first thing tomorrow.”

Her professionalism is a shield, but I see the question behind it. Why are you here, Adrian? What do you want from me?

I could make up a reason—ask for a summary, a correction, another meaningless task. For once, I don’t want to lie. I settle for the truth I can live with.

“You work too hard,” I say, softer than I intended.

She gives a small, rueful smile. “So do you.”

There’s a long, charged silence. I step further into the room, drawn by something neither of us wants to name. The space between us is small, suddenly intimate.

I notice the freckles on her collarbone, the uneven bite of her nails, the way her breath quickens as I approach.

“I could order you to go home,” I say.

She doesn’t look away. “You could.”

Another challenge. I almost smile. This is the dance we do now—measuring boundaries, daring the other to break them.

Instead of giving her an order, I lean against the desk, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her. “Why do you stay late?”

She hesitates. Not long, but enough for me to notice. “Sometimes it’s easier to think when everyone else is gone. Fewer distractions.”

I nod, understanding more than she intends. “That’s true.”

She looks up at me fully, her eyes dark and direct. “You’re here late too.”

I can’t help it. My hand moves to rest on the back of her chair, fingers curling against the worn leather. The contact is nothing, but it feels charged. She doesn’t flinch.

“For the same reason, maybe,” I say. “Some work needs quiet.”

She nods, but I see it, her guard dropping, just a fraction, enough to let something hungry through. Something that matches the feeling gnawing at me.

We stay like that for a long, suspended moment. Not touching, but close. Not speaking, but everything important hanging between us.

I know I should pull away. I know every second I linger is a risk, a weakness. I can’t make myself do it. Instead, I watch her. She watches me back.

She finally breaks eye contact, looking down at her work. The spell shatters, but the charge lingers.

I straighten, stepping back but not away. “Send the report when you’re done. No rush.”

She nods, fingers trembling on the keyboard. “Of course, sir.”

The formality should be a wall, but it isn’t. Not anymore.

I leave the room, but the image of her—backlit by lamplight, lips parted in concentration, eyes bright with defiance—burns behind my eyelids the entire journey home.

I don’t allow distractions. For her, I am starting to make an exception.

That, I know, is the most dangerous thing of all.