Page 11 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

My eyes ache from the glow of the monitor. The office is quiet, only the hum of electronics and the distant murmur of city life filtering through the glass.

I hunch over my keyboard, scrolling quickly through document after document. This is the fourth night in a row I have stayed late, chasing digital threads no one wanted found. I have gotten better at this, at moving unseen, at slipping into drives and folders where my name should never appear.

Most of what I find is mundane. Budget spreadsheets, meeting minutes, travel receipts. Tonight, something shifts. I stumble across a folder mislabeled as “Supplier Invoices.”

Inside, a series of transfers and memos—names I recognize from whispered warnings, shell companies tied to addresses in Cyprus, vague notations about “special shipments” and “discretion payments.”

I drag the files into a hidden folder, fingers tense, heart racing.

I am careful—so careful. But I still search for Eli’s name.

Nothing. No mention of him. No trace of what happened that night.

The emptiness makes the rest of the evidence taste bitter, as if every victory is just a new reminder of my failure.

The office door opens without warning. My fingers freeze. I snap the screen to a blank spreadsheet, swallowing down a rush of adrenaline.

Adrian steps in, his silhouette framed by the city lights behind him. He says nothing at first, only the faint click of the door announcing him. My back goes straight. I keep my eyes on the monitor, trying to look busy but not suspicious.

He comes to stand behind my chair. Close. Silent. I can feel his presence like the press of a storm against my skin. The space between us tightens. He does not speak.

For a long moment, I wonder if he is reading over my shoulder, if he has noticed the tension in my hands, the slight tremble in my breath.

Then he moves away, crossing the room in three easy strides. He stops near the window, pretending to check the view. The office is mostly dark, city lights painting sharp patterns across the walls and floor. I sense him watching me, even when his back is turned. The air feels charged, expectant.

I decide to test him. Not recklessly, but just enough to see what lies beneath the surface.

I rise, gathering a few files to take to the cabinet near the window.

Instead of giving him space, I walk directly past. Our arms brush for the briefest second.

Electricity crackles in the silence. I let myself pause by the cabinet, feigning focus on the folders.

“Was there something you needed?” I ask. I keep my tone casual, as if this is nothing, as if my heart is not thudding in my throat.

He turns, steps closing the distance in an instant. Suddenly, his hand is at my waist, not gentle, not hesitant. He presses me back against the cabinet, the wood cool and unyielding at my spine.

My breath stutters. I expect words, a threat or a reprimand, but Adrian just stares at me. His face is shadowed, eyes dark and wild. I hold my ground, refusing to flinch.

The silence is thick, heavy with something that is not quite anger, not quite hunger. I feel the moment teetering, as if either of us could end it or deepen it with a word. He does neither. Instead, he closes the gap.

His mouth claims mine—hard, punishing, all control and no permission. The kiss is nothing like I expected. It is not a question or an invitation. It is an answer. Possessive. Demanding. His hand tightens at my waist.

I should be afraid. I am not. My body reacts before my mind can catch up.

My lips part, answering his urgency with my own.

My fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring myself against the solid heat of him.

The world narrows to the space between us, to the shock of his mouth, the press of his body pinning me in place.

He kisses me as if it’s punishment. As if he is furious at himself for wanting this.

I feel it in the way his teeth graze my bottom lip, in the way his breath hitches against my cheek.

There is nothing gentle in it, but I do not want gentle.

I want the truth that lives in this violence, in this surrender.

I press closer, matching him, not yielding. My heart pounds so loudly I am sure he can hear it. His hand slides up, fingers splaying across my ribs, hot even through my shirt. The desk behind me rattles with the force of his body.

For a second, I wonder if he will pull away. If he will come to his senses, retreat behind that impenetrable calm he wears like armor.

His mouth is still on mine, relentless, unyielding, as if he is afraid of what will happen when he stops.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard. The moment hangs, trembling, between anger and desire.

I meet his eyes, letting him see everything: my need, my defiance, my challenge. I will not be afraid of this man, not of his power, not of his darkness. If he means to punish me, he will have to take me as I am. Unbroken.

Neither of us speaks. There is nothing to say. In this darkness, in this secret room above the city, something between us has changed forever.

He kisses me again, sudden and unrestrained, before I can move or think or speak. His hand finds my jaw, tipping my face up to his.

The second kiss is different from the first: less angry, more searching, as if he is looking for an answer in the shape of my mouth. I meet him willingly, heart racing, my fingers digging into his shoulders to keep from falling.

Time folds in on itself. There is only the heat of his breath, the press of his body, the dizzy certainty that if he is punishment, I am willing to be claimed.

He pulls away, breath ragged, but he does not apologize.

He stares down at me for a long, electric moment, eyes burning with something I can’t name: anger, hunger, confusion, maybe all three.

I feel the heat of him, the way his hand lingers for a second too long at my waist, as if he’s warring with himself.

Afterwards, the silence hums with everything we cannot say.

My hands are still tangled in his shirt, his breath rough against my cheek.

For a moment, I let myself exist in the warmth, suspended between fear and hunger.

I sense the words on his lips—some warning or apology—but he does not speak them.

Instead, his thumb brushes once along my jaw, lingering in a gesture that feels strangely gentle after the roughness of his kiss.

Then, just like that, he turns away. His features settle back into that familiar, icy mask, every line composed. He walks to the door and leaves without a word, as if nothing happened, as if the world hasn’t tilted off its axis.

Except, I know it did. The press of his mouth is still hot on mine.

My lips tingle from the force of it. I’m breathless, chest rising and falling too fast, my heartbeat an earthquake in my ribs.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the door he vanished through, unable to believe what just happened.

Unable to believe how much I wanted it.

When I finally move, it’s with shaking hands. I press my fingers to my mouth, feeling the faint swelling there, a bruise that isn’t quite visible but pulses with every beat of my heart.

I replay his mouth, the punishing grip of his hand, the way he tasted of heat and frustration and something sweeter. I want to be angry. I want to be afraid. Instead, I feel lightheaded. Hungry. Unmoored.

I sink back into my chair, telling myself to focus.

I need to work, need to cover my tracks, need to finish hiding the files I found.

The spreadsheet glares at me from the screen, all fake numbers and tidy cells.

I try to pick up where I left off—searching, scrolling, copying files into my hidden folder—but the lines blur and swim. I cannot concentrate.

My mind keeps looping back. Not to the evidence, not to the mission, but to the kiss. The sound of his breath. The way he made me feel—powerless and powerful all at once. I don’t know what’s real anymore.

Is it part of the game, another layer of manipulation? Or did he mean it, even for a heartbeat? The possibility shakes me.

I remind myself why I’m here. I came for Eli. For the truth. For revenge. My purpose has always been clear: get close to Adrian Sharov, collect proof of what happened, destroy him if I must. My loyalty is to my brother, to the promise I made over an empty bed and a string of unanswered messages.

Tonight, for the first time, something fractures inside me. The certainty that once guided every step wavers. There’s something dangerous here now, something warm and disorienting. I want to believe I can control it, that I can use it to get closer, to finish what I started.

I touch my lips again, memory sparking through me. I see the way he looked at me—lost, searching, furious at himself as much as at me. That look will haunt me. I know it.

For a while, I sit motionless at my desk, surrounded by the blue glow of the screen, the silent stacks of papers, the city’s distant pulse. I am alone, but I do not feel alone. I feel watched, claimed, changed. A part of me is terrified by how much I want more. How much I want him.

I force myself to type, to focus on the facts, on the paper trail of crime and complicity I’ve been building for months. The names of traffickers and payoffs. The coded emails and shadow accounts.

The words slip through my mind like water. Adrian’s presence lingers, his absence as loud as his body was against mine.

I close my eyes and remember Eli—his laughter, his endless patience, the way he always looked out for me. I remember what this costs. I promise myself I will not forget.

Yet I cannot deny it anymore. There’s a fault line running through me now, a crack where his mouth met mine. Something bright and treacherous. Something that could burn us both if I let it.

Eventually, I shut the laptop, stacking files into careful piles. The office is empty, dark except for the city lights smearing across the windows. My reflection floats in the glass: hair tangled, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. I look nothing like the woman who walked in tonight.

Maybe that’s the danger. Maybe that’s the truth.

For the first time since Eli vanished, I do not know which side of the game I’m playing. Or what I will do if he ever kisses me like that again.

***

My phone buzzes just after noon on Sunday, breaking up the monotony of spreadsheets and the hush of the inner archive office.

I glance at the screen: Jessa. For a heartbeat I consider letting it ring out—every conversation with her lately feels like a tightrope walk, every word another chance to slip and shatter everything.

I swipe to answer, desperate for some piece of the world outside these walls.

“Tali!” Jessa’s voice is bright as ever, full of city noise and caffeinated energy. “I haven’t heard from you in days. Are you alive?”

I manage a weak laugh, sinking back in my chair and pinching the bridge of my nose. “Alive, more or less. Busy. How’s Brooklyn?”

She launches into a rundown about her neighbor’s new rooftop chickens, the disastrous Tinder date from last night, and a street artist she wants to drag me out to see.

I listen with half an ear, letting her words wrap around me like a comforter, holding the phone close.

For a little while I let myself drift—until Jessa’s voice sharpens.

“Okay, your turn. You sound weird. Is everything alright?”

I hesitate. “Yeah. Just… work stuff.” The old habit of deflection kicks in, but I’m too tired for lies today. I bite my lip, stare at the sunlight slanting through the window. My chest is still tight from last night, my lips sensitive every time I press them together.

Jessa sighs, not fooled. “Talia. Don’t you dare lie to me. Spill.”

I breathe in, shaky. “I—look, you can’t tell anyone, okay? Not a word. Seriously.”

“I’m a vault. Promise.”

I lower my voice, as if anyone in this cavernous estate could overhear. “I kissed my boss.”

There’s a pause, then a shriek so loud I have to yank the phone away from my ear. “What? Oh my God, Tali, you kissed the evil overlord? The one you hate?”

I wince. “I didn’t mean to. I mean he kissed me. It just… happened.”

She makes a strangled sound. “Are you in trouble? Wait. Wait. You hate this guy. Didn’t you say he was like, a Bond villain with better hair?”

I let out a helpless laugh, nerves fizzing. “Yeah. He’s still the worst. He’s cold, he’s impossible, he’s got everyone terrified. He probably kicks puppies for fun. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Jessa groans. “Oh my God. Are you okay? Did he force himself on you? Tali, seriously.”

“No! No, it wasn’t—like that. I mean, it was intense, but I’m fine. I just… I don’t even know if I’m mad or—I don’t know what I am.”

Jessa is quiet for a moment, the kind of thoughtful pause that always means she’s worried. “This is the guy you said you’d burn to the ground if you could. Are you being careful?”

The reminder is like cold water. “Yeah. Of course I am.”

She sighs, softer this time. “Tali, I love you, but this is messy even for you. Do you like him? Like actually, not ‘oh he’s hot because he’s my boss’ but… like him?”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know. I mean, I shouldn’t.

I don’t want to. Except when I’m around him, it’s like I can’t think straight.

He makes me so angry, and then he looks at me and I forget why I was mad.

And then I remember everything he’s done, or might have done, and I just—” I break off, shaking my head.

Jessa’s voice goes gentle, which is even worse. “Babe, please be careful.”

“I know,” I say quickly. “I’m not stupid, I just… I don’t know.”

Silence stretches between us, only broken by the distant squawk of Brooklyn pigeons through her phone. I want her to tell me what to do, to say it’s simple: just leave, just run, just hate him like you promised.

She doesn’t. Instead, she just breathes with me, both of us caught in the middle of something too big for words.

Finally she says, “You don’t owe him anything. Not even your confusion. Just… don’t let him take more from you than you’re willing to lose.”

My throat feels thick. “Yeah. I won’t.”

Jessa blows out a sigh, trying to rally. “Next time, at least make him buy you a drink first. Or a therapy voucher.”

That almost makes me laugh. “Maybe both.”

We hang up with promises to call soon, and I set the phone down on the desk. I stare at the sunlight, at the files still open on my computer, and I try to steady myself. I tell myself I hate him. I remind myself what he’s capable of.

The memory of his mouth on mine is still there, stubborn and hot and impossible to erase.

I sit with that contradiction—resentment and hunger, fury and something softer I won’t name. The lines between right and wrong, love and hate, have never felt so thin.