Page 13 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows propped on my knees, room lit only by the city’s restless blue glow.

I haven’t changed out of my work clothes. I haven’t eaten dinner. I just keep replaying everything. Every charged second in Adrian’s office, every word from his mouth, every time his eyes pinned me like I was the only person in the world.

The kiss. It still echoes, sharp and impossible, in the back of my mind. I remember the force of it, the way his hand gripped my waist, the taste of him, the bite of teeth and want and control. My chest tightens, shame and heat fighting for ground.

It would be easier if I could call it assault, if I could hate him cleanly, purely.

I remember the way I didn’t pull away. The way I kissed him back, hungry and unafraid.

The confrontation—his voice sliding under my skin, low and knowing. “You didn’t pull away. You wanted it.” I want to deny it, but I can’t. I see myself in his eyes: not a victim, not innocent, but a woman standing in the dark, daring him to get closer. I tell myself I’m still in control.

This is just a tactic. A method. Another way to get under his skin, to slip past his defenses. If Adrian wants to obsess, fine. Let him. I’ll use it. I’ll use him. That’s the only way this makes sense. The only way I can breathe through the mess I’ve made.

I reach for my notebook, flipping past old pages until I find the latest spread—notes rewritten and reorganized, all the angles shifting as I learn more. I scribble new names, the ones he trusts enough to meet behind closed doors, the men whose eyes flick to him for permission before they speak.

I list side businesses I’ve overheard mentioned in passing, shell companies and quiet partnerships.

I’ve started mapping connections between accounts and properties, drawing lines that loop back to Adrian’s inner circle.

I even keep a section for encrypted files, the ones buried in his personal drive behind biometric locks.

If I get close enough, I tell myself, he’ll let his guard down.

He’ll open those doors—literal and metaphorical.

He already watches me like I belong to him, like I’m some piece on his private chessboard.

So let him believe it. Let him get comfortable.

Let him think I’m ensnared, obsessed, half in love.

The closer I get, the more he’ll show. The more I’ll see.

I write:

Get close enough for fingerprints.

Find his passcodes.

Note every name that comes up more than once.

But my focus fractures. My hand drifts to my mouth, thumb brushing my bottom lip. I hate how vivid it still feels—the ache, the bruised heat, the shock that ran all the way down my spine. I hate how real it is, how quickly my body remembers even when my mind screams to forget.

I squeeze my eyes shut, furious. This isn’t about want.

This isn’t about the way I lean toward him, the way the thought of his hands makes me shiver in the dark.

This is about Eli. About the hollow in my life where my brother should be.

About the promise I made myself—that I will not rest until I know what happened.

Until I have proof. Until Adrian Sharov’s empire burns or bends or begs for mercy.

I force myself to keep working. I list the security staff who linger near his office, the times of day when his routine shifts, the small details he lets slip when he thinks no one is listening. I sketch the pattern of his trust, trying to find the weakest link. I write questions:

Who else knows about Cyprus?

What happened on the twelfth?

Why did he switch cars last week?

Each note is another stone in the wall I build to keep myself steady. Each line reminds me why I’m here, what’s at stake, what I can’t afford to lose.

I can’t stop the small betrayals. The way my fingers keep tracing my lips, the way my mind drifts to the memory of his mouth on mine. The way my heart speeds up whenever I remember the pressure of his body, the heat of his hands.

I slam the notebook shut, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes until the afterimage of the lamp burns red and gold across my vision.

“Stop it,” I whisper to myself, voice raw and desperate. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t about him. You don’t get to want.”

I think of Eli. I think of his easy smile, the way he used to tease me for my stubbornness. I think of the last message he sent, the one I have memorized by heart.

If I go quiet, assume the worst. Keep your head down, Tali. Trust nobody.

That’s the truth. That’s what matters. I am not here for desire. I am not here to be claimed or wanted or loved. I am here for answers. For justice. For the brother who vanished into the night and never came home.

I set the notebook aside, climb into bed without turning off the lamp, and stare up at the ceiling. My body is restless, aching in ways I wish I could forget. I pull the blankets tighter and focus on the steady rhythm of my breath, on the anger that still burns beneath the surface.

I am in control, I tell myself. I will not lose sight of the truth. I will not let him ruin me, not the way he ruined Eli.

I sit alone in the hush of my room, the city noise held at bay by old glass and heavy curtains.

My notebook lies closed on the bed beside me, its pages dense with names, notes, questions—reminders of my mission. I stare at the ceiling, lips parted, breath shallow. I can still feel him. I can still taste the press of his mouth, the command in his hands, the dark pull of his eyes on mine.

Frustration burns in my chest, tangled with something softer, something that makes me want to cry out in anger and need. I try to focus on my plans, on the lines I wrote again and again: Find the evidence. Get close enough for answers. Stay in control.

It’s not enough to drown out what’s pulsing inside me.

I whisper out loud, just to hear the words, just to test them on my tongue. “Let him want me.” I mean it as a strategy. I mean, let him be distracted, let him show his secrets, let me use his obsession against him.

The way my voice sounds—low and shaky, almost pleading—it isn’t strategy at all. It’s raw, confessional, too close to wanting in its own right.

My hands curl into the blanket. I close my eyes and try again, my voice steadier this time. “Let him give me the answers.” That’s the goal, the truth, the thing I have to keep at the center. It doesn’t feel true. Not entirely. Not tonight.

As my eyes drift closed, as I slip beneath the covers, my body is still humming with heat, with hunger that has nothing to do with revenge. Nothing to do with Eli, or the mission, or the lies I have wrapped around myself like armor. It is just want—hot and simple and terrifying.

I let my hand drift under the hem of my shirt, fingers splaying across the warmth of my belly, tracing up, then down, searching for something to anchor me.

My breath stutters, slow at first, as I imagine his hands instead of mine: callused, sure, strong.

I picture him crowding me against the cabinet, mouth bruising, his voice low and rough as he tells me I’m not as innocent as I pretend.

My hips lift, a soft gasp breaking the quiet. I can see him, in my mind, stalking closer, eyes hard, jaw set, body all tension and command. I remember the taste of him, the heat of his mouth, the press of his thigh between mine. I slide my hand lower, circling slow, letting the pleasure build.

It’s easier to let go like this, alone, in the dark, with only my imagination for company.

I picture him pinning my wrists, his voice at my ear, whispering all the things he would never say in daylight.

I think of the way he looked at me, hungry and helpless, just for a heartbeat.

The way his control slipped, the way mine did too.

I bite my lip, breath coming harder, hips shifting restlessly under the sheets.

My fingers move faster, slick and sure, chasing the memory of his touch.

I imagine him growling my name, dragging his teeth over my throat, punishing me for every defiance, every challenge.

I let myself want him fully. No guilt, no shame, just the sharp sweet burn of it.

It doesn’t take long. My body is wound so tight, every nerve raw.

The pleasure crests, hard and bright, and I press my palm over my mouth to stifle the sound, as if even now the walls might listen.

I come undone thinking of him, the enemy, the man I’m supposed to ruin. The man who could ruin me too.

When it’s over, I lie trembling in the silence, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. My heart still races. My mind is blurry, heavy with satisfaction and dread.

This isn’t about justice anymore. Not tonight. It’s about him, about the heat and the danger and the way I ache for more even as I try to hate him.

I let my hand linger on my thigh, the aftershocks rippling through me, sharper than guilt, sharper than grief. My chest rises and falls too fast. I want to call myself weak, or reckless, but there’s a kind of freedom in admitting the truth, even if only here, alone in the dark. I want him.

I want the risk, the collision, the promise of his mouth on mine. Even as I try to recall the reasons I came here—the evidence, Eli, the vow I swore—I can’t chase away the shadow of his hands, the way his voice curls through me and undoes every one of my defenses.

My body thrums with memory, but my mind spins in circles. I tell myself I can control this. That if I let him believe I’m his, he’ll trust me. He’ll let his guard down. I can play the part—let him think I’m broken open, let him give me what I need.

Underneath, I’m afraid. Not of him, or of being caught. I’m afraid of what I might give away. Of how much I want to surrender, just for a night, just to see if he’d let me burn in his hands.

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, breath slowing, heart pounding a steady, unsteady beat. Tomorrow, I’ll put on my armor again. I’ll be sharp, careful, untouchable.

Tonight, I let myself feel it. The hunger. The need. The bone-deep ache that says there’s more to lose here than I ever imagined.

In the quiet, I promise myself that this is only a means to an end. That I’ll remember what I’m fighting for.

The truth is, I’m already afraid I’ve lost that war.