Page 17 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

The drive back from the Bratva event is shrouded in heavy silence. Talia sits beside me, hands tight in her lap, jaw set and eyes on the blurred lights beyond the window.

I don’t speak. I like it this way. Her tension, her uncertainty, her mind racing to catch up with what just happened. Let her feel the weight of what I have done, of the rules I have rewritten in a single, public move.

When we reach the estate—my true home, the place where no one’s watching but me and my ghosts—I step out without looking at her. The guards open the gates. The driver moves to the back, waiting for my signal.

“Bring her things from the guest room,” I order, voice cold, final. “She stays in the main wing now.”

Talia’s eyes widen as she climbs out of the car, the moonlight catching the dark fall of her hair, the edge of her ruined calm. She doesn’t ask questions. Not yet.

Inside, the mansion is colder than the city. The floors are marble, the windows high and narrow, the corners lost in shadow. It is a fortress, every stone laid for defense, every camera and lock and alarm meant to keep threats out—or in.

I lead her through the maze of corridors, my footsteps measured, hers echoing close behind. The staff vanish at my approach. This is not a home built for warmth.

I stop before a set of carved oak doors, pushing them open to reveal a suite: spacious, elegant, but stripped of anything soft. It is next to my own chambers, separated only by a private hall. Not in my room, but close enough that I can reach her in a heartbeat. I step aside to let her in.

She pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking around the space—bed, windows, fireplace, a single armoire, a faint trace of lavender from fresh linen. Her gaze is wary, but curiosity glimmers beneath the fear.

Talia steps inside. I follow, shutting the door behind us with a soft, irrevocable click.

“You live here now,” I tell her, my voice low and even. “No more games, Talia. You follow my rules. You want to survive, you do what I say.”

She turns to face me, chin raised, eyes dark and defiant. I see her weighing her options, rehearsing a hundred possible retorts, but she says nothing. I close the space between us. The night’s tension is a living thing in the air.

I don’t bother with more words. I have watched her long enough. Smiling for the crowd, lying to my face, walking around like she doesn’t know what she does to me. Tonight, I want truth. I want what’s real, stripped of strategy and mask and fear.

I press her gently against the wall. Not hard, just enough to remind her who holds the power here, who writes the next move.

My hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek, then trailing slowly down her neck.

Her pulse is wild under my touch. I follow the line of her collarbone, over her chest, feeling the shape of her breast.

She gasps, a soft sound, part fear, part desire. Her eyes close for a moment, then snap open, meeting mine. I watch her reactions, every flicker, every tremble, every stuttered breath. I want to know her limits, to see where her bravado ends and the real Talia begins.

My other hand slides down her side, gathering her dress in my palm. I graze the back of my fingers between her thighs, over the thin barrier of silk and lace. She freezes, muscles taut, head pressed to the wall.

It’s not fear that holds her, it’s anticipation. She’s caught between wanting and denying, every nerve awake, every sense straining toward what comes next.

I press into her, slow and intense, fingers teasing the place where she is already trembling. I do not rush. I want her to feel every second of this, every shift of my hand, every test of her control. She lets out a broken whisper. My name, soft and pleading.

That’s when I know. She’s untouched. Her hips buck slightly, her hands flutter at her sides, not pushing me away but not yet pulling me closer. I slow my movements, fingers tracing circles, not giving, just coaxing, learning the shape of her response.

She stares up at me, eyes wide and wet, mouth open around words she cannot form. I lean in, pressing my forehead to hers, letting her feel the heat of my breath, the certainty in my grip. I want her to remember this moment, the exact line where everything changes.

“You’re mine now,” I whisper, the words a promise and a threat. “No more hiding, Talia. No more pretending.”

She trembles beneath my hands, her heart pounding so loud I can feel it through her ribs. Her defiance melts into need, her walls cracking open. Her fingers find my wrist, not to stop me, but to anchor herself, to let herself fall.

I keep my touch gentle, relentless. I want to teach her what it means to surrender. What it means to give up control without losing herself. I watch her face, the flush creeping up her neck, the tremor in her breath as I stroke her through the fabric, slow and deliberate.

“Say it,” I murmur, lips brushing her ear. “Tell me who you belong to.”

For a moment, she fights it. Her pride, her plan, her mission—they all war inside her, visible in the tremble of her jaw, the clench of her fists. In the end, it’s her need that wins. She exhales, voice trembling: “You.”

The word breaks something open in both of us. I press harder, the pleasure building in her, her hips moving in helpless rhythm against my hand. She whimpers, lost in sensation, lost in me.

I will not let her go. Not now. Not ever. This is my victory. This is the truth that all her lies could never hide.

“Adrian…”

Hearing her voice—soft, hesitant, giving in to me—flips something hot and volatile in my chest. It is possessiveness, yes, fierce and sudden, but it is also guilt, an ache that pulses beneath my skin.

She is untouched. I know it now, feel it in every tremble, every uncertain gasp that passes her lips. I have ruined women before, left them wanting or wounded or both, but this is different. With Talia, the risk is not only hers.

My own restraint is a fragile thread, stretched nearly to breaking.

Her hands tighten in my shirt, her breath coming fast and shallow. I hover close, so close she can taste my breath but not my mouth, the threat and the promise of a kiss held just out of reach.

My hand slides lower, pressing into the soft heat between her thighs, teasing the silk aside, feeling the slickness I have drawn out of her. She moans, arching toward me, hips seeking relief.

Her eyes are glazed, wide and pleading, caught in a war between pride and need.

I stroke her, slow and measured, watching every reaction, drawing her higher, closer, her control eroding with each pass of my fingers. Her head tips back, lips parting around my name.

The sound is almost enough to break me. To have me take her here and now, to claim every inch of her and erase whatever secret she is keeping from me.

I do not. I wait until she is trembling, her whole body straining for release. Then, just as she tips over the edge, I pull my hand away.

She whimpers, a sound so desperate and broken that it almost undoes me. My jaw clenches, muscles rigid with the effort it takes not to finish what I have started. The possessiveness and heat churn inside me, tangled with something like shame.

I want to ravage her, to bury myself in her until neither of us remembers the world outside this room.

She slumps against the wall, breathless, dress rucked up around her hips, eyes dark and stormy. I look at her for one last, hungry second, memorizing the sight of her undone and waiting, her guard shattered for me and me alone.

Then I turn and walk out, the door clicking softly behind me.

In the hallway, I stop, hands braced on the cold stone.

The restraint ripples through me, bitter and electric.

I wanted to own her—still want to, more than I can admit.

I wanted to wipe away every memory but mine, to take her in a way that would leave no room for whatever cause brought her into my life.

I will not take her that way. Not with that look of surrender, not when I can still taste the innocence I have just begun to tarnish.

Something about her purity, her willingness to stand her ground until I broke her, unsettles everything I thought I knew about myself.

It makes me want to ruin her and shield her from every harm in equal measure.

She is a contradiction, a temptation I cannot name, and I am caught between the urge to devour her and the need to protect what little is left untouched.

I let out a shuddering breath, forcing my body back under control. I will not lose myself, not yet. There is time. There is always time.

A guard turns the corner, sees my expression, and wisely keeps his head down, moving silently past. I watch the shadows drift across the far end of the corridor, the whole estate quiet except for the thud of my own pulse.

Down the hall, I hear Talia moving. I hear rustling fabric, a faint gasp as she gathers herself. I wonder if she hates me now, if the game has finally tipped too far, if I have lost what fragile trust she might have begun to feel. The thought unsettles me more than I expect.

I want her. I want every lie she keeps, every secret locked behind her careful eyes. But I do not want to break her before she gives me what I need. Her innocence is a weapon, and I will not let her turn it against me. Not when I have waited this long to have her.

I make my way to my own suite, stripping off my jacket and pouring a drink with hands that are not quite steady.

I stare into the glass, seeing her reflection in the dark surface—her mouth open, her breath stuttering, her body arching for me and me alone. I am ruined by the memory, even as I know I cannot have her yet. Not fully. Not until she gives herself freely.

Still, restraint is a curse. Every part of me aches for her. Every part of me wants to take, to claim, to possess. I remind myself that I have the power, that she has chosen to stay, that she is here because I demanded it.

I know the truth. She is here because the war between us is not yet finished. She is here because she has secrets. Because she means to win.

I will not let her win. Not now. Not ever.

I finish my drink, the burn of vodka a weak substitute for the fire in my veins. I return to the door, half tempted to go back to her room and finish what I started. To see her shatter and beg, to make her mine in every way that matters.

I wait. I let the hunger build. I let her feel the echo of my hands, the absence of my mouth, the promise I have made with every touch and every word.

Tomorrow, I will see her again. Tomorrow, I will demand answers. Tomorrow, I will have her—for real this time.