Page 18 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I don’t sleep.

I sit curled on the window seat, knees drawn to my chest, shivering, though the room isn’t cold. The throw blanket from the foot of the bed is wrapped around my shoulders, but it barely touches the chill inside me.

Moonlight pours through the glass in silver stripes, carving up the stone floors and the silken covers of a bed I haven’t touched.

Everything feels too sharp. The distant prowl of footsteps in the hall, the hush of wind against the glass, my own breath hitching in my throat.

My skin still hums from his touch. Every nerve is raw. I can’t stop replaying the last hour—his hands on my body, the wall at my back, the way his mouth hovered just out of reach. The way I gasped his name. The way he didn’t let me finish, didn’t let me forget myself for even a heartbeat.

The pleasure and shame are tangled so tightly in me I can’t pull them apart.

I hate him for it. I hate the coldness in his eyes, the way he says mine like it’s a law of nature.

I hate that I wanted it, wanted him, wanted more even as my mind screamed at me to run.

I hate that I am still sitting here, trembling and alive, desperate for something I don’t even have the words to name.

The throw blanket slips from my shoulders and I let it. I lean my forehead against the cool glass, breathing out slow, watching my reflection shudder in the dark. My lips are swollen, my heart racing.

I try to focus on the reasons I came here. Eli. The evidence. The promise I made not to lose myself in this place, in this man.

My mind is chaos. The week feels like it’s spiraled out of my hands. The strange proposal at the gala—if it can really be called a proposal. The gun in the car, icy and real along my jaw, and his voice telling me I’m his.

The way he looked at me tonight, like he was seeing something new, something he wanted to break and protect all at once. The way my body betrayed me, arching into his hand, trembling for his approval, for release.

I want to escape. The urge gnaws at me, wild and desperate. I picture myself running down the endless corridors, throwing open door after door, searching for an exit that doesn’t exist.

I know it’s pointless. He owns the walls around me. He owns the locks and the guards and the silence. He owns the air, my heartbeat, every secret I thought I could keep.

The worst part, the part that keeps me from breathing, from screaming, from tearing this room apart with my bare hands, isn’t the danger.

It’s the part of me that doesn’t want to leave.

It’s the part that aches to see him again, to go to his room and demand answers.

The part that wants to scream at him, to cry, to hit him until he admits what he’s doing to me.

The part that wants to beg him to finish what he started. To let me fall apart, to make me whole.

I bury my face in my hands, shaking. My thighs press together, desperate for relief that’s half pleasure, half pain. I want to hate him.

I want to hate myself more. For how quickly my body responded. For how badly I want to feel his hands again, his mouth on my skin, his voice telling me I’m his. The shame is acid, hot, and relentless. The want is worse.

I close my eyes, but the memories come anyway. The gun, his words, his hands. The way he made me feel—helpless and powerful at the same time, as if surrendering to him could set me free.

I stand, restless, crossing the room in slow circles. I open the wardrobe. I close it. I smooth the sheets of the bed and then rip them loose, too agitated to be still. I press my forehead to the door, listening for footsteps, half hoping he’ll come back, half hoping he’ll stay away.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I go back to the window and sink down again, watching the dark horizon. Somewhere out there is the city, and the life I left behind. I try to remember what freedom felt like.

The late-night coffee runs with Jessa, the smell of Eli’s old leather jacket, the hum of Brooklyn traffic below my apartment. It feels like another lifetime.

Tears sting my eyes, sudden and unbidden. I press my knuckles to my mouth, refusing to let myself cry. This is what he wants, I think. To see me undone. To see me broken open and hungry, so desperate for him that I’ll give up the mission, the truth, everything I am.

I want to believe I’m still in control. That I can turn this heat, this need, into a weapon. That I can let him get close and still protect myself. I’m losing ground. Losing myself.

A soft sound escapes me, half sob, half laugh. “God, what is wrong with me?” I whisper to the night.

I want to run. Even if I could find the door, I know my feet would take me straight to his. I want to hit him. I want to kiss him. I want him to take me apart until there’s nothing left but want and ruin.

When the first rays of dawn slip through the curtains, I am still awake, raw and aching, heart pounding with need and regret.

I watch the sunrise paint the walls in gold, and I wonder if I will ever find myself again…

or if I have already been remade, piece by piece, by the man I swore I would destroy.

***

The afternoon sun settles warm on my shoulders as I slip outside, needing air, needing space from the four walls that have begun to feel like a gilded cell.

I wander through the garden behind the mansion, following the winding flagstone paths, trailing my fingers over tangled vines that climb the wrought-iron arches.

Roses bloom in secret corners—pale pink, bloodred, their petals impossibly soft and fragrant. The hush out here feels sacred, separate from the tension and watchfulness inside.

I breathe deeply. I pretend, for a moment, that I am free.

I almost believe I’m alone. Until I turn and see him.

Adrian stands under the shadow of the archway, hands in his pockets, face half lit by sun and half by shadow. He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t speak.

The air between us tightens, hot with things unsaid. I look away, tracing the curl of a rose stem with my thumb, but I feel him watching me, tracking every breath, every heartbeat.

He comes toward me, slow and silent. His presence is a pressure, a gravity I can’t ignore. I stand my ground, refusing to back away, to give him the satisfaction of seeing me run.

Still, when he stops in front of me, the garden suddenly feels much smaller.

“Did you follow me?” I say, voice sharp, brittle with nerves.

He tilts his head, a faint smirk on his lips. “This is my home, Talia. I don’t have to follow anyone.”

“I needed space.” My fists clench at my sides. “After what you did last night—”

He cuts me off, his eyes cold and hard. “After what we did.”

I glare at him, fury and want tangled up inside me. “You could have let me finish,” I snap, too raw to hide the truth. “You left me—”

His mouth is on mine before I can finish, firm, deep, unyielding. The world falls away. His hands tangle in my hair, tugging me close, and I find myself clutching his shirt, desperate to anchor myself.

He bites at my lip, and I gasp. His mouth moves down my jaw, to the pulse at my throat, then lower, over the curve of my collarbone. I shudder, my body arching to meet him, all anger drowned in heat.

He lifts me, strong arms sliding under my thighs.

The roses, the garden, the afternoon sun—all vanish as he carries me inside, like it costs him nothing, like I weigh nothing at all.

The house is silent, the halls empty. He kicks open a door.

I recognize his bedroom only as he lays me back against the wide, cool sheets.

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the dress over my head, tosses it aside, his eyes hungry and dark.

His hands roam my skin, mapping every inch, every shiver, every sigh.

His mouth returns to mine, claiming, punishing, then gentling with every pass.

I tug at his shirt, needing him bare, needing to feel him everywhere.

He strips quickly, careless with buttons, his body tense, carved by restraint.

He parts my legs with his knee, his hand cupping me, teasing, finding me wet and wanting. I arch against him, begging without words, forgetting everything but the way his touch undoes me.

He moves over me, guiding himself in, slow at first, letting me feel every inch, every stretch.

My breath stutters. He groans my name, low and wrecked, as if he’s losing control.

He thrusts deep, hard, setting a rhythm that’s all dominance and need.

I clutch at his shoulders, nails biting, drawing him closer.

His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back so his mouth can claim my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting.

Each thrust rocks me higher, my back arching off the bed, my thighs trembling around his hips.

He feels impossibly big inside me, thick and hot, filling me so completely I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only gasp his name again and again.

He buries his face at my throat, his breath harsh, body tensed above mine. “Look at me,” he growls, voice so low it’s almost a snarl. I obey, blinking up into eyes dark with hunger, with something fierce and possessive.

He watches every flutter of my lashes, every tremor that ripples through my body as he drives into me, steady, unrelenting.

“Mine,” he whispers, voice rough with lust and something darker. “You’re mine, Talia.”

The words go straight to my core, making me clench around him, helpless, desperate for more. His hand slides down, between our bodies, fingers finding my clit.

He circles it with ruthless precision, rubbing tight, fast, until my whole body tightens, my hips rolling up to meet him, needing, pleading, lost.

He kisses me then: deep, consuming, stealing every last breath. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting, conquering. I moan against him, my voice muffled by his lips, my body burning, breaking. The pleasure builds, hot and wild, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.