Page 22 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

Sunlight creeps in, soft and tentative, painting the bedroom in shades of gold and gray.

I wake tangled in expensive sheets, sore in ways that make me shiver when I stretch.

For a moment, I lie there in the hush, trying to remember what peace felt like before I became the woman in Adrian Sharov’s bed, wearing his ring.

I turn my head and see the empty pillow beside me. No warmth. Adrian is gone.

A moment of relief. Then the memories crowd in: the blast, the smoke, the way he shielded me with his body, gun drawn, as if the world could end at any moment and he’d still stand between me and the fire.

I remember the weight of the vows, the iron band around my finger, the faces in the cathedral: some watching, some warning, none celebrating.

I sit up slowly, gathering the sheet around my chest. For the first time, I’m married. To a man I once dreamed of destroying. I glance down at the ring. It’s made of thick, gold.

It feels heavier than anything I’ve ever worn. My heart pounds. Someone wants me dead. The bomb wasn’t a random threat. It was timed too perfectly, too publicly, a message aimed not just at Adrian but at me.

Adrian’s men are stationed outside my door. They barely glance my way as I open it, but I feel the tension in their shoulders. They’re watching me, or for me. It’s hard to tell which.

I wander the hallways, quiet as a ghost, searching for something that feels like home. The mansion is vast, corridors looping in on themselves, each turn revealing more stone, more wood, more guarded eyes.

I pass a room filled with ancient books and dust motes, a sunlit gallery with paintings of dead men and steely-eyed women.

I find the kitchen, empty except for a maid who won’t meet my gaze. I pour myself coffee, hands shaking, and wander back out.

The house is full of aftershocks. I hear men talking in low voices, doors opening and closing, radios muttering static. I try to catch snippets of conversation, but they stop speaking when I appear.

Silence rushes in behind me, thick and suspicious.

I climb the main staircase, the ring on my finger catching the light with every step. I tell myself I’m not scared. That I can survive this. Every step reminds me that I’m in someone else’s house, someone else’s world.

I hear raised voices from down the corridor. It comes from Adrian’s private meeting room, the one with the reinforced doors. I hesitate outside, the wood muffling the sound but not enough to hide the tension inside.

“She’s not one of us,” a man says, voice low and fierce. “This started when she arrived. The wedding brought trouble to our door. People talk, Adrian.”

Another voice, older, cracked with authority. “We don’t know where her loyalties lie. She could be working for them. You think it’s coincidence the bomb went off on her wedding day? You’re blinded by—” The word is cut off. I don’t know if it’s love, or something uglier.

Adrian’s reply is a growl, sharp and final. “Careful what you accuse my wife of.”

“She’s not your wife; she’s your weakness.” That voice stings. “If she betrays you, the whole house falls.”

The silence after that is different. It’s edged with threat.

I step back, pulse racing, not sure whether I want to burst in and defend myself or run until I can’t hear my name on anyone’s tongue. I hate how much the words sting. I hate how, even now,

I wish Adrian would storm out and find me, demand the truth from my lips, accuse me of all the things they fear. Instead, he says nothing.

Why isn’t he asking? Does he trust me, or is he just waiting for me to slip?

I walk away before I can hear more. My feet lead me to a sunlit corner of the house, a small sitting room overlooking the gardens.

I sit in the window seat, coffee cooling in my hands, staring out at the roses and the iron gates beyond. I think of last night. Of the way his hands shook as he touched me, the way he watched me sleep, as if he could keep the world at bay just by keeping me close.

A part of me aches to see him now, to ask for answers, for a sign that I am more than just a liability. Another part of me is furious. If he suspects me, why won’t he look me in the eye and say it? If he doesn’t, then why does he let them tear me down behind closed doors?

Maybe it’s easier for him this way. If I am just a pawn, he can move me across the board without regret. If I am more, then every risk he takes becomes his own.

I turn the ring on my finger, feeling the cold metal bite into my skin.

It is proof and prison all at once. The marriage was meant to shield me, to draw a line around us.

But today, I feel more exposed than ever.

Alone in a house full of enemies, unsure whether the man I married is friend, foe, or something in between.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, a burst of laughter—nervous, short-lived. The world continues outside this room. Men are making plans, counting loyalties, choosing sides.

No one comes for me.

I press my forehead to the glass and close my eyes. I want to believe I’m strong enough to weather this, that I can stay hidden in plain sight until I find the truth.

Right now, all I feel is the sharp ache of being outnumbered, untrusted, and unseen.

Still, beneath it all, I wonder, why isn’t Adrian afraid of me? Why does he not demand answers?

The question settles in my chest, cold and heavy, as the day moves on, and I wait.

I’m lost in the shifting flash of distant lightning when the door swings open without warning. Miroslav enters, silent as a shadow, not even the courtesy of a knock to announce himself. The only sign of his presence is the faint scent of cold air and gun oil that always seems to cling to him.

I stiffen, curling a little tighter in the window seat, coffee untouched and long gone cold. “Ever hear of knocking?” I snap, letting my irritation show. “Or does that rule not apply to you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, only closes the door behind him and plants himself in the middle of the room, arms crossed, every inch the enforcer. His eyes move over the room and land on me, flat and unimpressed.

“Adrian wants to speak to you,” he says, the words clipped, not quite a request. Not even really an order. More like a fact he’s decided I’ll live with.

I set the coffee cup down on the sill, too hard. “Maybe I don’t want to speak to him.”

Miroslav’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of cold amusement in his eyes. “That’s not my problem. He’s waiting. Now.”

I glare at him, pushing to my feet, the old anger simmering in my veins. “You’re very loyal, Miroslav. For a second-in-command, you seem to spend a lot of time running his errands.” I let the words hang, hoping to sting.

He only shrugs, the faintest quirk of a smirk twisting his mouth.

“You’re wrapped around his finger too. Don’t fool yourself.

Just because you wear his ring doesn’t mean you’ll get special treatment.

I’m just as strict, just as nasty to you as I am to anyone else in this house.

” His voice drops, all threat, no warmth. “Don’t mistake your place. Not now.”

It’s meant to get under my skin, anger me, frighten me, break down whatever willpower I have left. I hate how well it works. I can feel my cheeks flushing, my pulse racing. He stands there like he’s waiting for me to argue, to show fear, to crumble just a little bit.

I cross my arms, matching his stance. “If this is how you treat family, I can’t imagine how you treat your enemies.”

Miroslav doesn’t blink. “You’re not family. Not to me. You want my respect, you earn it.”

His words sting, but not as much as the knowledge that he’s right. In this house, nothing is given for free.

Not trust, not safety, not even the illusion of belonging. I force myself to look away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how unsettled I am.

He nods toward the door. “Adrian. Now.” There’s no room for negotiation in his tone, just the inevitability of consequence if I refuse.

I follow him out, every step down the corridor burning with resentment and something sharp, something closer to fear than I want to admit. His pace is brisk, his silence heavier than most men’s shouting. I trail behind, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

“You know,” I say, my voice low, “you could try being less of a brute. Might make you more friends.”

Miroslav doesn’t look back. “I don’t need friends. I need people who know their place.”

I hate him for the way he says it, the way he makes me feel smaller, more fragile than I ever want to be.

I hate that he’s good at it. That, for all his bluntness, he’s not stupid.

He knows exactly how to push my buttons.

I hate even more how much I want to scream at him, or shove him aside, or run anywhere but toward Adrian’s office.

I keep walking because there’s no choice. I’m tired of being left out, shut out, kept in the dark.

When we reach the heavy double doors of the living room, Miroslav pauses. His eyes sweep over me one last time, sizing me up, searching for any cracks in the mask I’ve tried so hard to wear.

He leans in, just enough so I can feel his breath against my ear. “He might be your husband, but I’m not your friend. Don’t ever forget it, Talia. Not for a second.”

I hold his stare, my chin high. “Maybe you’re not the only one who should be careful who they trust.”

He steps aside, mouth twisting into that humorless not-quite-smile of his. “We’ll see.”

He knocks—once, sharp—then pushes open the door, ushering me inside before I can lose my nerve or change my mind.

I step through, pulse thrumming, heart braced for whatever comes next. The doors close behind me, muffling the world to a hush.

It’s only after Miroslav is gone that I realize my hands are shaking.

Adrian stands at the window, back to the room, shoulders tense in the late-afternoon light.

The silence is thick, but I refuse to break it first, not after the gauntlet Miroslav just put me through. I stay by the door, arms crossed, trying to steady my breath and hide the tremor in my hands.

He finally turns. His eyes sweep over me, unreadable, taking in every detail: my posture, my face, the defiance I try to hold on to.

“You called, husband?”

For a moment, I wonder if he called me here to interrogate me, to question my loyalty, to demand answers in a way only he can.

He only nods to the sofa. “Sit,” he says, voice quiet but leaving no room for argument.

I hesitate, then obey, settling on the edge of the seat, back straight, chin high. My heart thuds in my chest, adrenaline still burning from the confrontation with Miroslav.

I feel stripped bare, exposed by every pair of eyes in this house. I brace myself for whatever comes next, refusing to show weakness.