Page 23 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

I wait in the living room, the old stone walls closing in around the flicker of lamplight.

The storm outside rattles the tall windows, wind scraping branches against the glass, thunder rolling through the bones of the house.

The place feels older, colder tonight—a fortress or a tomb, depending on how you look at it.

There’s a glass of vodka on the table next to me, untouched, the liquid catching the light in a dull glint.

I don’t want it. My mind is clearer than it’s been in days, stripped down by tension, sharpened by everything I’ve risked.

I send Miroslav upstairs to fetch Talia, knowing she won’t appreciate the summons.

I hope she’s angry. I hope she’s ready for a fight. It’s better than silence.

I hear her before I see her. Bare feet padding on the runner, the soft swish of silk, the storm’s howl trailing in her wake.

She enters the room with a scowl, still in one of the silk robes she favors when she’s tired or stubborn.

Her hair is a wild mess, her mouth set in a thin, unimpressed line.

She folds her arms across her chest, refusing to meet my gaze.

“You called, husband?” she mutters, sarcasm brittle on her tongue.

“Sit.”

She huffs, but does as I ask.

I don’t answer, just stand and nod toward the door at the far end of the hall. My way of saying follow me. She lets out a sigh—half exasperation, half surrender—and mumbles something too low to catch.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

She raises a brow. “What is it?”

“Follow me, and you’ll see.”

We descend in silence. The storm above is distant now, muffled by stone and steel. The air grows colder as we walk down the back stairwell, boots echoing on the concrete.

At the lowest landing, I draw a key from my pocket and fit it to the heavy steel door—a vault, the true heart of the estate, filled with the tools of my trade: weapons, records, truths I’ll never let see daylight.

Talia hovers just outside the threshold, arms folded tight against her chest, bare toes curling on the cold floor. She eyes the reinforced walls and rows of locked cabinets, one brow arched.

“This where you torture your wives?” she asks, her voice brittle with false bravado.

I glance at her, letting a small smile slip through. Amused, but not indulgent. “Only the disobedient ones.”

That wipes the smirk off her face, but only for a moment. She steps inside, shoulders set, chin up. She isn’t afraid, or if she is, she refuses to show it.

The room is a vault of secrets: guns, stacks of files, old photographs, enough hard currency to buy and sell allegiances for a decade. The air smells of cold metal and something darker. I open a drawer, remove a pistol, and hold it out to her, grip first.

She stares at it, jaw clenched. Her hands tremble when she takes it. I watch, saying nothing. Let her feel the weight. Let her see the kind of world she’s married into.

“You’re not a civilian anymore,” I say, calm, matter-of-fact. “You need to learn how to survive.”

Talia lifts the weapon, tries to steady it in both hands. Her grip is awkward, but her stubbornness keeps her from asking for help. I step behind her, correcting her hold, showing her the safety, the balance, the line of sight. My hands brush her wrists. She flinches but doesn’t move away.

“It’s not just about pulling the trigger,” I murmur. “It’s about never hesitating.”

We run through the basics—grip, stance, how to check if the chamber’s clear. She’s silent, intent, absorbing every word. The storm outside fades further, replaced by the click of metal, the hush of breath in the shadows.

I watch her face as she aims, the careful mask of control, the flicker of vulnerability when the barrel wavers. She tries to hide her nerves, but I see the way her breath comes quicker, the way her pulse beats just under her jaw.

Then, quietly, I change the subject. “Why did you come to me, Talia?”

She blinks, caught off guard by the shift. She lowers the gun, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

I step closer, forcing her back until her shoulders touch the row of lockers behind her. The pistol dangles at her side. Her breathing quickens, a mix of adrenaline and defiance. She tilts her chin up, refusing to look away.

“Why approach me, and why take the risk?” I keep my voice low, my gaze hard. “What are you really after?”

She doesn’t answer right away. I can see the calculation behind her eyes—the old habits of lying, of stalling. She searches my face, measuring what she can give away and what she can’t.

Finally, her voice is soft but steady. “I’m looking for something.” She pauses, then adds, “Or maybe someone.”

The honesty catches me off guard. I search her eyes for betrayal, for anything I can use. She’s closed off, too stubborn to surrender.

I lean in, my body close enough to block her exit. “Who?” I press.

She tries to laugh it off, flashing that bratty, sharp-edged grin. “Don’t worry, Adrian, I’m not here to kill you.”

Her tone is flippant, designed to push me back, but her eyes burn with challenge. She wants me to underestimate her. She wants me to let her go. I’m done playing nice.

I reach up, pinning her wrist against the metal locker, the gun held between us. “No more jokes,” I say, my voice flat. “You want to stay in this house, in my life, you tell me the truth. Who sent you?”

She stiffens, mouth pressed in a thin line, but doesn’t look away. “No one sent me. I sent myself.”

I stare at her, searching for the crack in the armor. She holds, refusing to cower. That stubborn pride—the same pride that drew me to her, the same pride that could get us both killed.

“You expect me to believe that?” I ask, tightening my hold, pushing the question like a knife.

“I don’t care what you believe,” she snaps, breathless now. “I’m here for my own reasons. I want answers. About you, about this family, about what happened before I ever showed up.”

I study her face. She’s hiding something, but not the way a traitor does. There’s pain there, and purpose. It intrigues me more than I want to admit.

I let her wrist go, stepping back just enough to give her air. She rubs at the spot, glaring at me with fury and—if I’m not mistaken—a flicker of fear.

“You want to survive here?” I say, quieter. “Learn to shoot. Learn to lie better. Stop thinking you’re smarter than everyone else.”

She straightens, fire back in her eyes. “Maybe I am.”

I almost smile. Almost. “We’ll see.”

I watch her as she sets the pistol down on the table with more care than she’d ever show me. Her breathing slows, her mask slips just a little, and I see the woman she is underneath—the one who came looking for something she’s not sure she wants to find.

“Training’s over for now,” I say. “Next time, you’ll show me how much you’ve learned.”

She nods, jaw tight, defiance still simmering just beneath the surface.

I watch her for another long, loaded second, the air charged between us, her jaw set in stubborn defiance. I pluck the gun from where she discarded it and set it out of reach, the click of it against steel echoing like a warning in the vault.

She straightens as if she expects the lesson is over, but I have other intentions.

I step into her space, pressing my body flush against hers.

She doesn’t back down, but her breath stutters, her robe gaping enough that I can feel the heat of her skin.

I lock my hand around her jaw, tilting her head up until she meets my eyes.

My other hand skims her waist, sliding lower, fingers bunching in the silk at her hip.

“You think this is a joke?” I growl into her ear, my voice hard as stone, letting her feel every ounce of my restraint, every dark impulse roiling just beneath the surface.

She opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to laugh it off, but I don’t give her the chance.

My hand slips beneath the robe, trailing up her thigh, rough with purpose.

She gasps, caught off guard, her head falling back against the locker.

I claim her mouth with a kiss that’s nothing like gentle, swallowing her protest, tasting her frustration and want.

Her hands fist in my shirt, nails digging through the fabric.

I pin her tighter to the cold steel, kissing her until she’s breathless, until her bravado cracks and I can feel the soft, needy heat beneath it.

My tongue pushes past her lips, dominating the kiss, mapping her mouth like I have all the time in the world.

“You want to talk back?” I murmur, breaking the kiss to nip at her jaw, her ear. “You want to act like you don’t belong to me?”

She shudders, her thighs trembling as my fingers find the slick heat between them. I push the robe higher, exposing her completely, not caring that the metal locker is cold against her bare skin. I circle her clit, slow at first, watching her eyes glaze with helpless want.

She tries to twist away, to regain some control, but I pin her hip with my knee, holding her open, vulnerable, forced to take everything I give.

I thrust two fingers inside her, my mouth devouring the soft sounds she tries to hide.

My other hand stays at her jaw, holding her gaze, refusing to let her look away.

“You don’t get to run from this,” I tell her, thrusting slow and deep, curling my fingers until she’s squirming, her defiance melting into desperate whimpers. “You want to fight? Fight me now.”

She claws at my back, lips parted, head thrown back against the lockers. I bite at her neck, leaving my mark just above her pulse, my teeth grazing her skin until she’s shaking. I fuck her with my hand until she’s panting, hips jerking with every rough push.

“Adrian,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, tears in her eyes. “Please—”

I shut her up with another kiss, devouring her surrender, refusing to let her say anything but my name. When she’s on the edge, begging for release, I slow my hand, making her writhe, making her plead. I want her to remember this, to remember who owns every part of her.

“You’re mine,” I growl, my voice broken with need. “Say it.”

She does, breathless and wrecked. “I’m yours. Yours.”

I slam my mouth back to hers, swallowing the cry as I thrust my fingers harder, relentless until she breaks, coming apart against my hand, body clenching, legs shaking.

I watch every second, memorizing the way she falls apart for me, the way all her attitude and pride melt into raw, honest need. When she’s finally done—panting, lips swollen, robe sliding off one bare shoulder—I let her go.

I pull back, chest heaving, my cock aching with restraint. I want to take her right here, but I don’t. I need her to remember who sets the terms.

She sags against the lockers, wrecked and beautiful, eyes half closed. The gun lies on the table beside her, forgotten, cold and useless compared to the fire still burning in her skin.

I fix my clothes, run a hand through my hair, jaw tight as I force myself to turn away. I need answers from her, but if she won’t speak, I’ll get them my own way. I’ll tear down every lie she’s ever built, one layer at a time, until there’s nothing left between us but the truth.

I walk up the stairs, fists clenched, heart racing for reasons I don’t want to name. I can still taste her, can still feel the way her body shook under my hands. The way she fought me, needed me, gave in.

I pause at the landing, staring into the shadows of the hall.

The storm outside is nothing compared to the storm inside me.

She’s under my skin, in my blood. Every moment with her is a war: power, pride, lust, something dangerously close to something softer.

I need to know what she’s hiding. I need to know who she is, really.

Even as I plot my next move, I know the truth: I’m not just fixing her attitude. I’m fighting to keep control of my own.