Page 24 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

Late afternoon sunlight slants through the mansion’s high windows, dust dancing in the golden beams. I can’t keep still—my body aches from his hands, from what he did to me last night, from all the things I wanted to say but didn’t.

The anger and need burn through me in equal measure, quickening my breath, knotting my insides. I need answers, not just more confusion. I need to understand what Adrian is hiding, what he’s really capable of.

I wander the halls in slow circles, restless and silent, listening for footsteps, watching for the flicker of movement from his men.

Every room smells faintly of polish and secrets. My mind races with old questions and new suspicions.

I tell myself I’m just walking to clear my head, but I can’t deny what I’m searching for—truth, even if it hurts.

My feet carry me to the oldest wing of the estate, where the stone floors are uneven and the ceilings press low.

Most of the doors are locked and undisturbed, but as I pass one of the back offices, I notice the door standing slightly ajar. Light falls in a broken strip across the dusty rug. This room is rarely used. Everyone avoids it except for the estate’s old accountant and, sometimes, Miroslav.

A heavy ring of keys sits abandoned on the edge of the desk, glinting in the fading light. I hesitate—long enough for caution to whisper warnings—but the need for answers drowns out my fear. I slip inside, closing the door until only a thin crack lets in the hall light. My heart thuds in my ears.

I move straight to the file cabinet tucked near the back wall, half hidden beneath a pile of disused ledgers. The cabinet is rusted at the hinges but still sturdy.

I flip through the keys, hands shaking, testing each one until finally the lock gives with a soft click.

Inside, the folders are organized in a language of codes, initials, and dates that mean nothing to me at first. Most are faded with age, some so brittle I’m afraid to touch them. I skim labels, searching for anything that feels wrong, anything that feels familiar.

My fingers freeze on a folder whose edges are scorched, the label half burned away.

It looks like someone tried to destroy it but didn’t finish the job.

I draw it out, careful not to make noise.

The papers inside are charred at the top, the ink running in places from water or fire.

I sift through them, my breath growing shallow.

Transfer records. Facility names, most of them blacked out or abbreviated. Lists of dates and initials. I barely understand half of it—until I see one page with a margin note in hurried, desperate handwriting:

E.R.

Just two letters, but it’s enough to cut me open.

Eli Rivers. My brother.

I sink onto the edge of the desk, the folder clutched tight in my fist. Relief floods through me, wild and dizzying—he’s alive, he was alive, he made it out.

Almost instantly the relief curdles, twisting with betrayal so deep I taste it in the back of my throat. Adrian knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not every detail, but he knew enough to let me believe Eli was gone. He buried the truth, protected someone, maybe himself.

My hands tremble as I turn page after page, searching for the rest of the story. The records are fragmentary, some pages missing, others scorched into uselessness. The pattern is clear.

There are names I half recognize from overheard conversations, dates that line up with the months after Eli disappeared. I find a transfer slip with the same code as one of Adrian’s shell companies. Everything I never wanted to be true unravels right here in my hands.

My knees go weak. I stagger back from the desk, the folder threatening to slip from my grasp. My vision swims as I try to piece together the timeline. Eli wasn’t murdered; he was erased, disappeared, hidden by the very man I let into my bed, the man who claimed me, marked me.

I want to scream. I want to smash every file, every lock, every secret this house has ever kept.

I know how to survive—how to make it out with the truth.

I shove the folder back into the drawer, hands shaking, careful to replace the keys exactly where I found them.

I smooth my hair, wipe the tears from my cheeks, force my breath to steady.

Then I slip out, closing the door softly behind me, the weight of the secrets burning in my chest.

The hall outside is empty. I move quickly, heart pounding, unable to look at the guards as I pass. Every face is a threat now. Every shadow holds another lie.

When I finally reach the sanctuary of my own room, I bolt the door and sink to the floor, the world tilting around me.

Adrian didn’t kill Eli—but he destroyed him in a different way.

He let me grieve, let me crawl to him, let me beg for scraps of truth while he buried my brother’s trail in fire and silence.

My hands curl into fists. Anger flares hot, cutting through the grief, the shame, the want. I won’t be silent anymore. I won’t be used. Not by Adrian, not by anyone in this house.

First, I have to decide: Do I confront him? Do I run? Or do I wait, gather more, and strike when he least expects it?

The answer throbs in my chest—raw, uncertain, but sharper than before. I wipe my eyes, square my shoulders, and force myself to breathe. For Eli. For me.

One thing is clear: nothing in this house is what it seems. Adrian Sharov has no idea what I’m willing to do to get my brother back.

***

That night, the mansion feels colder than ever. The storm has passed, but the air is heavy, pressed down with the weight of secrets I can’t ignore anymore.

I move through the hours like a ghost, saying nothing to the staff, not even nodding to the guards who glance at me from the corners of their eyes.

I avoid the east wing. I keep the memory of the burned folder close to my chest, the scrawled initials—E.R.—burning brighter than the lamp I leave on by the bed.

Adrian’s absence stretches late into the night. I listen to every footstep on the marble, every distant voice, every scrape of wind at the window, convinced that at any moment I’ll be found out, dragged from my room and confronted with everything I’ve stolen.

My heart is frantic but focused: my brother is alive . My brother is out there, somewhere. Adrian Sharov is going to tell me where.

Sleep is a stranger. I lie in bed fully clothed, the ring on my finger suddenly a shackle, the mattress too soft, the sheets too smooth.

I replay every moment with Adrian since the day I arrived.

The lies. The tenderness. The violence. The ways he’s protected me, the ways he’s used me.

The night burns in my memory—his hands, his mouth, his voice low and rough in my ear, all of it mingled now with the betrayal I can’t forgive.

When I hear him finally coming up the stairs after midnight, I close my eyes and force my breathing to even out, my body tense and unmoving beneath the covers.

He pauses in the doorway for a moment, then enters, shedding his jacket in the dark.

I feel him standing over me, the heat of his gaze pressing into my skin.

A careful hand skims down my arm, fingers ghosting over my wrist, my hip, my thigh—gentle, searching for any sign that I’m awake, that I’ll welcome him. I don’t move. I don’t give him anything.

I hold my breath, waiting, my body rigid beneath the illusion of sleep. For a long moment he lingers, his hand pressed flat over my heart, as if he could read the truth in the wild pounding beneath my ribs.

Then, with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a curse, he gives up. Adrian could go back to his own room now. Probably would, on a normal night.

Tonight, he rolls away from me, the bed shifting under his weight, his back turned, breath slow and heavy in the darkness. I wait until his breathing settles, until I’m sure he’s asleep, before I dare to move.

I slip out from under the covers, my bare feet whispering against the cold floor. I tiptoe to the bathroom, shutting the door softly, locking it just in case. The room is shadowed and strange, full of marble and chrome.

I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can bear. Steam fills the room, fogging the mirror, turning the world hazy and unreal.

I sit down, curling my knees to my chest, letting the spray beat down over my head and shoulders, wishing I could wash away his touch. Wishing I could erase the memory of the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel—wanted, hated, needed, ruined.

I scrub my skin until it stings, tears hot and silent on my cheeks, hidden by the shower’s relentless fall.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t wash him out. I can’t erase what’s happened, what I’ve discovered, what I have to do next.

When the water runs cold, I turn off the tap and wrap myself in a towel, pressing my forehead to the mirror.

My reflection is pale, hollow-eyed, the mark on my neck still dark from where he claimed me.

I touch it, wincing, and remind myself of what matters.

Eli is alive. I have proof. That hope is a wildfire in my chest, burning away the helplessness I’ve felt for so long.

I creep back into the bedroom, drying off quietly, careful not to wake him. I slip into bed and lie on my side, staring at the wall.

Adrian is motionless, his breathing deep and steady, his face turned away. For a moment, I watch him, my anger and longing tangled so tightly I can’t separate one from the other.

Tomorrow, I’ll confront him. Tomorrow, I’ll demand the truth. No more games, no more lies, no more letting him choose when to touch me, when to keep me in the dark. I turn the ring on my finger, feeling its cold, unyielding weight.

My brother is out there, and I will do whatever it takes to bring him home—even if it means tearing this world apart, even if it means destroying Adrian Sharov piece by piece.

I lie awake until the first hint of dawn creeps across the ceiling, my body exhausted, my mind sharp as glass. I listen to Adrian breathe, every sound a reminder that the man I married is not my savior, not my lover, not my home. He’s my enemy now.