Page 30 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #15)

The city falls away as we drive, streetlights giving way to darkness, the quiet hush of empty roads replacing the static tension of the mansion.

Adrian doesn’t speak, hands tight on the wheel, eyes locked forward. I stare out the window, watching the glow of the city vanish in the rearview mirror, every mile tightening the knot in my chest.

We turn off the main road just after sunset, gravel crunching under the tires. The world is gray and gold, the last streaks of daylight painting the horizon.

The abandoned train depot rises out of the trees like a ghost: broken platforms, rusted tracks, weeds taller than my knees. There are no guards, no ceremony, just the cold hush of a place forgotten by everyone but us.

Adrian kills the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves. He looks at me, searching for something I can’t name, then nods once, silent and steady. “He’s here,” he says.

I step out into the dying light, breath fogging in the chill. My heart is a thunderclap in my chest. Every part of me is braced for disappointment, for a trick, for the twist of hope into pain.

As I round the side of the car, I see him: a lone figure standing at the far edge of the platform, head low, hands buried in the pockets of a battered jacket I know too well.

For a second, I freeze. My brain tries to catch up to my eyes. I barely recognize him—he’s thinner, older, hair longer, beard rough across his jaw.

It’s Eli. My brother.

My breath catches. I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m running, feet pounding the platform, hair flying, vision blurred by tears.

He turns at the sound, shoulders lifting, and then I’m in his arms, sobbing, clinging to him as if the world might split in two. We hold each other, no words at first, just the crush of bone and heartbeat, the rush of everything we lost and everything we still are.

He brushes my curls back, his thumb wiping a tear from my cheek, his hand trembling. “You look strong,” he whispers, the old affection in his voice threading through the years, through the silence, through all the pain.

I laugh, watery and broken. “You look like hell.”

We don’t have time for stories. Not here.

Not now. We say everything we need to in that embrace, every apology, every promise, every moment of grief folded into the shape of his arms around me.

For the first time in years, I feel like myself: a sister, a survivor, something more than the anger and longing that built my new life.

He thanks me for not giving up. His voice is ragged, edged with wonder. “I knew you’d find me, Talia. I always knew.”

I thank him for surviving, for holding on, for still being here. “I missed you. Every day. I never stopped looking.”

He cups my cheek, pressing his forehead to mine. “Don’t let this place change you. Don’t let him change you either.”

“I won’t,” I say. “I promise.”

His arms tighten, and I let myself believe—for a breath, for a moment—that some wounds can heal. That not everything is lost.

We don’t say goodbye, not really. That word feels too final, too heavy, after all we’ve survived. We say I love you. We say stay safe, and don’t forget who you are. We say don’t disappear again. We say, without saying it, that the world can still be mended. Even when it hurts.

Adrian stands at the far edge of the platform, just a shadow in the last of the light, but his presence anchors me. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t watch, not really. He just waits, giving us space to unravel and bind ourselves again.

When Eli finally steps away, his silhouette swallowed by the darkness at the end of the tracks, I watch him go.

The ache in my chest is sharp, but clean, like setting a bone that never healed right.

My old life fades with his retreating figure, all the unfinished stories and unanswered questions trailing behind him.

I wipe my face, steadying my breath, and turn back toward the car. Adrian waits for me, hands tucked in his pockets, gaze soft with something that almost looks like relief. In his eyes, I see the man who broke the rules for me, the man who chose me even when it cost him everything.

I close the distance between us, not running, not afraid. I don’t need to say thank you. He already knows. Instead, I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his, grounding myself in the heat of his palm. My new life stands here, quiet, waiting.

We don’t speak as we walk back to the car. The silence is full, not empty. The night air tastes like possibility. I slide into the passenger seat, heart lighter than it’s been in years.

As we drive away, I watch the depot disappear in the rearview, the memory of Eli’s embrace warm in my bones. I know the road ahead isn’t simple. I know forgiveness will take time. But for the first time, I believe in the future again.

Adrian glances at me as the city lights grow closer, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. I squeeze his hand back, a small promise that I’m not running.

My brother is free. I am too.

My new life… whatever it becomes, I’m ready to claim it.

The drive back to the estate is quiet, but the silence between us is different now—full instead of fraught, humming with something neither of us dares name.

The headlights cut through the darkness, guiding us home. Adrian’s hand rests on my knee, thumb tracing small circles, grounding me in this new reality. My brother is safe. My future is suddenly my own to choose.

Back at the mansion, the world feels changed.

The tension that always crackled between us is gone, replaced by something heavier and more hopeful.

I wander the halls for a while, replaying the night on a loop: Eli’s arms around me, his voice in my ear, the way Adrian waited just far enough away to let me have what I needed most.

Eventually, I find Adrian in his study, the door open, golden lamplight pooling across the floor. He sits half in shadow, jacket slung over the chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, jaw resting on one hand as he reads something I know he isn’t seeing.

For a moment, I just watch him. I see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the weight he carries. My chest tightens.

I step inside, closing the door behind me. He looks up, and I see relief flicker in his eyes before he masks it.

“Thank you,” I say softly. The words don’t feel like enough. Nothing would be.

He doesn’t speak. He just stands, crossing the room in two long strides, and pulls me in, his arms wrapping around my waist, holding me so tight I can barely breathe. I feel him inhale at the crown of my head, like he’s been waiting to breathe again. My lips find his without hesitation.

It isn’t gentle. It’s a crash, a collision of mouths and breath and the desperate need to prove we’re both still here, still alive, still wanting.

I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. He groans into my mouth, hands sliding down my back to grip my hips. I arch against him, needing to feel him everywhere, to let this new version of us carve its place beneath my skin.

He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, setting me down on the edge of his desk. Papers scatter, pens roll to the floor, but neither of us cares.

His hands are everywhere: cradling my face, exploring my thighs, peeling my shirt over my head. His touch is reverent and possessive all at once. When his mouth finds my neck, I gasp, tilting my head to give him more.

He unbuttons his shirt, tossing it aside, and steps between my legs. I hook my ankles behind him, pulling him closer.

Our kisses grow slower, deeper, his tongue stroking mine, savoring, learning, claiming. He cups my breast, thumb brushing over the tight peak, and I shiver, pressing into his palm.

“I stuck by you,” he murmurs. “You know I always will, don’t you?”

I nod, unable to speak. My hands roam over the hard planes of his chest, the old scars that tell the story of a life lived on the edge.

I want to map every inch of him, to leave my own marks, to show him that this time it isn’t just lust. It’s something deeper, something that cracks me open and remakes me.

He slides my jeans down, lips trailing over my thighs, kneeling before me as if in worship. When his mouth finds me—hot, wet, thorough—I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair, anchoring myself to the moment.

He licks and sucks until I’m trembling, begging, thighs clamped around his shoulders. He takes his time, drawing it out, letting me come apart for him, letting me remember what it feels like to be wanted, to be safe.

When I finally come, it’s with a sob, the pleasure sharp and bright, tears sliding down my cheeks.

He rises, kissing me fiercely, swallowing my cries, then frees himself from his trousers.

He’s hard, thick, the head wet and flushed.

He presses against me, eyes locked on mine, waiting for permission.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Please. I need you.”

He enters me slowly, filling me inch by inch, his forehead pressed to mine.

The stretch is delicious, the ache perfect.

We move together, his hands cradling my hips, my arms wrapped around his neck.

He kisses me like he’s memorizing me, like every second could be our last. There’s no anger now, no pain.

We find a rhythm, rocking together, the edge building slow and sweet. He whispers my name, again and again, like a prayer. I run my nails down his back, gasp when he rolls his hips just right, when he grinds against my clit, when he buries his face in my hair and breathes me in.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “God, Talia, I love you.”

The words undo me. I shatter around him, pleasure crashing through me, leaving me limp and shaking. He follows, hips stuttering, spilling inside me with a groan that sounds like surrender and salvation at once.

After, he gathers me close, arms tight around my waist, lips pressed to my temple. I rest my head on his shoulder, my fingers drawing lazy circles on his chest. The world outside fades. For the first time, I believe we might be more than the sum of our mistakes.

We stay there, tangled and breathless, the desk digging into my back, the taste of his mouth still on my lips. When he finally lifts me off the desk, he carries me to the sofa, tucks me under his arm, and lets the silence settle again.

I’m full of hope, of forgiveness, of the promise that comes after survival.

We linger on the sofa, bodies still pressed close, his hand tracing lazy shapes over my bare hip. The afterglow hums between us, quiet and real, washing away the sharp edges of everything that came before.

I rest my head on Adrian’s chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. His breath ruffles my hair, his other arm wrapped tight around my shoulders, holding me like he’s afraid to let go.

For once, there’s nothing left to say. I don’t need to ask if he means it, or if he’ll keep choosing me. I feel it in every gentle stroke of his fingers, every whispered kiss at my temple.

My fears soften, losing their grip, replaced by something warmer, heavier—peace.

I let myself believe this could last, that the world outside the study door can wait a little longer. That tonight, for once, survival is enough. That love is enough.

Adrian’s hand stills, and I look up. He smiles, soft and weary, and I know we’re finally home.