Page 101 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“I told you,” I say softly. “I always come back.”

She leans into my touch, her eyes closing. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No it isn’t.”

She opens her eyes, searching my face. She sees the exhaustion, the soot smeared on my jaw, the darkness lingering in my gaze.

“Did you find him?”

I nod. “I found him.”

“Is he…?”

“Gone,” I say, evading the full truth. I don’t want to tell her about the fire, how gruesome a death it was “He won’t bother us again.”

She’s quiet for a moment, digesting this. She reaches up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. Her touch is gentle, reverent.

“You need a shower,” she whispers.

“I need you.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I see the flush rise on her cheeks, the way her pupils dilate. The worry in her eyes shifts, replaced by a heat that matches my own.

“Let me clean you up,” she says.

She takes my hand, leading me toward the bedroom. I follow, a willing captive. The air between us is charged, electric with the unspoken emotions of the night—the fear, the relief, the desperate, clawing need.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the tiles cool. She turns on the shower, steam rising instantly. She turns to me, her hands going to the hem of my shirt. She lifts it over my head, tossing it aside.

I stand there, exposed. The bruises from the fight are mottled purple and green across my ribs. A graze on my arm is angry and red.

She doesn’t say a word. She just steps closer, her fingers tracing the lines of my scars, her touch light as a feather. She presses her lips to the worst of the bruises, a soft, silent benediction.

It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt.

I pull her into me, capturing her mouth with mine. The kiss is slow, deep, tasting of mint and the lingering salt of her tears. She melts against me, her hands roaming over my back, pulling me closer.

We shed the rest of our clothes in a haze of need. I pull her into the shower with me.

The water is hot, cascading over us, washing away the grime and the blood. I soap my hands, running them over her body, reveling in the softness of her skin. She sighs, leaning her head back against the tiles, letting me wash her.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, my lips against her neck.

I turn her around, pressing her front against the slick tiles. I enter her in one smooth thrust, swallowing her gasp with a kiss. The water beats down on us, a primal rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.

I move inside her with a deliberate slowness, savoring the feel of her, the tight heat that grips me. This isn’t just sex. It’s a reclaiming. A reminder that we are alive, that we are together, that the world outside this glass box can’t touch us.

She meets me thrust for thrust, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Nikita,” she breathes, my name a prayer on her lips.

She shatters, her body convulsing around mine. I follow her over the edge, groaning her name as I pour myself into her.

We stay there for a long time, wrapped in each other under the spray of the water, until it runs cold.

I towel her off, treating her like something precious. Fragile. As I look at her, I realize she isn’t fragile. She’s stronger than I gave her credit for. She survived the night. She survived me.

We move to the bed. The sheets are cool, a contrast to our heated skin.