Page 102 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I pull her into my arms, settling her against my side. She rests her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine. It’s a position of trust. Total surrender.

“He’s coming back, isn’t he?” she asks softly, breaking the silence.

“Perhaps, if he’s in any fit state. He could very well be dead, sweetheart.”

“Are we safe?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But we’re alive.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I love you.”

The words are a whisper, but they hit me with the force of a bullet. I freeze, my hand tightening in her hair.

“You shouldn’t,” I say, my voice rough.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Everything is dangerous,” she says, lifting her head to look at me. “This… this is real.”

She kisses me, a soft, lingering press of lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, Nikita. Not even if you burn the whole world down.”

I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair. She smells like jasmine and soap. She smells like safety.

“I’ll burn it all,” I whisper against her skin. “I’ll burn it all to keep you.”

We lie there in the darkness, listening to the rain start up again against the glass. The danger is real. Lorenzo is out there, plotting his revenge. The Bratva is watching, waiting for weakness.

In this bed, with her in my arms, I feel invincible.

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Freya

The days following the warehouse raid settle into a rhythm that is as terrifying as it is comforting. The penthouse becomes a fortress, the walls reinforced with new security measures that Yuri installs with grim efficiency.

Inside these walls, the violence feels distant, muffled by the thick glass and the constant hum of the climate control.

I find myself trusting Nikita in a way I never thought possible. It’s not just the big things—the way he took a bullet for me, or the way he burned down a city block to send a message. It’s the small things. The way he tracks my movements with his eyes when we’re in the same room, not like a jailer, but like a man who is afraid his shadow might disappear. The way he hands me a cup of coffee exactly how I like it before I even ask.

He still hasn’t told me everything about Ayaan. I’ve watched him carefully, studied the micro-expressions when I ask questions, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way he averts his gaze just a fraction of a second too long.

I’ve come to believe he doesn’t know the truth. He knows pieces, fragments of a puzzle he’s been trying to solve since the night my brother disappeared. He’s not the enemy holding my brother captive; he’s the one trying to pull him out of the fire.

That realization shifts something fundamental in me. The fear doesn’t vanish—how can it when I’m married to the Bratva?—but it transmutes into something else. Into a potent, heady mix of gratitude and lust.

I catch myself daydreaming constantly.

I’ll be standing in the kitchen, staring out at the skyline, and I’ll feel phantom hands on my hips. I’ll remember the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the guttural sound of his voice in my ear, the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

It’s distracting. It’s dangerous.

Mostly, it’s inevitable.

He’s in the living room when I walk in, a tablet in his hand, reviewing files. He’s wearing a suit, dark gray and tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders. He looks every inch the Pakhan, the ruler of this dark empire.

He looks up as I enter, his eyes tracking me across the room. The air thickens instantly, that invisible tether pulling tight between us.