Page 115 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I think about the way Nikita held me in the shower. The way he looked at me when he thought I was sleeping. The way he risked everything to save me.

“He’s dangerous,” I whisper.

“So am I,” Ayaan says softly. “That doesn’t mean we’re incapable of love.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug. It’s a familiar gesture, something he’s done a thousand times. It feels different now. He’s harder, his muscles tenser.

“Just be careful, Freya,” he says. “This life… it chews people up. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

“I’m already chewed up,” I say.

“Then maybe it’s time you started healing.”

He kisses the top of my head, then turns and goes back inside.

I stay out there for a while longer, letting the wind mess up my hair. I think about the past, about the lies and the secrets. I think about the future, about the war that is still raging.

Nikita is standing by the window when I go back inside, looking out at the night. He’s alone. Ayaan must be in the bathroom.

I walk up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. I rest my forehead against his back, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He turns around in my arms, facing me. He looks tired, the lines around his mouth deeper than usual. His eyes are clear.

“I was scared,” I admit. “When I saw him… when I thought he was dead… I thought my heart would stop.”

He doesn’t say a word, only presses a kiss to the same spot Ayaan did earlier.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He freezes. He lifts his head, looking down at me. His eyes are wide, searching my face.

“I love you,” I say again, my voice stronger this time. “You don’t have to say it back.

He stares at me for a long time. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face. It’s a genuine smile, reaching his eyes.

“I love you too,” he says. “I have since the moment I saw you at that gala.” He leans down, kissing me softly. “You’re my heart, Freya. My soul.”

Epilogue - Nikita

It’s been six months.

The city skyline is a jagged silhouette against the deep purple twilight, the windows of the skyscrapers flickering to life like stars coming out in reverse. I stand on the balcony of the penthouse, a tumbler of whiskey resting on the railing. The glass is cool, but the air is biting, the kind of crisp autumn cold that nips at your ears and smells faintly of woodsmoke and exhaust.

It’s quiet. For the first time in years, the city feels… still. The sirens are distant background noise, just the heartbeat of a functioning metropolis rather than the screaming soundtrack of a war zone. We scoured the East Coast.

We hunted down every last associate, every warehouse, every safe house Lorenzo ever touched. We didn’t just defeat him; we erased him. His name is a whisper now, a cautionary tale told in dark corners.

I turn the glass in my hand, watching the amber liquid swirl. I did what I set out to do. I secured the legacy. The Bratva is stronger than it’s been in a generation, the internal dissent silenced, the borders firmly under my control.

Looking out at the kingdom I built, I realize the victory feels hollow without her to share it.

The sliding glass door opens behind me.

“Aren’t you coming back inside? It’s freezing.”