Page 116 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Her voice wraps around me, warmer than the scotch, richer than the view.

I turn. Freya stands in the doorway, wrapped in a cream-colored wool sweater that looks soft enough to sleep on. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few stray strands framing her face. She looks… settled. Content. It’s a look I never thought I’d see on her face when I dragged her into this world, and it’s the most beautiful thing I own.

“In a minute,” I say. “Just enjoying the silence.”

She walks over, sliding her arm around my waist. She fits against my side perfectly, her head resting on my shoulder.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Not having to look over your shoulder every five seconds.”

“It is.” I wrap my arm around her, pulling her tighter against me to share my warmth. “Although, I still check the exits everywhere we go. Old habits.”

“I know.” She laughs softly, the vibration humming against my chest. “You can relax, Nikita. Lorenzo is gone. Ayaan is safe. We’re safe.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—jasmine and vanilla. It’s a stark contrast to the metallic tang of gunpowder that used to linger in my nostrils.

“We are,” I agree.

She pulls back slightly, looking up at me. Her eyes are green, bright, and there’s a nervous energy buzzing beneath the surface that I haven’t seen in months. She’s twisting a loose thread on her sweater, her fingers fidgeting.

“What is it?” I ask, my instincts sharpening immediately. “Is it Ayaan, did he call?”

“No, Ayaan is fine. He’s with Rhonda, probably showing off that new motorcycle she insists he doesn’t need.”

“Then what? You’re trembling.”

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “I went to the doctor today.”

My stomach tightens. “Are you hurt? Are you sick?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” She shakes her head quickly, her eyes widening. “I’m healthy. We’re healthy.”

“We?”

Her hand moves from my waist, sliding down to rest flat against her lower abdomen.

“I’m pregnant, Nikita.”

The words hang in the cold air between us. For a second, the world tilts on its axis. The traffic noise below fades into a dull roar. I stare at her hand, resting on the soft fabric of her sweater.

Pregnant.

A rush of emotion so violent it nearly brings me to my knees crashes into me. It’s not just joy. It’s terrifying. It’s immense.

It’s the realization that everything I have fought for, every life I have taken, every drop of blood I have spilled, has led to this singular moment.

I release the whiskey on the railing with a clatter. My hands are shaking, just a fraction.

“Say something,” she whispers, searching my face.

I reach out, covering her hand with mine. My palm is large, rough, scarred. It looks violent against her delicate skin. I press it gently, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric, trying to imagine the life growing inside her.

“A baby,” I manage to croak. “You’re… carrying my child.”

“I am.”

I look at her, really look at her. There’s a glow to her skin, a vitality that wasn’t there before. “Are you… happy?”

“I am,” she says, her voice gaining strength. “I know it’s crazy. I know the timing isn’t perfect. But yes. I’m so happy.”