Page 20 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

My mind is still on the café. On the way she looked at that man. Rafael. The familiarity. The desperation.

Irritation flares again, hotter this time.

I don’t like sharing my toys, and I certainly don’t like them having secrets.

Sitting down at the desk, I pull up the feed from the hallway cameras. Freya is walking down the corridor, her head down. She enters the guest room and closes the door.

She thinks she’s safe in there. She thinks she has privacy. If only she knew the truth.

Pulling out my phone, I dial a number. “Yuri.”

“Sir?”

“Run a background check on a Rafael DeLuca,” I say. “Financials, associates, family. I want to know everything. He’s been talking to my fiancée.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Find out who he’s working for,” I add, staring at the grainy image of Freya on the screen. “Bring him to me. Quietly.”

“Understood.”

Hanging up, I toss the phone onto the desk.

Running a hand through my hair, I feel the tension in my shoulders. This marriage… it solves so many problems. It appeases the Pakhan. It neutralizes the press. It secures my borders.

Except it’s creating a new problem.

Freya challenges me. In a world of yes-men and sycophants, she dares to say no. She dares to look me in the eye and lie to my face.

It’s intoxicating. And it’s dangerous.

Chapter Seven - Freya

Sunlight hits my eyelids, but instead of warmth, it feels like an interrogation lamp. I crack one eye open and stare at the ceiling. The date on my phone mocks me from the nightstand.

One week. It’s been almost seven days since the café, and the only leeway I have is that I’ve been allowed to stay in my own apartment until the wedding.

I thought I’d have more time. I thought I could find a way out, a loophole, a strategy to delay him. Nikita doesn’t do delays, though.

Throwing the covers off, I sit up. My stomach is in knots, a tight tangle of anxiety and determination. This is it. The day I sell my soul for a chance at the truth.

Getting close to him made sense. It was a calculated risk. But marriage? This wasn’t part of the equation. I’m signing away my autonomy, my name, my legal identity. If I say “I do,” I belong to the Bratva. Forever.

I walk to the window and peek through the blinds.

A black SUV is parked at the curb. Another one is idling by the alley. Two men in suits stand near the front entrance of my building, looking like gargoyles carved from expensive Italian wool.

They aren’t just security. They’re jailers. I’m not being given a choice. Nikita isn’t asking for my consent; he’s collecting his asset.

Panic flares, hot and sharp. I can’t do this. I can’t just walk into that chapel and hand my life over.

Think, Freya. Think.

I have resources. I have friends. I have a phone in my hand.

I’m not going.

Moving fast, I grab my go-bag—a duffel I packed three nights ago and hid in the back of the closet. Cash, a burner phone, a change of clothes. I pull on jeans and a hoodie, shoving my feet into sneakers. No makeup. No jewelry. I leave the ring on the nightstand.