Page 21 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I won’t give him the satisfaction of taking it off me.

Creeping to the back door, I listen. Silence. The building is old, the hallway carpet muffling my steps. I slip out the back exit, bypassing the elevator for the stairs. I move down two flights, then slip out the service door into the alley.

It works. For a glorious, heart-pounding moment, it works.

I hail a cab two blocks away, keeping my head down. I give the driver an address across town—the only place I can think of that might actually offer help. Not the police precinct in my neighborhood, which Nikita likely has in his pocket. I go to the 19th Precinct in the Upper East Side. It’s busier, more anonymous. Harder to corrupt.

The ride feels like an eternity. I watch the rearview mirror constantly, expecting to see those black SUVs materializing behind us. Except the traffic is heavy, the city chaotic. I lose myself in the stream of yellow taxis and delivery trucks.

When the cab pulls up, I throw a twenty at the driver and run.

Inside, the precinct is a cacophony of ringing phones and shouting voices. The smell of stale coffee and floor wax is pungent. It’s ugly. It’s bureaucratic. It’s perfect.

I rush to the desk sergeant, a heavy-set man with a mustache who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“I need help,” I gasp, leaning against the counter. “Please. I’m being forced into a marriage.”

He looks up, his eyes dull. “Name?”

“Freya Smith. Look, my fiancé… he’s dangerous. He’s connected. He has men outside my house. I didn’t consent to this. It’s coercion.”

The sergeant sighs, a long, suffering sound. “Miss, domestic disputes are civil matters. Unless he’s physically assaulting you right now, there’s nothing we can do.”

“He threatened me!” I insist, my voice rising. “He threatened my family. He’s part of the Gromov organization. The Bratva.”

The mention of the name changes the air in the room. The sergeant stops typing. He looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second, I think I’ve gotten through. Then, his eyes shift to someone behind me.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know that feeling. That heavy, suffocating presence.

I turn slowly, and watch as Nikita walks in.

He’s wearing a dark gray suit, immaculate and terrifyingly calm. He looks like he belongs here, or perhaps like he owns the place. He isn’t sweating. He isn’t out of breath. He looks like he just stepped out of a board meeting.

“Miss Smith,” he says, his voice smooth, projecting effortlessly over the noise of the station. “There you are.”

The sergeant stands up immediately. “Mr. Gromov. We were just—”

“I know,” Nikita says, offering him a polite nod. “She’s been under a lot of stress. Wedding jitters. I told her not to come here, but she can be… dramatic.”

“Dramatic,” the sergeant repeats, relaxing visibly. “Right. Cold feet. Happens all the time.”

“He’s lying!” I cry out, grabbing the sergeant’s arm. “I’m not having cold feet. He’s forcing me!”

Nikita steps closer, invading my space. He doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t have to. The sheer force of his personality is overwhelming.

“Freya,” he murmurs, his tone dropping to an intimate whisper that makes my skin crawl. “Don’t make a scene. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m not embarrassed!” I yell. “I’m scared.”

“She’s having an episode,” Nikita tells the sergeant, shaking his head with practiced sympathy. “Her brother disappeared a few years ago. It’s been very hard on her mental health. She gets paranoid.”

The sergeant’s expression softens into pity. Pity. I want to scream.

“Miss, maybe you should go with your husband,” he suggests gently. “Get some air.”

“Husband?” I choke out. “Jesus, we aren’t married.”

“Close enough,” the sergeant says dismissively.