Page 25 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Taking my hand, she allows me to pull her into the center of the floor.

I spin her, the white gown flaring out like a cloud. The guests clap, their smiles tight and polite. We move together, steps practiced and synchronized.

“You’re enjoying this,” she murmurs, her breath hitching slightly as I pull her tighter against me.

“Enjoyment is irrelevant,” I reply, guiding her through a turn. “This is business.”

“It feels personal,” she counters, her hand resting on my shoulder.

“Everything in my life is personal, Freya. Business is just personal with a contract.”

The song ends, and I release her, keeping my hand on her lower back a second longer than necessary. The crowd applauds, the signal for the departure.

“Time to go,” I say softly.

She stiffens, but she nods. “Okay.”

The drive back to the penthouse is quiet. The city lights blur past the tinted windows, streaks of gold and red. Freya sits across from me, her hands folded in her lap. She’s exhausted—I can see the fatigue dragging at her features—but her mind is still racing.

She’s already planning her next move.

When the elevator opens into the foyer of the penthouse, the atmosphere shifts instantly. The noise of the world—the traffic, the music, the din of the reception—is cut off. Here, there is only silence and the hum of the climate control.

I walk in first, shrugging off my jacket and handing it to the staff. Freya follows, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She looks around, taking in the space with fresh eyes. This is her prison now.

She stops in the middle of the living area, turning to face me. She looks small in the vastness of the room, fragile in her white lace, but her chin is lifted.

“Which room is mine?” she asks. “The guest room, or…?”

The question is direct. A test.

I stop and look at her. “You’re my wife, Freya,” I say, my voice echoing slightly in the high ceilings. “You stay with me.”

She blinks, processing the command. “I… right. Guess I can’t put it off forever.”

“Assumptions are dangerous.”

She takes a breath, her shoulders squaring. “Nikita, we’ve been married for four hours. I’m not… I’m not ready to share a bed with you. Not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a real marriage.”

“It is a real marriage,” I correct, walking toward her slowly. “We signed the papers. We said the vows. It’s legally binding.”

“You know what I mean,” she says, her voice rising slightly in frustration. “The… physical part. The intimacy.”

I stop inches from her. The air between us is charged, heavy with the tension we’ve been building since the gala.

“I don’t recall asking for your permission,” I say quietly.

She stares at me, her green eyes wide and searching. She’s scared. I can smell the adrenaline on her, sharp and sour, but she’s not backing down.

“I’m not one of your soldiers,” she says, her voice trembling but firm. “You can’t just order me into your bed.”

“I can,” I say. “I won’t force you, Freya, but the room is ours. The bed is ours. I’ll sleep facing away if you prefer.”

“And if I choose the guest room?”