Page 35 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I jump slightly, turning to find a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes standing next to me. A cigarette holder rests in her hand like a weapon.

“I’m observing,” I correct.

“Same thing.” She takes a drag, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “He’s different, isn’t he? Than the stories.”

I hesitate, then nod. “He’s… calm.”

“He has to be.” Gesturing toward the crowd with her cigarette, she explains. “Look at them. They’re animals. Sharks. If Nikita showed a crack, showed a weakness, they’d tear him apart in seconds. He stays in control because he has to. It’s the only thing keeping the leash on.”

“He doesn’t look like he needs a leash.”

“He is the leash, darling.” She smiles, a cold, knowing curve of her lips. “And trust me, you don’t want to see what happens when he lets go.”

She wanders away, leaving me with the unsettled feeling that I’ve been missing something crucial. Painting Nikita as the villain has been easy. Watching him now, seeing the way the heavy-set man laughs at a dry comment Nikita makes, the truth appears more complex.

He’s not just a villain. He’s a kingpin, and kings don’t rule by fear alone. Presence is their weapon.

***

The hour grows late. The crowd thins as guests drift toward the bar or the terrace doors. Thick cigar smoke and expensive perfume fill the air inside.

Drifting toward the balcony doors, I need a reprieve from the suffocating politics of the room. Night air bites against my bare skin as I step out, wrapping my arms around myself.

Below, the city is a sea of lights, indifferent to the games we play.

I expected peace. The soft slide of the glass door behind me proves otherwise. I don’t turn around. His identity is obvious.

“You shouldn’t be out here without an escort,” Nikita says, his voice low, blending with the hum of the traffic below.

“I’m not a prisoner, Nikita. Stepping onto my own balcony is allowed.”

“It’s not your balcony. It’s mine.”

Turning to face him, exasperation takes over. “Is that really how you want to play this, property lines?”

He walks over to the railing, standing a few feet away. His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. Fatigue lines his eyes in the shadows.

“You did well tonight,” he says, looking out at the city.

“Did I?”

“Petrov asked about you. Said you seemed… sensible.”

“I’ll try not to let the compliment go to my head.”

“He also noticed you spent most of the evening glaring at me.”

“I wasn’t glaring.”

“No? Assessing, then.”

Sighing, I turn back to the view. “Can you blame me? Everyone in there looks at you like you’re a god. I’m just trying to figure out if the worship is warranted or mandatory.”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Why?”