Page 36 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Looking at him, really seeing him, the moonlight catches the sharp angle of his jaw, the streak of steel in his dark hair.

“I need to know who I’m married to,” I say quietly.

He turns to me then, his gaze narrowing. “You know who I am.”

“I know what you do. The reputation is clear, but I don’t know you.”

“Knowing me isn’t part of the deal, Freya.”

“No,” I agree. “Knowing what happened to my brother is.”

The air shifts instantly. Casual banter evaporates, replaced by a sharp edge as Nikita narrows his eyes at me.

“We’re not doing this tonight,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.

“We’re doing it whenever I decide to do it,” I counter, stepping closer.

Provoking him here, now, feels reckless. Maybe I’m just tired of holding it in. Or maybe I’m tired of the mask.

“You have his ring,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “You know Ayaan was involved with you. Stop pretending you don’t.”

“I don’t pretend anything.”

“You lie by omission. You deflect, when all I want is the truth.”

“What if the truth isn’t what you expect?” he shoots back, finally losing that veneer of calm. His eyes flash, cold and dangerous. “What if Ayaan wasn’t the victim you’ve made him out to be? What if he was just another casualty of his own stupidity?”

“Shut up.”

“He borrowed money he couldn’t pay back,” Nikita presses, stepping closer now. “He made deals with people who don’t offer extensions. He played in the big leagues, and he got crushed.”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” I shove his chest, a reckless, stupid move.

He doesn’t budge. A wall of solid muscle, immovable.

“He was my brother,” I spit out, shoving him again. “He was better than you. Better than this.”

“Was he?” Nikita catches my wrists this time, his grip firm but not bruising. “From what I know, he was a drowning man pulling everyone down with him.”

The shock of his touch knocks the air out of my lungs. We’re chest to chest now, the heat of him radiating through the silk of my dress.

“Let go of me.”

“Make me.”

The challenge hangs there, heavy and suffocating. We’ve gone from zero to a hundred in seconds, the argument spiraling out of control. The anger is changing. It’s mutating into something else, something hot and volatile that I don’t know how to name.

I try to pull away, but he holds fast. His eyes bore into mine, searching, probing. I see something there I haven’t seen before—frustration, yes. But also heat.

“Stop fighting me, Freya,” he murmurs, the fight draining out of his voice as quickly as it arrived.

“Stop lying to me.”

“I never lie.”

“Lies of omission are still lies.”

He exhales sharply, his breath fanning across my face. He smells of leather, mint, and bitter whiskey.