Page 38 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Then comes the anger. Frustration flushes her pale skin, her eyes snapping back to mine with renewed heat.

“Nikita—”

“Now,” I command, turning my back on her.

I grip the railing, staring out at the city to keep myself from turning around. The night air hits my face, but it does nothing to cool the fire burning under my skin.

I hear the glass door slide open, then shut. She’s gone.

Standing alone on the balcony, I let out a breath I’ve been holding for too long. My hands are shaking slightly. It takes a rare kind of willpower to walk away from a woman like that, especially when she’s standing in front of you, practically vibrating with need.

The victory is mine.

I didn’t take the bait.

The penthouse is quiet when I finally go inside minutes later. The guests have departed, the staff has retired for the night. Only the low hum of the climate control breaks the silence.

Freya is nowhere to be seen.

I don’t look for her immediately. Instead, I pour a drink—a measure of vodka, neat—and walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living area. The city is a sprawling circuit board of lights below, indifferent to the tensions playing out in the glass tower above.

My mind is far from the city, though. It’s back on the balcony. On the moment she looked at my mouth.

Analyzing it is a compulsion. It’s how I operate. I break things down, examine the components, find the weak points.

The weak point in that interaction wasn’t me. It was her.

She didn’t just tolerate the proximity. She leaned into it. When I grabbed her wrists, she didn’t fight to get away; she fought to stay close. That was instinct. Deep, visceral instinct that bypasses logic.

She’s not just playing a role. At least not anymore.

The realization is satisfying, but it also complicates things. If she felt nothing, this would be easy. I could ignore her, use her as a prop, and discard her when the narrative served its purpose.

Freya… she makes me want to engage. She makes me want to push.

I take a sip of the vodka, the liquid burning a path down my throat.

I could accelerate this. I could go to the bedroom right now, strip away that silk dress, and finish what we started on the balcony.

If I take her now, she gets clarity. She knows exactly where she stands. Freya’s the woman I conquered. She might hate it, but she’d understand it. She’d have a category to file it in.

I want her thinking about it tonight. I want her replaying the moment, overanalyzing it like I am. I want her asking herself why she wanted it. Why she was disappointed when it stopped.

Confusion breeds dependency. If she can’t predict me, she has to pay closer attention. She has to study me.

Studying me means she’s not studying the Bratva. She’s focused on the man, not the machine.

Setting the empty glass down, I check the time. Nearly two in the morning.

Time to sleep.

Walking down the hallway toward the master suite, the silence of the penthouse feels heavy. It’s a silence I’m used to, a silence I’ve cultivated for years. Tonight, it feels different. It feels like a prelude to a storm.

Pushing open the bedroom door, the scent hits me instantly: vanilla, jasmine, and the distinct, warm smell of Freya.

The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city filtering through the drapes. She’s in bed, lying on her side, her back to me. Her breathing is rhythmic.

I undress in the dark, my movements practiced and silent. Hanging the suit, folding the shirt, placing my watch in the charger. Routine is the anchor that keeps me grounded.