Page 39 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Sliding under the covers, the bed is still warm from her body heat. I lie on my back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. My body is tired, but my mind is still racing, replaying the events of the day.

I’m just starting to drift, to let the heavy blanket of sleep pull me under, when the sound tears through the silence.

It’s a whimper.

I freeze.

“No… please…” Freya’s voice is thick with sleep, muffled by the pillow. She shifts restlessly, the sheets rustling as she thrashes against an unseen enemy.

“Don’t go…”

I turn my head to look at her. Her face is twisted in distress, her brow furrowed. There’s sweat beading on her forehead. Her hands are clutching the pillowcase, her knuckles white.

Nightmares?

I should ignore it. Caring about someone else’s trauma is a waste of energy.

The sound of her voice, though, grates against my nerves. It’s too close to the sound of panic, to the sound of a victim who has no one to save them.

I’m the only one here.

Sighing, I roll onto my side and reach out. My hand lands on her shoulder, the skin clammy and cold.

“Freya,” I say, keeping my voice low but firm, “wake up.”

She doesn’t respond. She just gasps, a sharp intake of breath that sounds like she’s drowning.

“Ayaan!”

The name hangs in the air, a knife twisting in the dark.

Her eyes fly open. They’re wide and unseeing, filled with a terror that has nothing to do with me.

I shake her shoulder, a little harder this time. “Freya. You’re dreaming.”

She thrashes, lashing out blindly. Her fingernails scratch against my forearm, sharp and sudden. I ignore the sting, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the mattress.

“Look at me,” I command.

She freezes, her chest heaving. Slowly, her eyes focus. They find me in the dark, recognition bleeding back into them.

“Nikita?”

“You’re safe,” I say, keeping my voice level. “It was just a dream.”

The realization hits her. The tension drains out of her body, leaving her limp against the mattress. Her eyes fill with tears, swimming in the moonlight.

“I… I was back there,” she whispers. “He was leaving. He was getting in the car, and I couldn’t stop him.”

“Ayaan?”

She nods, a tear spilling over and tracking down her temple. “He promised he’d come back, but he never did.”

I release her wrists, but I don’t pull away. I stay where I am, propped up on one elbow, looking down at her.

She’s a mess. Her hair is wild, her face pale, her breathing ragged. She looks nothing like the polished socialite from the gala or the defiant opponent from the balcony.

She looks like a lost little girl.