Page 40 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Then, she does something that catches me completely off guard. Her hand finds my waist, gripping the fabric of my T-shirt. She pulls herself closer, burying her face in my chest.

“Please,” she sobs, her voice muffled against me. “Please don’t go.”

Her body is shaking against mine, the tremors racking her frame. She’s seeking warmth, seeking anything that feels real in the aftermath of the nightmare.

Against my better judgment, my arm wraps around her. I pull her close, tucking her head under my chin.

“I’m here,” I say, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. “I’m not going anywhere.”

We lie there for a long time. I can feel her tears soaking through the cotton of my shirt. I can feel the rhythm of her heart slowing down, syncing with mine.

The silence of the room shifts, changing from oppressive to something else. Something protective.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers eventually, her voice hoarse.

She starts to pull away, the haze of the nightmare clearing enough for embarrassment to set in. “I didn’t mean to… to grab you. I know you don’t like that.”

I let her go, but only enough to see her face. She’s wiping her eyes, trying to compose herself, trying to rebuild the walls I just saw her tear down.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“It’s not fine,” she argues, a flash of her usual fire returning. “I’m acting like a child. I’m supposed to be… I don’t know. Stronger than this.”

“Everyone has nightmares, Freya.”

“Not like that.” She sits up, hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s always the same. The car door closing. The taillights fading away.”

The confession hangs in the air. She’s volunteering information, unasked.

I roll onto my back, resting my head on my hands. “Ayaan left?”

“He didn’t have a choice.” Her voice is thick with memory. “Our father… he was a mess. He went to jail when I was four. When he got out, he was always drunk. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.”

She pauses, taking a shaky breath.

“My mother tried. She really did, but she got sick. Cancer. It ate her alive in six months. I was ten. Ayaan was sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” I repeat. “That’s young to be a man.”

“He had to be.” She looks down at her hands, twisting the sheets. “He dropped out of school, started working odd jobs. Anything that paid cash. Construction, delivery, sometimes… things he wouldn’t tell me about.”

“The Bratva,” I say quietly.

“Maybe. He never said. He just wanted to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. He sold his car, his watch, everything he had. But it wasn’t enough.”

She swallows hard, the memories clearly painful.

“She died in the winter. The hospital bills were astronomical. We lost the apartment, and Ayaan tried to fight it, tried to find a way to keep us together, but social services stepped in.”

“They separated you?”

“They tried. They wanted to put me in foster care. Ayaan fought them. He screamed, he threatened, he did everything he could to stop them, so they let me stay with him.”

She looks up at me, her eyes swimming with fresh tears.

“He promised me he’d fix it. He said he was going to get us a house, just the two of us, where nobody could touch us.”

“He went to the loan sharks,” I say.