Page 51 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I hate that I’m here. I hate that my body instinctively turns toward him for warmth. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about the way his hands felt on my waist earlier.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

It’s supposed to be a weapon. It comes out as a confession.

“I know,” he says.

“I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you.” The second betrayal slips out before I can bite it back.

He sets the glass down on the stone railing. The crystal clinks softly. “Do you?”

“Yes.” It’s barely a breath. “It makes me sick.”

He turns fully toward me. The space between us feels charged, electric, like the air before a lightning strike.

“Why?”

“You’re the villain.” I look up at him, searching his face for cracks. “You’re supposed to be the monster. But you… you wake me up from nightmares. You give me your mother’s jewelry. You stand there and tell me about my brother like you actually cared.”

“Care is a strong word.”

“It’s the right word.”

“Maybe I just don’t want you screaming in my ear at 3:00 a.m.”

“Maybe.”

He steps closer. “You’re overthinking it, Freya.”

“I always overthink.”

“Stop.”

“How?”

“Be here. Right now.”

He lifts a hand. I tense, expecting the grip, the steel. His fingers brush against my cheek. The skin is rough, calloused, but the touch is impossibly gentle.

He traces the line of my jaw. My breath hitches. My eyes flutter shut for a second, then snap open again.

“What do you want,” he murmurs. His voice is a rasp, scraping against my nerves.

“Don’t stop.”

The words hang there, and he lowers his head.

This isn’t like the hallway. There’s no violence here, no anger. Just the slow, inevitable slide of gravity.

I watch his mouth get closer. I see the faint scar on his upper lip. I smell the whiskey on his breath.

I don’t close my eyes. I want to see it happen.

His lips brush mine. A question. A test. I answer him.

I press forward, meeting him halfway.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the angle. I gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity, sweeping inside with a possession that makes my knees weak.