Page 71 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

He reaches out, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the empty mug I didn’t realize I was holding from my hand. The contact is brief, electric.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “You’re being difficult.”

“Am I?” I challenge, pulling my hand away. “Or am I just not rolling over?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Not to you, I guess.”

He leans closer, his face inches from mine. I can smell the coffee on his breath, the clean scent of his skin.

“In my world,” he says, his voice a low growl, “difference is everything.”

My pulse spikes. I want to kiss him. I want to push him away. I want to do both at the same time.

“Freya?” A voice calls from inside. “Delivery for you.”

Saved by the bell.

I step back, breaking the spell. “I’ll get that.”

I walk back into the penthouse, my heart hammering against my ribs. A courier stands by the door, holding a large cardboard box.

“Mrs. Gromov?”

“That’s me.”

He hands me a clipboard and a box. I sign for it, my hand shaking slightly.

“What is it?” Nikita asks, coming up behind me.

“Work stuff,” I say, carrying the box to the office. “Fabric samples. Mood boards. I need something to occupy my time.”

I set the box on the desk, tearing it open. I spread the fabric swatches out on the surface, trying to focus on the textures, the colors. Velvet, silk, chiffon. A distraction.

I glance out the window, my eyes scanning the street below.

That’s when I see him.

There’s a man standing on the opposite corner, pretending to read a newspaper. But he’s not reading. He’s watching. Watching the building.

A chill runs down my spine. “Nikita,” I call out, my voice tight.

He appears in the doorway. “What?”

“Outside, across the street. The man with the newspaper.”

He follows my gaze. His expression doesn’t change, but his entire body tenses.

“Stay here,” he says, his voice flat.

He walks away, pulling out his phone. I watch him pace in the living room, his voice low as he barks orders into the receiver.

I try to focus on the fabrics, but my mind is racing. Who is that man? Lorenzo, or someone else? Someone new?

***

By evening, the man is gone. Nikita hasn’t told me anything, but the air in the penthouse is thicker, heavier with unspoken tension.