Page 91 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“You’re loud,” I murmur, stopping just inches from her back.

“I’m breathing,” she retorts, though her voice lacks its usual bite. It’s breathy, soft.

“You’re thinking.”

I reach out, my fingers brushing against her cheek. I catch the lock of hair she missed, tucking it behind her ear.

She leans into the touch, just a fraction. An unconscious surrender. It’s the most honest thing she’s ever done.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, the words slipping out before I can censor them.

She stiffens, pulling away slightly to turn and look at me. Her eyes are wide, wary. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes it harder,” she whispers.

“Harder to what?”

“Hate you.”

I smirk. “I never asked you to hate me, Freya.”

“No,” she agrees. “You just demanded my obedience, destroyed my freedom, and dragged me into a war.”

“Exactly.” I step closer, forcing her to look up at me. “I never asked for your hate. That was all you.”

I lower my head, intending to kiss her, to seal the moment before we have to return to the real world.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a jarring, intrusive sound. A reminder that the world outside this concrete bubble is still spinning, still deadly.

“Ignore it,” she whispers, reading my mind.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“It’s Yuri.”

“Then he can wait.”

She reaches up, her fingers curling into the lapels of my jacket, pulling me down. Her lips are soft, hesitant, but as they move against mine, the hesitation melts away. She tastes like mint and the lingering aftertaste of the peaches we shared in the dark.

For a second, I let myself forget. I let myself sink into the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her body, the illusion that we are just a man and a woman, not a Pakhan and his bargaining chip.

The buzz comes again. I pull back, resting my forehead against hers. A low curse slips from my lips.

“Go,” she says, her voice trembling. “Answer it.”

I step away, putting the necessary distance between us. I pull the phone from my pocket. The screen is cracked, the brightness turned all the way down.

“Gromov.”

“Where are you?” Yuri says, without preamble.