Page 11 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

It’s a massive, reckless gamble, but it’s the only card I have left.

He watches me for a long, agonizing moment. I hold his gaze, letting him see the resolve there. Finally, he smiles. It’s a slow, predatory curve of his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Deal.”

Good. I’m going to find out exactly what happened to my brother, even if I have to burn Nikita Gromov’s empire to the ground to do it.

Chapter Four - Nikita

The heavy oak door of my study clicks shut, sealing out the rest of the penthouse. It’s silent in here, the air filtered and cool. It smells of old books and the faint, sharp scent of gun oil that always seems to cling to me no matter how expensive the laundry service is.

I turn the ring on my finger, letting the band catch the light. The black onyx stone is cold, matte against my skin. It’s ugly. Brutish. Not the kind of jewelry a man like Ayaan Smith should have been wearing, yet he never took it off. It clearly holds sentimental value. A fatal flaw.

If I were a superstitious man, I’d say it carried a curse. Except I don’t believe in curses; I believe in consequences. Ayaan played a game he couldn’t afford, and he lost.

I stare at the band, thinking about the look on Freya’s face when she saw it. The way the blood drained from her cheeks, the terror in her eyes. It wasn’t just grief; it was recognition. She knew exactly what it meant.

That’s why she got in the car.

She didn’t fight me at the gala because she realized she was outmatched. She got in the SUV tonight because she realized she was out of options.

Sliding the ring back into the small velvet box, I lock it away. The safe thuds shut, the painting swinging back to cover it. It’s served its purpose. It bought me her compliance.

She agreed to play along too easily. A woman with her fire, her defiance, doesn’t just roll over because of a fake engagement. She has an agenda. She thinks she’s going to use this access to find her brother.

Let her try.

It keeps her close. It keeps her where I can see her. And if she gets too close to the truth, I’ll deal with her then. For now, she’s a useful pawn. A beautiful, volatile distraction that the media will eat up while I handle the real business.

I check my watch—7:00 PM.

The benefit dinner at the Met starts in an hour. It’s the first real test. If she cracks tonight, the narrative falls apart.

***

The town car idles outside the entrance to her building. When the lobby door opens, she steps out, and I feel a distinct shift in my composure.

She’s not wearing the green dress from the gala. This one is midnight blue, velvet and sleek, hugging her torso before flaring out just above the knee. It’s sophisticated, regal, and it shows off her body in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Her hair is pinned up in an artful mess of curls, exposing the long, pale line of her neck.

She climbs into the backseat, and the scent of her hits me. Sweet vanilla and jasmine. She doesn’t look at me, just smooths the velvet over her thighs and stares out the window.

“You look acceptable,” I say, letting my eyes trace the curve of her waist.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice tight. “You look… like you.”

I chuckle. “I’ll take that.”

As the car merges with traffic, I watch her. She’s vibrating with tension. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white.

“Nervous?”

“No,” she states, turning to look at me. The green eyes are bright, almost feverish. “If I’m going to be your fiancée, I need to act the part. That means I need to know who I’m fooling.”

“You’re fooling everyone,” I tell her. “You just need to fool them into thinking you’re in love with me.”

“In love?” She scoffs. “Let’s aim for tolerating.”

“Tolerating is boring. The press wants a story. Give them a glimpse of heat.”