Page 12 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“I can do heat,” she says, her chin lifting in defiance. “Just don’t expect me to fake an orgasm in public.”

I smirk. “We’ll start with hand-holding and work our way up.”

***

The Met is a zoo. Flashbulbs go off like strobe lights as we exit the car. I place my hand on the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin through the velvet. She stiffens for a fraction of a second, then relaxes, melting into the touch.

She’s good. Better than I expected.

We walk the red carpet, stopping for photos. She turns her body toward mine, tilting her head, resting her hand on my chest. She smiles, and it looks genuine. It reaches her eyes, crinkling the corners. Anyone looking would see a woman swept off her feet.

I feel the pull of her. It’s annoying how attractive she is. It would be easier if she were plain, but she’s vibrant and sharp, with a body that makes my hands itch to grab her.

Inside, the air is thick with perfume and the clinking of champagne flutes. We are immediately surrounded by investors, board members, and socialites. They swarm, hungry for the gossip.

“Nikita! Congratulations!” a portly man in a tuxedo booms, clapping me on the shoulder. “And this must be the mysterious Freya.”

“Charmed,” she says, offering her hand. He kisses it, and she doesn’t flinch. “A pleasure, Mr. Van der Hoven.”

“Quite the article you wrote,” he says, chuckling nervously. “Had us all worried for a moment.”

“Rumor mill,” she says dismissively, waving a hand. “I have a flair for the dramatic. Nikita knows that.”

“Do I ever,” I murmur, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against my side. “She keeps me on my toes.”

She leans into me, playing the part perfectly. She laughs at their jokes, nods sympathetically at their concerns, and deflects every question about the exposé with ease.

I watch her closely. I’m looking for cracks, but I don’t see any.

We move through the crowd, a seamless unit. We stop to talk to a senator, a tech mogul, and the editor of the Times. Every time, she hits the right note. Charming, intelligent, just vulnerable enough to be endearing.

Then, we sit for dinner.

We’re at a round table with six other people; CEOs, philanthropists, people whose names are on buildings. The conversation flows around us.

I watch Freya cut her steak, her movements graceful and precise. She takes a sip of wine, her eyes scanning the room.

Under the table, in the shadows cast by the white linen, I reach out.

My hand finds her knee.

I just rest my palm there, my fingers curling around the inside of her thigh. It’s possessive. It’s a claim.

She freezes. The fork pauses halfway to her mouth. Her gaze snaps to me, wide and startled.

I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes on the man across the table, nodding at something he’s saying about interest rates.

I feel her. Her leg is tense, the muscle hard beneath my hand. She’s not pulling away or slapping my hand off.

She’s letting me touch her.

Slowly, I slide my hand up, just an inch. Just enough to make a point.

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop me. She takes a sip of wine, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass.

I turn to her then, locking eyes. The air between us crackles. She’s challenging me to see how far I’ll go, and I’m challenging her to see how much she can take.

I raise an eyebrow, a silent question.