Page 17 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

The man across from her turns. He looks confused, then defensive. He’s slow. Dull.

“Who is this guy?” he demands, looking from her to me.

I ignore him completely. Keeping my eyes on Freya, I slide into the booth next to her, forcing her to scoot over. My thigh presses against hers, hard and possessive.

“We had a schedule,” I say, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My fingers brush her neck, feeling her pulse hammering against my skin. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I… I needed coffee,” she stammers. “I was just leaving.”

“Rafael DeLuca,” the man says, his voice rising. “I’m talking to you.”

Finally, I deign to look at him. He’s standing now, looming over the table, trying to use his height to intimidate me. It’s a rookie mistake.

“Sit down,” I tell him.

“Who the hell are you?” he spits, looking at Freya. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

“She’s not seeing me,” I correct, turning my gaze back to him. The steel in my eyes makes him flinch. “She belongs to me.”

Rafael puffs out his chest, clearly an idiot who believes his own hype. “I don’t care who you think you are. Get away from her.”

He reaches for my shoulder, intending to push me or pull me up. Bad move.

I catch his wrist mid-air, twisting it sharply until he gasps, bending forward to relieve the pressure.

“I said sit down,” I repeat, my voice dropping an octave.

“Let go of him!” Freya cries, grabbing my arm.

Her touch is distracting, but I don’t let it break my focus. I shove Rafael back, and he stumbles, tripping over his own feet and crashing into the adjacent table. Chairs scrape, a coffee mug shatters on the floor.

The café goes silent.

Rafael scrambles up, his face red with humiliation and anger. He looks like he wants to come back for more, but the look in my eyes stops him. He knows. He finally understands that he’s out of his depth.

“Get out,” I say quietly.

He looks at Freya, pleading. “Freya?”

“Go, Rafael,” she says, her voice trembling. “Please. Just go.”

He hesitates, then nods, shooting me a glare that promises retribution he’ll never be able to deliver. He turns and leaves, pushing past the barista who’s coming to clean up the broken mug.

“Are you happy?” Freya hisses, turning on me. “You made a scene.”

“I didn’t make a scene,” I correct, standing up. “He did. I merely cleaned it up.”

Taking her arm, I guide her toward the door. She resists for a moment, her feet dragging, but she knows better than to make a struggle of it in public.

“My coat,” she says.

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

We step out onto the street. The car is waiting, the door held open by the driver. I usher her inside and slide in after her. The divider goes up, sealing us in the dark, quiet interior.

She pulls away from me, pressing herself against the opposite door. She’s shaking, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“You’re insane,” she says, her voice cracking. “You can’t just… you can’t just attack people.”