Page 23 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Nikita Gromov,” the officiant says, “do you take Freya Annie Smith to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” he answers. His voice is steady, certain. A vow to the world, and a threat to me.

“Freya Smith,” he says, turning to me, “do you take Nikita Gromov to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

The silence stretches. Everyone is watching. Nikita is watching. I see the challenge in his eyes. He knows I have no choice; he knows I’m doing this for Ayaan.

Part of me wonders… would I have done it anyway?

The heat of his arm burns through my dress. His presence is a gravitational pull, steady and unshaken. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact: his shoulder, his hand, the scent of leather and cedar that fills my senses.

“I do,” I say.

The words are barely out of my mouth before he slides the ring onto my finger. It’s heavy, gold, and diamond encrusted.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he murmurs, loud enough for the guests to hear. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

He turns to me, and before I can brace myself, his hand is on my waist, pulling me flush against him. He lowers his head, and his lips claim mine.

It’s not a peck. It’s not a polite gesture for the crowd.

His mouth is hot, demanding, tasting of mint and dominance. He kisses me like he’s staking a claim, like he’s sealing a contract. I stand frozen for a second, my hands hovering at his sides, before—traitorously—they clutch his lapels.

I kiss him back. Not because I want to, but because I need to feel something other than fear.

Applause erupts, breaking the spell. He pulls back, his eyes dark, searching my face.

“Mrs. Gromov,” he whispers.

The name hits me like a physical blow.

We walk back down the aisle, man and wife. The guests smile and clap, but their eyes are cold. They’re assessing me, weighing my value.

Inside the house, the reception begins. Champagne flows. Nikita stays by my side, his hand never leaving my lower back. He introduces me to men with names I don’t care to remember. They shake my hand, their grips firm, their eyes lingering on my body.

“Congratulations, Nikita,” an older man says, his accent thick. “She is… healthy. Good breeding stock.”

My face burns, but I smile. “Right… stock.”

Nikita squeezes my side, a silent warning. “Drink,” he murmurs, pressing a glass into my hand. “You look like you need it.”

I drain the glass in one swallow, the bubbles burning my throat. The alcohol hits my empty stomach, loosening my muscles, dulling the sharp edges of my panic.

“You played your part well,” he says later, leading me out onto a balcony for a moment of air.

“It wasn’t a play,” I say, leaning against the railing and looking at the dark ocean. “It was a surrender.”

“It was a strategic move,” he corrects. “And you survived.”

“I’m not sure I did,” I whisper.

Chapter Eight - Nikita

The champagne flute feels light in my hand, delicate and expensive, much like the illusion of happiness we’ve constructed today. The reception is in full swing, a carefully orchestrated display of power and unity. I lead Freya back inside from the balcony, and stand near the head of the long banquet table, watching the room.

Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.

My eyes find Freya instantly. She’s by the window, talking to one of the Pakhan’s wives. She’s performing well. Her smile is polished, her posture perfect. She navigates the conversation with a social grace that surprises me. I expected a sullen hostage, not a partner who understands the weight of the room.