Page 24 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I see the cracks if I look close enough. The way her fingers tremble slightly against her stemware. The way her eyes dart to the exits every few minutes, calculating, assessing. She hasn’t accepted her cage; she’s just learning how to decorate it.

Good. Fear makes people sloppy. Determination makes them dangerous. I prefer dangerous.

“Nikita.”

The voice is a low rumble, cutting through the ambient noise of the room. I turn to see Maxim approaching.

He’s a wall of a man, broad-shouldered and dark, radiating a kind of controlled violence that makes even the most seasoned Bratva captains step aside. He’s wearing a suit that fits his massive frame like a weapon sheath, midnight black with a tie that matches his eyes. A faint scar runs along his jawline, a souvenir from a knife fight in Moscow years ago.

My cousin. The family’s enforcer. The man who handles the things I can’t—or won’t.

“Maxim,” I say, offering him a curt nod. “I wasn’t sure you would make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, his eyes scanning the crowd before landing on me. “Rumors of your impending nuptials have been… entertaining.”

“Rumors have a way of getting out of hand.”

“So do brides.” He takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, though I’ve never seen him drink more than a sip at these events. “She’s beautiful. Trouble, but beautiful.”

“She’s smart,” I add, watching Freya laugh at something the old woman says. “Smart women are always trouble.”

“Is she loyal?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Maxim hums, a thoughtful sound in his chest. “The Pakhan is pleased. A strategic alliance within the family, even by marriage, stabilizes the territory. It shows you’re thinking long-term.”

“I’m always thinking long-term.”

“Are you?” He glances at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Just remember that possession requires maintenance. You don’t just buy a dog and expect it to guard the house without training.”

“She’s not a dog, Maxim.”

“Isn’t she?” He takes his sip, his eyes cold and heavy. “You put a collar on her. Now you have to decide if she’s a pet or a wolf.”

“I know exactly what she is,” I say, my voice hardening. “She’s the means to an end.”

“Just be careful the end doesn’t bite you.” He claps me on the shoulder, a heavy, grounding weight. “Congratulations, cousin. I wish you luck.”

He turns and melts back into the crowd, leaving me with the unsettling truth that Maxim rarely gives advice without a reason. He sees something I’m missing. Or perhaps he just enjoys reminding me that the noose around my neck is just as tight as the one around hers.

I push the thought away. Tonight is about control. About cementing the narrative.

Freya senses me watching her. She excuses herself from the conversation and starts moving toward me. Her strides are long, determined. She’s not trying to sneak away; she’s coming to report.

It’s fascinating. She’s fighting for autonomy within the constraints I’ve set, trying to carve out a space where she can still act.

She reaches my side, the scent of vanilla and jasmine wrapping around me.

“Your cousin is intimidating,” she says, keeping her voice low.

“Maxim is a necessary evil,” I reply. “He keeps the wolves from the door.”

The band strikes up a slower melody, a signal for the guests to take to the floor for the final dances.

“One last dance,” I say, holding out my hand. “For the cameras.”

She looks at my hand, then up at my face. I see the calculation again—the weighing of the pros and cons. She knows refusing would cause a scene. She knows that every move she makes is being cataloged and judged.