Page 27 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I pause at the door to the en suite bathroom, looking back at her. “Control isn’t just about taking what you want, Freya,” I say softly. “It’s about knowing when not to take it. It’s about leaving you wanting more.”

“I don’t want more,” she lies.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

I disappear into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me.

Leaning back against the wood, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My heart is pounding against my ribs, a betraying rhythm. I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

Breaking her too soon is a waste.

I want her to come to me. I want her to realize that the cage isn’t a prison; it’s a sanctuary. I want her to need me as much as I need to own her.

Stripping off my clothes, I step into the shower. The hot water washes away the champagne and the smoke of the reception, but it can’t wash away the scent of her that seems to have seeped into my skin.

When I finally walk back into the bedroom, the lights are dimmed. Freya is in bed, lying on the far edge, her back to me. She’s pretending to be asleep, but her breathing is too shallow.

I slide in under the covers, the cool sheets a relief against my heated skin.

She tenses as the mattress shifts under my weight.

“Good night, Freya,” I whisper.

“Good night, Nikita,” she whispers back.

Chapter Nine - Freya

Sunlight spills across the silk sheets, mocking me with its brightness. I haven’t slept, not really. I drifted in and out of a light, restless doze, waking every time the mattress shifted or the air-conditioning clicked on.

The first thing I notice is the cold space beside me. Nikita is gone.

The sheets are already cool, his pillow indented but empty. Irritation flares, hot and sharp. It shouldn’t bother me. I should be relieved that I woke up alone, that he didn’t try to assert his marital rights while I was unconscious. Instead, I feel… dismissed.

He left without a word. Without a goodbye. Just like I was an object he’d used and then set back on the shelf.

Throwing the covers off, I climb out of bed. The floor is cool against my bare feet as I pad to the window. The city stretches out below me, a grid of steel and glass. From up here, it looks orderly. Controlled.

Just like him.

Turning away, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. I look pale, my eyes slightly shadowed, my blonde hair a tangled mess. I look like a captive, not a wife.

I refuse to be a captive.

I came here for a reason. It wasn’t to play house, and it wasn’t to learn how to be the perfect Bratva wife. I came to find Ayaan.

Striding into the closet, I grab leggings and a simple tunic, pulling them on with aggressive jerks. I don’t bother with makeup. I don’t need to impress the cameras today. I need to work.

Walking out of the bedroom, the penthouse reveals itself in the morning light. It’s massive, sprawling, and eerily quiet. Expensive art hangs on the walls—abstract pieces that look like violence frozen in paint. The furniture is sleek, modern, and uncomfortable.

I start my search.

I’m not looking for diamonds or cash. I’m looking for paper. Files, anything that links Nikita to my brother.

I move through the living area, opening drawers in the sideboards. There’s nothing but coasters and meticulous remote controls. I check the bookshelves in the study—spines of books in Russian, English, and French, but none of them look like they’ve been opened in years. Dust lines the top edges.

It’s all a facade. A set.

My frustration mounts as I move deeper into the apartment. The place is sterile. It’s like a hotel room that no one actually lives in. Where does he keep the important things? Where does he hide the bodies?