Page 29 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“He is focused,” she corrects, her tone defensive but gentle. “He is a man who carries heavy things.”

“He carries a lot of blood,” I say, unable to help myself. “I know what he does.”

Anna sighs, a sound of long-suffering patience. She pours herself a cup of tea and leans against the counter.

“People say many things about Mr. Nikita,” she says slowly. “They say he is a monster. They say he is ice, but I have seen him take care of things. His people. His family. He is not cruel, Mrs. Gromov. He is… necessary.”

“Necessary?” I repeat, skepticism dripping from my voice.

“There is chaos in the world,” she says, waving a hand vaguely. “Bad men who would hurt the innocent. Mr. Nikita stops them. He creates structure and safety.”

“Safety through fear,” I counter.

“Safety through strength,” she counters back.

She looks at me, her eyes softening. “He is a good man, Freya. He has a hard shell, but inside… there is heart.”

I look away, stabbing a pancake with my fork. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to humanize him. I want him to be the villain. It makes things easier.

“I need to find out about my brother,” I say quietly.

Anna’s expression doesn’t change, but the air in the room cools. “I do not ask about business.”

“I know. If you hear anything… if you know anything…”

“I will be silent,” she says firmly. “As you should be. Questions are dangerous.” Straightening up, she claps her hands together, dismissing the heavy topic. “Anyway,” she says, her bright voice returning. “There is a tradition. On the first morning after the wedding, the wife prepares a meal for the husband. It is a symbol of care. Of nurturing.”

I stare at her. “You want me to cook for him?”

“It is expected,” she says, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Do not worry. I have laid everything out. It is simple.”

She gestures to a cutting board on the counter. Ingredients are already arranged—eggs, herbs, a loaf of bread.

I look at the ingredients. Then I look at her.

“You’re serious,” I say.

“Always.”

A slow smile spreads across my face. If tradition is what he wants, tradition is what he’ll get.

“Fine,” I say, standing up and walking over to the counter. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Anna nods, satisfied. “I will go to the market. Call me if you need assistance.”

She bustles out of the room, leaving me alone with the ingredients and a sudden, vicious spark of inspiration.

I turn to the cutting board. I’m not a chef, but I know how to follow a recipe. And I know how to modify one.

I crack the eggs into a bowl. I reach for the salt shaker, and I dump in a massive amount.

Then I watch the white crystals dissolve into the yolks. I mix it all together, the concoction turning into a lumpy, aggressively orange mess.

Next, the toast. I pop the bread into the toaster, but I don’t stop there. I find a jar of bitter marmalade—something that looks like it’s been aging since the Soviet Union—and slather it on thick.

The coffee. I find the beans and grind them into a fine dust. Then, I mix them with instant decaf. The worst of both worlds.

I arrange it all on a tray. It looks… acceptable. The eggs are scrambled, the toast is browned, the coffee is steaming. It looks like a lovingly prepared meal for a new husband.