Page 33 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“So I’m supposed to be a silent, smiling doll.”

“You’re supposed to be my wife,” I correct. “There are expectations. Protocols. You’ll follow them.”

She stands abruptly, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “You don’t get to control every aspect of my life, Nikita. I agreed to this marriage for access, not to become your puppet.”

“Access has a price.”

“I’m already paying it! I’m living in your house, wearing your ring, sleeping in your bed. What more do you want?”

I push off from the desk and step toward her. I’m slow, giving her time to retreat. She doesn’t.

“Everything,” I say simply.

Her breath catches, but she holds her ground. “That’s not how this works.”

“Isn’t it?” I stop inches from her, close enough to see the faint pulse hammering in her throat. “You wanted inside my world, Freya. You wanted access to my files, my contacts, my operations. Did you think that came without strings?”

“I thought we had an arrangement.”

“We do. Part of that arrangement is following my lead in public. When we’re out there—” I gesture toward the window, toward the city beyond. “—you are an extension of me. Your behavior reflects on my authority. Any weakness, any hesitation, any sign that you’re not fully committed… it will be exploited.”

“I’m not weak,” she fires back.

“No,” I agree. “You’re not, but you are stubborn. Stubborn people make mistakes when they think they know better.”

She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. Her eyes search my face, looking for something—weakness, perhaps, or a crack in the armor she can exploit.

Finding none, she changes tactics. “What if I don’t want to go?” she asks, her voice dropping to something almost conversational. “What if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll stay here,” I say. “Under guard, with no access to anything beyond these walls.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It’s the reality.” I reach out, my fingers brushing against her chin. A gentle pressure, tilting her face up toward mine.

She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

Her eyes meet mine—green fire meeting steel. There’s anger there, yes, but also something else. Something that looks almost like curiosity.

“Try it your way,” I murmur, my thumb tracing a slow path along her jawline. “See how far you get.”

The touch is deliberate. Calculated. I’m testing her reactions, mapping the boundaries of her control. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertip, soft in a way that contrasts sharply with the defiance in her expression.

She doesn’t flinch. She only holds perfectly still, like a rabbit caught in a snare, waiting for the right moment to bolt.

“I will,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

I release her chin, but I don’t step back. Instead, I let my hand fall to my side, my fingers grazing her shoulder in a touch so light it might be accidental.

It isn’t.

“Tomorrow,” I say, moving away finally. “Six o’clock. Wear something appropriate. Anna can help you select an outfit if you’re unsure.”

“I can dress myself.”

“Can you?” I raise an eyebrow. “Breakfast suggests you can’t be trusted.”