Page 34 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

A flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t take the bait. “That was intentional.”

“I know.” I walk back around my desk, putting distance between us. “That’s what made it interesting.”

She stares at me, clearly thrown by the response. She expected anger, maybe. Or disgust. Not… this.

“You’re insane,” she mutters.

“Probably.” I open a folder on my desk, dismissing her. “Tomorrow at six. Don’t be late.”

For a moment, I think she’ll argue further. Her hands are still clenched at her sides, her body vibrating with unspoken objections.

She turns and walks to the door instead. Her spine is straight, her steps measured.

At the threshold, she pauses.

“Nikita?”

I look up.

“I’m not going to break,” she says quietly. “No matter how much you push.”

Chapter Eleven - Freya

The heavy mahogany door of his office clicks shut, and I stand there for a long moment, pressing my back against the cool wood. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, betraying the calm I’m trying to project.

Silence was his only weapon. He didn’t yell or threaten, didn’t even get angry. That’s what unsettles me the most.

Replaying the interaction, I see his fingers lifting my chin, feel the controlled precision of his movements. A normal person would have snapped back when I challenged his authority. Nikita just observed. He let me rail, and then he stepped into my space to touch my face like he owned the air I breathe.

“Try it your way. See how far you get.”

The words are a taunt but also a dare. He’s not afraid of my rebellion. Instead, he anticipates it, treating my resistance like a variable in a risk assessment rather than a personal insult.

That level of control is absolute. Suffocating and infinitely harder to fight than brute force ever could be.

Pushing off the door, I start walking toward the main living area, forcing my breathing to steady. I need to get a grip. Remembering why I’m here is crucial.

Ayaan.

I’m not here to decode Nikita Gromov’s psychological profile or analyze the way his thumb brushed my jawline. The way his scent—leather and whiskey—lingered on my skin long after he let go is a distraction.

Finding my brother is the only goal that matters.

***

Sunset paints the penthouse in hues of bruised purple and gold. By nightfall, the space has transformed. Servants have cleared away the evidence of our morning standoff, replacing it with the polished veneer of a Bratva social function.

This isn’t the gala. It’s smaller and more intimate, but the weight in the room feels heavier. These aren’t investors or socialites. They are the lieutenants, the capos, the inner circle. Men whose hands are just as dirty as Nikita’s, maybe dirtier.

Moving through the room, I hold a glass of champagne I have no intention of drinking. My dress is black silk, simple and severe, chosen because it makes me feel armored. Looking approachable is not on my agenda tonight.

Nikita stands at the center of it all, near the fireplace with a tumbler of whiskey in hand. He listens to a stocky man with a thick neck recount a story, nodding at the appropriate moments. Relaxation defines his posture. He listens more than he speaks, a stark contrast to the aggressive posturing of the men around him.

Frustration bubbles up.

This isn’t the monster I’ve been hunting. A ruthless butcher who ordered hits doesn’t look like a statesman. A leader who negotiates with a calm word doesn’t match the villain in my mind.

“You’re staring.”