Page 48 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Stop talking in riddles!”

“This isn’t a riddle.” I lean closer, my face inches from hers. “The reality is that Ayaan got involved in things he couldn’t handle. He made choices. Bad choices, and those choices had consequences.”

“He was a good person,” she whispers.

“Good people die every day, Freya. Especially in my world.”

“He wasn’t part of your world.”

“He was the second he took that money.”

She tries to shove me away, but I hold her fast. My grip on her waist tightens, pulling her flush against me.

The contact is electric. I feel the curve of her hip, the softness of her stomach. I feel the way her breath hitches when our bodies align.

The argument hasn’t stopped, but it’s shifted. The words are becoming shorter. The pauses are becoming longer.

Her eyes drop to my mouth.

I watch it happen. The involuntary flick of her gaze. The way her lips part slightly.

The air in the room seems to thicken, heavy with sudden, impossible tension. The anger is still there, but it’s mutating. It’s turning into something else. Something hotter.

“You think you can control me,” she breathes.

“I know I can.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know you want this.”

The challenge hangs in the air.

Her hand comes up, resting against my chest. Right over my heart. I can feel the heat of her palm through the cotton. I can feel the tremor in her fingers.

“Prove it,” she whispers.

My mouth crashes down on hers, claiming, consuming.

She responds instantly. Freya’s fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer. Her mouth opens under mine, her tongue meeting mine with a ferocity that matches my own.

I taste her—mint, and the lingering sweetness of tea, and something uniquely Freya. She tastes like rebellion and surrender all at once.

My hand slides from her waist to her hip, gripping her tight, grinding her against me. She moans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against my lips.

This is what I wanted. What I’ve been avoiding. What I’ve been craving.

Her.

Everything about her. Her defiance, her sharp tongue, her stubborn refusal to break. I want to consume it all. I want to strip away the layers of anger and grief until there’s nothing left but the raw, honest need underneath.

I deepen the kiss, tilting her head back, demanding more. She gives it. She arches into me, her body soft and pliant in my hands.

For a moment, the world falls away. Then, she stops.

It’s like flipping a switch. One second she’s kissing me back like her life depends on it, the next she’s shoving me away.

I stumble back a step, blinking in surprise.