Page 49 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

She stands against the wall, chest heaving, her lips swollen and red. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mixture of horror and confusion.

“No,” she gasps. “No.”

“Freya—”

“Don’t!” She holds up a hand, backing away. “Don’t touch me.”

She turns and runs.

I watch her go, my own heart hammering against my ribs. I lift my fingers to my lips, still tasting her.

She wanted it. She did. She just isn’t ready to admit it yet.

I stand there for a long moment, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall. The silence of the penthouse returns, heavier than before.

Chapter Fifteen - Freya

The ceiling offers no answers. Just endless, plastered white that mocks me with its blankness.

I kick the sheets away. They’re tangled around my legs, a chaotic mess that mirrors the state of my head. Nikita didn’t sleep in the master suite last night, but it still smells like him— cedar and cold gun oil. Scent is a tricky thing. It bypasses the logical part of the brain and sinks hooks directly into the memory.

My body hums with leftover adrenaline. The fight in the hallway. The wall. His hand on my waist. The way his breath felt against my mouth before I shoved him away.

I touch my lips. They still feel swollen.

Damn him.

Damn me.

Swinging my legs over the edge, I sit up. The room is pitch-black except for the sliver of light bleeding under the door.

I need to move. If I stay in this bed, I’ll start overanalyzing the micro-expressions on his face when he pinned me.

I slip out of the room, padding barefoot onto the cool marble. The penthouse is silent. The security detail is posted at the perimeter, invisible behind monitors and tinted glass.

It feels huge. Empty.

I drift toward the living area. The floor-to-ceiling windows act as a canvas for the city. Manhattan is a sprawling grid of amber and sodium, a circuit board that never powers down.

The sliding door to the balcony is slightly ajar. A draft of winter air curls around my ankles.

I step out.

The cold bites at my exposed skin, sharp and bracing. I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing the gooseflesh that rises immediately.

He’s there.

Of course he is.

Nikita stands by the railing, a glass tumbler dangling from his fingers. The city lights catch the planes of his face, throwing his profile into sharp relief—the bridge of his nose, the stubborn set of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair mussed by the wind.

He doesn’t turn. He just knows.

“You’re shivering,” he says. His voice is low, blending with the hum of the traffic below.

“It’s cold.”

“Well… yes, it’s late.”