Page 55 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

My pants are still around my ankles. I shiver, suddenly aware of the biting cold again.

I reach down, pulling them up with shaky hands. The silk is soft against my sensitive skin.

I turn to face him.

He’s leaning against the railing, his chest heaving. His hair is a mess. He looks… wrecked. The mask is gone. The control is gone.

He looks at me, his eyes dark, searching.

I walk over to him. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I can’t leave it like this. Not after that.

I reach up, smoothing the hair from his forehead. “I should go inside,” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

Chapter Sixteen - Nikita

The glass door clicks shut, sealing the warmth inside and leaving me on the terrace with the wind and the whiskey.

I stare at the empty space where she stood. The ghost of her scent—jasmine and vanilla and the sharp, salty tang of sex—lingers in the air, mixing with the cold metal of the city.

My hands are still shaking. I look down at my palms. They’re red and chapped from gripping the railing. From gripping her.

“Damn it.”

I rest my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. The replay is instant. The way her legs felt wrapped around my waist. The taste of her mouth—desperate and sweet. The sound she made when I pushed inside her, a broken sob that went straight to my gut.

I’ve fucked women before. I’ve fucked wives of enemies, mistresses of allies, strangers in hotel rooms. It’s always been a transaction. A physical release. A way to burn off energy.

This was different. It felt like a breach.

I wanted it. I wanted it more than I’ve wanted anything in years.

Turning away from the window, I finish the whiskey in one burning swallow. The liquid sits heavy in my stomach, but it doesn’t dull the edge. It doesn’t scrub the memory of her skin from my fingertips.

I need to get a grip.

This changes nothing. The objective remains the same. Keep her close. Secure the Bratva’s future.

Except the parameters have shifted.

I walk back into the penthouse. The silence is loud now, charged with the weight of what just happened. I can hear her in the bedroom. The rustle of sheets. The running of water in the en suite bath.

She’s washing me off her.

The thought sends a spike of possessiveness through my chest that I can’t quite swallow. She shouldn’t want to wash me off. She should want to keep the marks.

I stride to the bar and pour another drink. I just hold the glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light.

Tomorrow, we have a meeting. A high-level summit with the Colombos. It’s a delicate dance—a show of force masked as a negotiation. Lorenzo is testing boundaries, probing for weakness. I need to project absolute unity.

I need her there.

The realization is unwelcome but unavoidable. She’s not just a prop anymore. She’s a distraction, yes, but she’s also a signal.

A man who brings his wife to a negotiation is a man with something to lose. A man with something to lose is a man who will fight harder to keep it.

It’s a risk, but looking at the bedroom door, I know it’s one I’m willing to take.