Page 57 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“How comforting.”

I turn to face her. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheet slipping to reveal the smooth skin of her thigh. I remember how that skin felt under my hands last night. How she trembled when I touched her.

My body reacts instantly, a traitorous surge of heat.

I force myself to look away.

“Anna is bringing up breakfast,” I say, pulling on the shirt. “Get dressed. Wear something appropriate.”

“What is appropriate for meeting the man who ruined my life?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Something expensive,” I reply. “Something that makes you look untouchable.”

“Untouchable.”

“That’s the illusion we’re selling.”

I button the shirt, my fingers moving on autopilot. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid—like walk back over there and pull her into my arms.

“I’ll be in the office.”

I leave the room before she can respond.

***

The day passes in a blur of preparation.

I spend the morning in the secondary office, reviewing the guest list. It’s a who’s who of the underworld—arms dealers, smugglers, corrupt politicians. Lorenzo is bringing his inner circle. I need to be sharp.

Freya appears around noon. She’s wearing a sundress, yellow and floral, looking like a breath of fresh air in the gloom of the penthouse. She’s holding a tablet, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She’s researching. I can tell by the way she’s scrolling. I don’t stop her.

Let her dig. Let her find the crumbs I’ve left. It keeps her busy. It keeps her focused on the puzzle instead of the solution.

I watch her from across the room. She bites her lip when she’s thinking. She tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. She has a habit of tapping her foot when she hits a dead end.

She’s vibrant. Alive. Everything this house isn’t.

I feel that pull again. That magnetic draw that makes me want to cross the room and sink into her.

Last night wasn’t enough. It was just the tip of the iceberg. I want more. I want to peel back the layers of anger and defiance and find what’s underneath. I want to know what makes her tick. I want to know what she looks like when she’s not fighting.

I crave her.

It’s a hunger that sits in the pit of my stomach, gnawing at me. It’s distracting. Dangerous.

I watch the curve of her waist as she leans over the table. The swell of her hips. She’s soft in all the right places, lush and feminine. A stark contrast to the hard edges of my world.

I remember the way she felt in my hands. Heavy, soft, yielding. Her body is a masterpiece, built for pleasure.

My fingers itch to touch her again. I force the thought down. I have work to do.

By evening, the penthouse is buzzing with activity. The stylists arrive, followed by the security detail. The air is thick with hairspray and anticipation.

I’m already dressed in a suit and silver cuff links. It’s the uniform of the Bratva.

I walk into the bedroom to find Freya standing in front of the mirror.