Page 70 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“No,” I agree, watching her walk to the door. “You’re a wolf.”

She pauses at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Keep talking like that,” she says, “and I might just bite.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Chapter Nineteen - Freya

The penthouse is quiet, but it’s not empty. His presence is a tangible thing, a mess of controlled chaos. His jacket is draped over a chair in the corner, the leather still bearing the faint creases from last night. His watch sits on the nightstand, its face dark and silent. A pair of discarded shoes lie haphazardly by the door.

These small, domestic artifacts are more intimidating than any weapon. They’re proof of his occupation, a quiet assertion that this space is his, and by extension, so am I.

I kick the sheets away and sit up, my body aching in unfamiliar places. A dull, pleasant throb between my thighs is a persistent reminder of our activities lately.

I shouldn’t want more. I know that. It’s a betrayal of Ayaan, of the entire reason I’m here.

Except my body is a traitor, humming with a low-grade current of want. I keep replaying it—the sound of his voice in my ear, the feel of his breath against my neck, the dangerous calm with which he held me.

I touch my throat, my fingers tracing the skin where he’d whispered. A shiver runs through me, a phantom sensation.

I get out of bed, needing to move. I start picking up his things, folding the jacket, placing the watch neatly back in its box. It’s a futile attempt to impose order on the disorder he brings, but it’s something to do.

My hand lingers on the leather of the jacket. It’s soft, worn. I find myself imagining him wearing it, the way the shoulders would stretch, the way he’d look at me over the collar.

“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, tossing the jacket back onto the chair.

I need air.

I walk out onto the balcony, the morning air cool against my skin. The city is just waking up, a slow, rumbling beast of steel and glass.

He’s already there.

Nikita is leaning against the railing, a coffee mug in his hand, watching the traffic flow on the bridge below. He’s wearing a simple T-shirt and sweats, his dark hair mussed. He looks younger like this. Softer. Almost human.

He doesn’t turn, but I know he’s aware of me. He always is.

“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.

“Like the dead.”

“An interesting choice of words.”

I walk over to the railing, standing a few feet away. The silence stretches, comfortable but charged.

“Big day?” I ask, trying for casual.

“Always.”

We stand there for a while, watching the city wake up. It’s strangely peaceful. A moment of truce.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he says, turning to look at me.

“Am I?”

“You’re plotting.”

“How do you know?”