Page 77 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Pavel’s death will send a message. It will show Lorenzo that I’m not to be trifled with. It will show my men that betrayal is not an option.

Unfortunately, it will also put Freya in more danger.

Lorenzo will see this as an act of war. He will come after me, and he will come after her.

I finish my drink, the glass clinking as I set it down.

When I enter the bedroom, Freya’s standing by the window, looking out at the city. She’s still wearing the leather jacket, her hair a messy knot around her face.

“He had a family,” she says, her voice flat. “Right?”

“He had a choice,” I say.

“He was scared.”

“We’re all scared, Freya.”

I walk over to her, standing behind her. I want to touch her, to comfort her, but I don’t. I know she won’t let me.

“Why?” she asks, turning to face me. “Why did you have to do that?”

“Because I had to,” I say. “It was the only way.”

“The only way for what?”

“To protect you.”

She laughs, a short, bitter sound. “You call that protection?”

“I call it necessary.”

She looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know who you are.”

“Yes, you do,” I say, my voice soft. “You’ve always known.”

I reach out, my fingers gently brushing her cheek. She flinches, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You’re a monster,” she echoes from earlier.

“I’m your monster,” I correct.

Then I kiss her. I pour all of my darkness, all of my rage, all of my twisted, obsessive love into that one kiss.

Her lips are soft, yielding. Her tongue meets mine, a tentative, hesitant exploration. It’s a surrender.

A complete and total surrender.

I pull her into my arms, my body pressing against hers. I can feel her heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm.

I deepen the kiss, my hands roaming over her body, claiming her, marking her as mine.

She moans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against my lips.

I pick her up, her legs wrapping around my waist. I carry her to the bed, laying her down gently.

I look down at her, my eyes roaming over her face. Her eyes are closed, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of fear and desire.

“Mine,” I whisper, my voice a hoarse growl.