Page 8 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I check the security camera and see that it’s Davina.

I buzz her in instantly, relief washing over me. I need someone normal. Someone who doesn’t smell like leather and gun oil.

Davina bursts through the door a minute later, her dark hair a chaotic halo around her head, her eyes wide with frantic energy. She’s holding two bottles of wine like she’s preparing for a siege.

“Okay, I’m here, I’m here, and I have Pinot,” she says, setting the bottles down on the counter. “Don’t tell me anything until I’m poured.”

She pours us both generous glasses, her hands shaking slightly. She’s not usually this jittery. Davina’s the calm one, the one who rolls her eyes at drama.

She thrusts a glass into my hand. “Okay. Spill. The internet is exploding. Everyone says you’re engaged to the Russian Mob. Please tell me this is a prank. Did you hire an actor? Is he an escort? Because he is… disturbingly hot, in a serial killer kind of way.”

I take a long gulp of the wine, the crisp liquid doing nothing to dampen the fire in my veins. I look at my best friend, wanting to tell her everything. I want to tell her about Ayaan, about the ring, about the terror gnawing at my insides.

The words stick in my throat. How do I explain that I’m engaged to a man who might have killed my brother? How do I explain that I’m playing along because I think that brother might still be alive?

“It’s… complicated,” I say finally, my voice sounding thin.

“Complicated?” Davina repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Freya, you walked into a gala planning to ruin a man and walked out with a ring on your finger. So tell me what the deal is.”

I force a laugh, but it sounds hollow. “I know it’s crazy. I just… I got caught up in the moment. He’s very persuasive.”

She studies me, her dark eyes narrowing. She knows me too well. I think she must see the tension in my shoulders, the way I can’t stop fidgeting with the stem of my glass.

“You’re shaking,” she says softly.

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long night.”

“Freya.” She sets her glass down and steps closer, gripping my shoulders. “You’re scaring me. What did he do? Did he threaten you?”

I look at her and for a second, almost breaking. Then I remember the way Nikita looked at me, the possessiveness there. If I drag Davina into this, she becomes a target.

“No,” I lie, hating myself for it. “He didn’t threaten me. It was… a misunderstanding that got out of hand.”

“A misunderstanding?” She lets go of me, skepticism written all over her face. “Okay. So, what’s the plan, you’re going to fake a breakup tomorrow?”

“I…” I trail off.

I walk to the window, needing to look at something other than Davina’s piercing gaze. The street below is quiet, bathed in the yellow glow of streetlights.

And then I see a black SUV parked across the street. It’s idling, the exhaust puffing white in the cold air. It’s invisible to anyone not looking for it, but to me, it screams Bratva.

My stomach drops. They followed me?

“Freya.” Davina comes up behind me. “What is it?”

I turn to her, my mind racing. I need to get her out of here. Now.

“You need to go,” I say, my voice sharp.

“What, why?”

“Just go, Davina. Please.” I steer her toward the door, grabbing her coat and shoving it into her arms. “I have a headache, and I need to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Hey, stop.” She pulls away from me, planting her feet. “You’re acting weird. Is someone watching us?”

She turns to the window, looking down at the street. I see her spot the SUV. She stiffens. “Is that for you?” she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“It’s fine,” I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the door. “Just security. Nikita is… overprotective.”