Page 95 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Chapter Twenty-Five - Freya

This safe house is not what I expected. It’s not a drafty warehouse or a sterile cell. It’s a penthouse on the Upper East Side, owned by a shell company with ties to shipping logistics in the ’90s. It’s beautiful, filled with cream-colored furniture and abstract art, but it feels like a cage. A very expensive, very safe cage.

Nikita left an hour ago.

He left without fanfare. A kiss on my forehead—a press of lips that felt more like a brand than a caress—and a command:

“Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone but Yuri.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the black SUV waiting at the curb.

Now, the silence is deafening. It presses against my eardrums, heavy and suffocating. I walk to the window, parting the sheer curtains just enough to see the street below. It’s raining again, a relentless gray wash that blurs the city lights.

He’s out there.

My heart is a frantic bird trapped in my chest, beating wings against my ribs. I try to rationalize the fear. It’s logical to be scared. Lorenzo’s men attacked our home. They came to kill us. Nikita is walking into the hornet’s nest, striking back at a man who has nothing left to lose.

It’s more than that.

I close my eyes, and the image of him flashes behind my lids—Nikita checking his weapon, the cold steel of the gun in his hand contrasting with the warmth of his skin. I remember the graze on his ribs, the angry red line I bandaged earlier with shaking fingers.

What if he doesn’t come back?

I clutch the pendant around my neck. The sapphire is cool against my palm, a heavy weight. It belonged to his mother. He gave it to me. That and the brooch that belonged to his father.

A shiver runs through me, but it’s not from fear. It’s from a heat that has nothing to do with the radiator hissing in the corner.

I lean my forehead against the cold glass. I shouldn’t want him this much. I should be counting the minutes until I can escape, until I can find Ayaan and disappear.

Instead, I’m imagining the way his jaw feels under my fingertips. The way his eyes darken when he looks at me. The terrifying, thrilling way he takes control of my body until I’m nothing but sensation and need.

God, I’m in trouble.

***

The sound of the door opening makes me jump. I spin around, my hand flying to my throat.

It’s just Anna. The staff were all either sent home or relocated here.

She’s carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. She looks calm, unruffled, as if armed men breaking down doors is just a Tuesday in the Gromov household.

“I thought you could use some tea,” she says, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “Chamomile. For the nerves.”

“I don’t think tea is going to fix this,” I say, my voice brittle.

“No,” Anna agrees, pouring the steaming liquid. “But it helps to have something to do with your hands.”

I sink onto the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me. I wrap my hands around the warm cup, letting the warmth seep into me.

Anna sits in the armchair opposite me, her hands folded in her lap. She’s an older woman, her hair streaked with gray.

“He loves you,” she says.

The tea splashes onto my hand. I set the cup down with a clatter. “He doesn’t love me,” I snap. “He owns me. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Anna asks mildly.

“Yes. Love is a choice. Ownership is a transaction.”