Page 103 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Come here,” he says. It’s not a request, but it’s not a command either. It’s simply an inevitability.

I walk over to the couch. He sets the tablet down and pulls me onto his lap. I go willingly, straddling his thighs, my hands resting on his chest. The fabric of his jacket is smooth under my palms.

“You’re distracted,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.

“Just thinking,” I say.

“About?”

“Us.”

His lips twitch. “What conclusions have you drawn?”

“That I’m in trouble.”

“Deep trouble.”

He leans up and kisses me. It’s slow, devastatingly thorough. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me. I melt against him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

This is what it means to be his. Not just the danger or the protection. It’s this connection, this fire that burns between us, consuming everything else until there’s only ash and us.

“We have to go out,” he says against my lips, regret clear in his voice.

“Now? It’s late.”

“Yuri found a lead at a storage facility in Brooklyn. I need to check it before Lorenzo moves the product.”

The mention of Lorenzo’s name is like a bucket of ice water. The heat cools, replaced by a familiar cold knot of dread.

“Is it safe?”

“Nothing is safe,” he says, standing up and setting me on my feet. “But I’ll be there, and I’ll keep you safe.”

I nod, forcing myself to switch modes. From lover to accomplice. From soft to hard.

“Let me get my coat.”

The drive to Brooklyn is tense. The SUV is armored, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety from clawing at my throat. Nikita sits beside me, his hand resting on my thigh, a heavy, grounding weight. He’s checking his gun, the slide clicking softly in the quiet cab.

We turn down a narrow street lined with industrial warehouses. It’s dark, the streetlights flickering overhead. The area is abandoned, a graveyard of rust and shadows.

“Stop here,” Nikita tells the driver.

We get out. The air smells of the river and rotting garbage. It’s quiet, maybe too quiet.

“Stay close,” Nikita murmurs, positioning himself between me and the street.

We walk toward a corrugated metal door. Yuri is already there, picking the lock. With a soft click, the door swings open.

“Clear,” Yuri says, stepping inside.

We follow him into the warehouse. It’s cavernous, filled with towering stacks of shipping crates. It’s a maze, a perfect place for an ambush.

I hear it then: the scuff of a boot on concrete. The metallic click of a safety being disengaged.

“Nikita,” I whisper.

“I know.”