Page 107 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I look at Nikita—really look at him. I see the exhaustion in his eyes, the lines of pain around his mouth. I see the weight he’s been carrying, the burden of keeping my brother’s secret while watching me fall apart, while watching me hate him for a crime he didn’t commit.

“You did this for him,” I whisper.

“I did it for you.”

He leans down, kissing me. It’s not the gentle kiss from earlier. It’s hard, desperate, claiming. He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s been wandering in the desert and I’m the first drop of water.

I kiss him back with everything I have. All the fear, all the relief, all the love that I’ve been fighting so hard to deny.

The heat is instant, a roaring fire that threatens to consume us both. I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

“Take me home,” I murmur against his lips.

“I intend to.”

***

We don’t make it to the bedroom.

The moment the elevator doors close, sealing us in the privacy of the penthouse, he pins me against the wall. His mouth is on mine, hot and demanding. His hands slide under my coat, gripping my waist.

“I thought I lost you,” he growls, his lips tracing the line of my jaw. “In the warehouse… when they surrounded us…”

“You saved me.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter, because you did.”

He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the nearest surface—the dining table. He clears it with a sweep of his arm, sending a vase crashing to the floor. He doesn’t even flinch.

He sets me down on the edge, stepping between my thighs.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I open my eyes. His are burning, dark with possessive need.

“You are mine, Freya,” he says, his voice rough. “I chose you.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I’m yours.”

He unzips his pants, freeing himself. He’s hard, thick, and ready. There’s no foreplay, no teasing.

He enters me in one smooth, powerful thrust.

It’s intense, a sharp stretch that borders on pain, but it feels so good. He fills me completely, his hips flush against mine.

He starts to move, his strokes deep and punishing. The table groans under us, scraping against the floor. He fucks me with a desperation that matches my own, a frantic need to reaffirm life, to cement our survival in sweat and skin.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. I meet him thrust for thrust, matching his intensity. The tension that has been building for weeks—the fear, the secrets, the longing—unravels, exploding into pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growls, his hand finding my clit. “Be a good girl, yeah?”

His touch is electric. I shatter, my body convulsing around his, my vision blurring white. I scream his name, a sound of pure release.

He follows me over, his own release tearing from him in a low, guttural groan. He buries his face in my neck, his body shuddering against mine.

After, the only sound is our ragged breathing.