Page 13 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

She swallows, her throat moving. Then, she sets the glass down and covers my hand with hers. Her fingers are warm, slim.

Freya presses my hand harder into her thigh, her nails digging into my skin.

The message is clear.

Heat flares in my gut, sharp and sudden. I want to push her back against her chair and devour that defiant mouth. I want to see how much of that fire is real and how much is a bluff.

Instead, I smile, a slow, dangerous curve of my lips, and squeeze her thigh before pulling my hand away.

She exhales, a shaky breath she disguises as a sigh of boredom.

As the dinner winds down, the band strikes up a slow, waltz-like melody. Couples begin to migrate to the dance floor.

“Shall we?” I ask, standing and offering her my hand.

She looks at it, then up at me. For a second, I think she’ll refuse. She looks like she’d rather stab me with her fork.

Then she takes my hand. “Why not?”

I lead her onto the floor. The lights dim, casting the room in a soft, romantic glow. I pull her into my arms, one hand settling on her lower back, the other taking her hand.

We start to move. She follows my lead easily. She’s a good dancer—light on her feet, responsive to my cues.

I hold her closer than is strictly necessary for a waltz. Our bodies brush with every step. Her hips graze mine, her breasts pressing against my chest. She smells incredible, a mix of vanilla and adrenaline.

“You’re enjoying this,” she murmurs, her breath hot against my neck.

“Enjoying what?”

“Playing house. Pretending I’m not the enemy.”

“Who says you’re the enemy?” I whisper, spinning her. The velvet of her dress flares out, brushing my legs. “You’re my fiancée, remember? That makes you my partner.”

“In crime, maybe,” she quips, but her voice is breathless.

I pull her back in, grinding to a halt in the middle of the floor. The music swells around us, but I ignore it. I look down at her, searching her face.

She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. There’s fear there, yes, but there’s something else too.

It’s the same thing I felt in the car. That magnetic pull that defies logic.

“I told you,” I say, my voice low, dropping so only she can hear. “This isn’t temporary, Freya. You’re not just a headline to me. You’re part of the narrative now.”

The song ends, and I release her, but I don’t step away. I keep my hand on her back, guiding her off the floor. The crowd watches us, murmuring their approval. The photos will be everywhere by morning.

I’ve won the night. The engagement is real in their eyes.

As I feel the warmth of her skin through the velvet, I know the real war is just beginning. She thinks she’s using me to find her brother. She thinks she’s the one playing the game.

She has no idea she’s already been played.

As I watch the fire burning in her eyes, I realize I’m looking forward to breaking her.

Chapter Five - Freya

Sunlight assaults my eyelids, dragging me out of a sleep that was far from restful. I groan, pulling the duvet over my head, trying to block out the morning. My body feels heavy, sluggish, but my mind is already racing. It’s been running all night.

Images from the Met flash behind my closed eyes. The blue velvet dress, the hand on my thigh. The way Nikita looked at me, like he was dissecting my soul.