Page 14 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I throw the covers off and sit up, running a hand through my tangled hair. “Stop it,” I mutter to the empty room. “Just stop.”

He’s in my head; that’s the worst part. It’s not the fear, or the anger, or the suffocating pressure of the engagement. It’s that he’s taking up space, rent-free. I can still feel the phantom warmth of his palm on my skin, still hear the low rumble of his voice in my ear.

You’re part of the narrative now.

Pushing out of bed, I stalk into the kitchen and aggressively fill the coffee maker. I need caffeine.

While the machine sputters and hisses, I boot up my laptop. If Nikita is going to haunt me, I’m going to make sure I’m haunting him right back. I need to focus.

Ayaan.

Opening my archives, I pull up the old files. There’s emails from two years ago, and bank statements that stopped updating in June. A contact list of people who never answered my calls.

I stare at a photo of him on my screen. He’s smiling, the way he used to before the debt crushed him. Before the Bratva.

“I’m coming for you,” I whisper, tracing the line of his jaw on the screen.

I scroll through the emails again, looking for anything I missed. I’ve been over this a hundred times, but there has to be something. A clue. A hint.

There’s a name he mentioned once in a voicemail I saved. “I’m meeting a guy about the loan. Name’s… something Russian. Or maybe Ukrainian. I don’t know, Frey, it’s bad.”

I search for the name in his contacts. Nothing. I search his calendar for that date. Nothing.

Frustrated, I slam the laptop shut. It’s like chasing smoke. Every time I think I have a solid lead, it dissolves into nothing.

Pouring a cup of coffee, I carry it to the window. The city is waking up, horns honking, people rushing to jobs they probably hate. It feels like a million miles away from where I’m standing.

Rationalizing the situation is my only defense mechanism. I tell myself I’m manipulating Nikita, using him to get close enough to find the truth.

The more I think about it the more the logic twists.

He didn’t just silence me with that announcement. He rewrote reality. He took a scandal that should have destroyed him and turned it into a romance. That level of control… it’s not just smart. It’s terrifying.

It confirms he’s the right target, though. If anyone knows what happened to Ayaan, it’s him. He’s the spider at the center of the web. I just have to figure out how to get him to show me the threads.

Finishing my coffee, I feel the walls closing in. I need air. I need to move.

Grabbing a coat and my phone, I head out. I don’t have a destination in mind, but I need to walk.

The streets are busy, which usually helps. The anonymity of the crowd is comforting. Today, it feels different.

About three blocks from my apartment, the back of my neck prickles.

Instinct, honed by months of paranoia, flares to life. I keep walking, but my senses sharpen. I listen to the rhythm of the footsteps around me.

One set matches mine.

I speed up. The footsteps speed up. I slow down. They slow down.

Panic flares in my chest, hot and sharp. Is it him? Is it Nikita? Did he decide I need an escort to the grocery store?

Turning a sharp corner, I duck into a narrow alleyway between two boutiques. I press myself against the brick wall, waiting. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

The footsteps stop at the corner of the building.

Silence stretches, thick and tense. I reach into my pocket, wrapping my fingers around my keys. It’s not a gun, but the jagged metal end would do some damage if I had to.

Then, a shadow moves. A figure steps into the mouth of the alley.