Page 15 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I tense, ready to scream, ready to bolt.

“Freya?”

The voice is familiar but wrong. It’s not the smooth, controlled baritone of the Russian. It’s softer, raspier. It’s a voice from a lifetime ago.

I freeze. “Rafael?”

He steps into the light, and the shock hits me like a physical blow. It’s him. Rafael DeLuca. My ex.

He looks like hell. His dark hair is longer than I remember, curling over his collar. There’s stubble on his jaw, dark circles under his eyes, and he’s wearing a coat that looks too thin for the weather. He looks worn, guarded, like he’s been running a marathon he didn’t sign up for.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, my voice shaking.

He holds up his hands, palms out. A gesture of surrender. “I needed to see you.”

“You ghosted me,” I say, anger replacing the shock. “Three months ago, you just… vanished. Now you care?”

“I know.” He drops his hands, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. God, Freya, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “You disappear for months, then pop up in an alley behind a bakery? You’re crazy, Rafael.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” he says, stepping closer. He looks desperate. “I wanted to call you. I wanted to tell you where I was going, but I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t.” I cross my arms, hugging myself against the sudden chill. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He glances over his shoulder, checking the street, then turns back to me. His eyes are intense, pleading. “It means I got in over my head with some people. Bad people.”

The blood drains from my face. “Like who?” I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper.

He hesitates. Rafael looks like he wants to tell me, but he’s afraid. “I can’t say. Not here, out in the open.”

I stare at him. I don’t trust him. How can I? He left me without a word. For all I know, this is some scam, or he’s in trouble with the law and looking for a place to hide.

Except he’s here. He’s alive. Looking at him, I don’t see a con man. I see a man who is terrified.

“I can’t talk here,” he says again, his voice low. “Please. Just give me ten minutes. Somewhere private. A coffee shop, anywhere.”

I should walk away. I should turn around, go back to my apartment, and lock the door. That’s what a sensible person would do.

Except a part of me wonders if this is connected. If Rafael’s people are the same ones who took Ayaan.

“Fine,” I say, the word out of my mouth before I can talk myself out of it. “There’s a place on Fifth. Ten minutes.”

Relief washes over his face. “Thank you. Thank you, Freya.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I warn him, stepping past him and out of the alley. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

He falls into step beside me, keeping his head down. We walk in silence, the tension between us vibrating like a live wire. I don’t look at him; I’m too busy thinking about the impossible timing of it all.

First Ayaan. Then Nikita. Now Rafael.

It feels like the past isn’t just catching up to me. It’s hunting me down.

Chapter Six - Nikita

The lock on her door yields to my key without a sound. A courtesy I extended myself, ensuring I could enter whenever the mood struck. It’s a necessity in my line of work. Control isn’t just about grand gestures; it’s about access.

Stepping inside, the air hits me differently than it does in my own penthouse. There, the air is sterile and filtered, recycled endlessly until it tastes like nothing. Here, it smells lived in. I smell vanilla, old coffee, and the faint, dusty scent of paper.