Page 26 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Then you can have it, for tonight.”

She looks away, breaking eye contact for the first time. Maybe she thought she could negotiate, could find a loophole, a way to maintain some semblance of her old life. She’s realizing that the old life is gone.

“Go,” I say, nodding toward the master suite. “Get changed. I’ll be in shortly.”

She hesitates, then turns and walks away. I watch her go, admiring the sway of her hips, the strength in her back. She’s magnificent when she’s angry.

I give her ten minutes.

Walking into the bedroom, I find her standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city. She’s changed out of the wedding dress, wearing a silk slip of a nightgown that leaves little to the imagination. Her hair is down, a cascade of blonde waves over her shoulders.

She looks like an angel. A very angry, trapped angel.

“The bathroom is through there,” I say, indicating the door on the left. “Closet is on the right. Your things have been moved.”

She turns to face me, crossing her arms over her chest. It’s a defensive gesture, one that draws my eyes to the curve of her breasts.

“I need to know the rules, Nikita,” she says. “If I’m going to live here, I need to know what I can and can’t do.”

“You can do whatever you want,” I reply, unbuttoning my cuff links and setting them on the dresser. “As long as you remember who you belong to.”

“And who is that?”

“Me.”

She lets out a frustrated huff. “Yeah, I know.”

I enjoy the way she watches me, her breath catching in her throat as I close the distance. She’s trapped between me and the glass, a beautiful moth backed into a corner.

I stop just outside of touching range. “You’re nervous,” I observe.

“I’m cautious,” she corrects.

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes. Nervousness implies a lack of control. Caution implies awareness.”

I smile. She’s smart. Too smart for her own good. “Awareness of what?”

“Of you,” she says, her gaze locking onto mine. “You’re dangerous, Nikita. You think you’re civilized, but you’re not. You’re a predator playing dress-up.”

“So you’re the prey?”

The air between us is thick, electric. I can feel the heat radiating off her body. I want to reach out and touch her, to grab her and pull her against me and show her exactly what kind of predator I am.

But I don’t. Instead, I step back. The movement is subtle, but the effect is immediate. The tension snaps, leaving her standing there, confused and off-balance.

“Get some sleep, darling,” I say, turning away from her. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“What?” she asks, her voice laced with disbelief. “That’s it? You’re just going to sleep?”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re torturing me,” she accuses.

“Am I?”

“Yes! You… you get that close. You say all these things, and then you just walk away?”