Page 31 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

He stands up. The sudden movement makes me flinch, but he ignores it. He walks around the table, his footsteps silent on the marble.

He comes to a stop right behind my chair.

I have to crane my neck to look up at him. He looms over me, a wall of expensive wool and restrained power.

“You made this,” he says, placing his hands on the back of my chair, caging me in. “For me.”

“I was trying to be nice,” I say, my voice trembling slightly.

“Were you?” He leans down, bringing his face level with mine.

His breath fans against my neck, warm and coffee-scented. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.

“You tried to punish me,” he murmurs, his lips inches from my ear. “You tried to make a point.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, my breath hitching as his cologne fills my senses.

“Yes, you do.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. The touch is light, barely there, but it burns.

“You made this meal,” he whispers. “My wife made it.”

The words hang in the air between us. He lingers there for a moment, just long enough to make me aware of his body heat, of the strength in his hands, of the way his eyes darken as he looks at my mouth.

Then, he pulls away. He straightens up, adjusting his cuffs, and steps back. The spell breaks.

“Eat,” he says, turning toward the door. “You’ll need your strength.”

“I’m not eating that,” I call after him.

He pauses at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. “Then make something else,” he says. “Next time… remember who you’re cooking for.”

He walks out, leaving me sitting there with a tray of poisoned eggs and a heart that won’t stop racing.

I reach out and touch the back of my neck, where his breath still seems to linger against my skin.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to disgust him.

Instead, I think I just made him want me more.

Chapter Ten - Nikita

The morning reports blur together on my desk. Shipment manifests, financial projections, intelligence briefings on the Colombo family’s recent movements.

Yuri drones on about a discrepancy in the Brighton Beach accounts, but his words wash over me like white noise.

My mind is elsewhere.

Specifically, it’s in the kitchen, replaying the way Freya’s eyes tracked my every move as I lifted that fork. The slight tremor in her hands she tried to hide by crossing her arms. The way her lips parted when she expected me to spit the food out.

She wanted a reaction. She wanted me to choke, to rage, to prove her right about the monster she’s convinced I am.

Instead, I ate it.

It was inedible—my tongue still burns from the salt, and that coffee was a war crime. Refusing would have given her the victory. It would have confirmed that she could get under my skin, that she could disrupt my control.

I don’t give victories away.

“Sir.” Yuri’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “The Sokolov situation?”