Page 47 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“You have no idea,” she says, her voice shaking. “You have no idea what it was like. Watching him leave, waiting for him. Wondering if he was dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I know exactly what it was like.”

“Bullshit. You don’t know anything about loss. You don’t know anything about love.”

I take another step. We’re toe-to-toe now. The air between us is crackling, electric with the force of her anger.

“I know that love makes you weak,” I say. “I know that it makes you stupid. Ayaan was an idiot for thinking he could fix his mistakes by borrowing money from people who don’t offer second chances.”

“He was trying to save me!”

“He was trying to save himself,” I counter. “And he dragged you down with him.”

“He didn’t drag me anywhere!”

“Then why are you here?” I demand. “Why are you standing in my penthouse, wearing my ring, screaming at me about a brother who’s been gone for two years?”

“I want the truth!”

“You can’t handle the truth!”

“Try me!”

I snap. I move fast, grabbing her arm and grabbing her wrists. I crowd her back, pinning her against the wall.

She gasps, her back hitting the plaster with a dull thud. One hand is braced beside her head, the other gripping her waist, holding her in place.

“Let go of me,” she warns.

“No.”

We’re breathing hard, chest to chest. The heat of her body is seeping through my shirt, igniting a fire that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with proximity.

“You think you understand what you saw,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You think a few pieces of paper make you an expert on my world.”

“I understand enough,” she fires back. Her eyes are locked on mine, fierce and unyielding. “I understand that you’re a monster.”

“Then why aren’t you running?”

She freezes. The question catches her off guard. “You have answers,” she says. “I think you know where he is.”

“I might,” I concede. “Or I might just know what happened to him.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Huge difference.”

“And you’re not going to tell me?”

“No.” The answer comes out decisive, my eyes narrowed into thin slits.

“Why?”

“You’re not ready.”

“I’m not ready?” She laughs. It’s a sharp, bitter sound. “I’ve been ready for two years.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “You’ve been grieving. You’ve been playing the victim, but you haven’t been ready to hear the truth.”