Page 56 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I stay up for another hour, reviewing the security protocols for the event. Yuri has outdone himself. The venue is swept. The exit routes are mapped. The snipers are positioned on the rooftops.

It’s a fortress, but the biggest vulnerability is currently sleeping in my bed.

Eventually, I force myself to move. I strip off my clothes, the leather heavy and stiff with cold. I shower quickly, scrubbing the city from my skin, trying to wash away the lingering scent of her, but it’s no use. It’s imprinted.

I walk into the bedroom in sweatpants.

She’s asleep, curled up on her side of the bed, her back to me. The sheets are kicked down to her waist, exposing the smooth curve of her shoulder. Her hair is a spill of gold across the white pillow.

I pause. I shouldn’t sleep here, but my feet move on their own.

The mattress dips under my weight. She shifts, making a soft, sleepy sound, but she doesn’t wake. She burrows deeper into the blankets, her breathing evening out.

I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

It’s going to be a long night.

***

Morning comes too soon.

The light filters through the drapes in gray, watery streaks. I’m already awake. I’ve been awake for hours, listening to the rhythm of her breathing.

She shifts, her eyes fluttering open. For a second, she looks disoriented. Then, memory floods back. Her gaze lands on me, and she stiffens.

“Morning.” My voice is raspy. Rough.

She sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her hair is a mess, and her eyes are puffy. She looks beautiful.

“Morning.”

“We have an event tonight,” I say, skipping the pleasantries. “A gala at the Guggenheim. The Colombos will be there.”

She blinks. “The Colombos?”

“Lorenzo. Don Colombo himself.”

She freezes. “The man who… the man who had Ayaan?”

“The same.”

Her expression hardens. The softness of sleep vanishes, replaced by the familiar sharp lines of anger.

“You want me to go?”

“I want you there.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my wife.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

I get out of bed, walking to the closet. I can feel her eyes on me. Watching my movements, assessing.

“You don’t have a choice, Freya,” I say, grabbing a shirt from a hanger. “You’re part of this now.”