Page 58 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

She’s wearing red. She’s clad in a floor-length gown of silk velvet that hugs her curves like a second skin. The neckline plunges, exposing the soft swell of her breasts. Her back is bare, a smooth expanse of pale skin that makes my mouth go dry.

She looks like a queen. A warrior.

She turns around, and the skirt flares out, swirling around her ankles.

It’s perfect.

“You look—” I stop, searching for the right word. “Dangerous.”

She smiles, a sharp, red-lipped smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I thought that was the point.”

“It is.”

I walk over to her, reaching out to adjust the strap of her dress. My fingers brush against her skin. She tenses slightly, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Tonight,” I say, my voice low, “you stay by my side. You don’t speak to Lorenzo unless I say so. You don’t accept drinks from anyone but me.”

“I’m not a child, Nikita.”

“No,” I agree, letting my hand linger on her shoulder. “You’re a target.”

The reality of the situation hangs between us.

“I can handle myself,” she says.

“I know.” I step back, my eyes raking over her. “But let me handle the threats.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then, she nods.

“Okay.”

“Good.”

I offer her my arm, and she takes it. Her hand is warm, her grip firm.

We walk out of the bedroom together.

***

The Guggenheim is a spiral of glass and steel, illuminated against the night sky. The gala is in full swing, the rotunda filled with the elite of New York.

We make our entrance.

I feel the shift in the room immediately. The whispers start as soon as we step onto the curving walkway. The cameras flash.

Freya is tense beside me. I can feel it in the set of her shoulders, the way she holds her breath.

I squeeze her arm reassuringly. “Head up,” I murmur. “Smile.”

She lifts her chin and plasters on a smile that looks genuine enough to fool anyone who isn’t looking for cracks.

We descend into the pit of vipers.

It’s a sea of expensive suits and glittering gowns. Waiters float by with trays of champagne. An orchestra plays somewhere in the distance, drowning out the conversations.

I spot Lorenzo immediately.

He’s standing near the center of the room, a glass of wine in hand. He’s older than me, his face lined with age and cruelty. He’s flanked by two men who look like they’d snap a neck as soon as look at you.