Page 65 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“I see a lot of money moving through shell corporations that don’t exist,” she retorts, her voice regaining its strength. “I see ships docking empty and leaving full. I see a lot of silence.”

“Silence is expensive.”

“So is death.”

She leans back against the edge of the desk, crossing her arms. The movement pulls the silk shirt tight across her breasts, a distracting detail I force myself to ignore.

“What do you want, Nikita?”

“To work.”

“With me?”

“You’re in my upstairs office.”

“It’s a public space.”

“Semantics.”

I round the desk, closing the final foot of distance between us. She doesn’t retreat. She holds her ground, tilting her chin up, her green eyes locking onto mine.

Progress.

“Lift your arm,” I say.

“What?”

“Lift your arm.”

A flicker of confusion wars with the defiance in her expression. Slowly, she raises her right arm.

I reach out, my fingers circling her wrist. Her pulse is rapid, fluttering against my thumb like a trapped bird.

“See?” I murmur. “Tense.”

“I’m not used to people sneaking up on me.”

“Get used to it.”

I guide her hand down, but I don’t release her. My fingers slide from her wrist to her palm, tracing the lines etched there. Her skin is incredibly soft, warm.

“I have a meeting with the logistics team in twenty minutes,” I say, my voice dropping. “I want you there.”

“I have plans.”

“Cancel them.”

“I’m not your assistant.”

“No,” I agree, stepping closer still, our knees almost touching. “You’re my partner.”

The word hangs in the air between us.

“Partner implies I have a say,” she says.

“You have a say in how we present ourselves. In how we manage the family. In how we handle the… optics.”

“I don’t care about optics.”