Page 74 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

He follows me over the edge, his body tensing, a low groan tearing from his throat as he finds his release.

We collapse against each other, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing ragged. For a long time, we just lie there, tangled together on the desk.

Eventually, he stirs, lifting his head to look at me. “You’re a mess,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“So are you,” I retort, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

He catches my hand, bringing my fingers to his lips. He kisses them gently, a stark contrast to the rough passion from moments before.

“We should clean up,” he says.

“Yeah,” I agree, but neither of us moves.

Chapter Twenty - Nikita

The penthouse is a cage of glass and steel, and she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen inside it.

Freya moves through the living area, a glass of juice in her hand, the morning light catching the loose strands of hair around her face. She brushes them back, a simple, unconscious gesture, and my body responds with a primal, gut-deep ache.

I watch her from the shadows of the hallway, a predator observing its prey. She’s still playing her game, still digging for answers, still looking at me with a mixture of hatred and desire. But the fire between us is real. It’s a living, breathing thing, and it’s consuming us both.

I remind myself of the rules. Control is everything. Distraction is a liability.

She’s more than a distraction now. She’s an obsession.

I move into the room, my footsteps silent on the marble. She doesn’t hear me approach. She’s staring out the window, lost in thought.

I stop behind her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. “You’re thinking about him again,” I say, my voice low.

She jumps, turning to face me. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on me.”

“I don’t sneak. I observe.”

I reach out, my fingers lightly grazing her shoulder as I point to a ship passing in the distance. “See that? Cargo tanker from Hamburg. It’s carrying electronics. High-value, low-profile.”

My touch lingers, a deliberate, teasing pressure. I feel her shiver, a subtle tremor that runs through her entire body.

“It’s just a boat, Nikita.”

“Everything is more than it seems, Freya.”

She pulls away, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“It’s what I know.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, a low, insistent hum. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. A blocked number.

“Excuse me,” I say, turning away from her. “I have to take this.”

I walk into my office, closing the door behind me. The room is soundproof, a fortress within a fortress.

I answer the call. “What did you get?”

The voice on the other end is distorted, electronic. “Pavel Zhivago. He’s a mole.”