Page 82 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

The training drags on for another hour. I push them hard, running the drills until their movements become instinctive, until they act as a single organism rather than a collection of individuals. By the time I call a halt, sweat slicks their skin and their chests heave.

“Good enough,” I say, though it isn’t really. It will have to be. “Dismissed. Clean your gear and get some rest. We’re on high alert starting now.”

They disperse, grabbing water bottles and towels, the tension in the room breaking as they shed the personas of soldiers and return to being men.

I walk down the metal stairs, my boots heavy on the treads. I head straight for the office.

Freya sits at the desk, a stack of invoices in front of her. She looks up as I enter, her eyes wary.

“You’re loud,” she says.

“I’m effective.”

“You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a realist.”

I walk around the desk, not stopping until I stand right behind her chair. She stiffens, her shoulders pulling tight, but she doesn’t move away.

“Did you learn anything?” I ask, my voice dropping to a low murmur.

“That you have very high standards,” she replies, her voice slightly breathless.

“That I have very dangerous enemies.”

“Antonov,” she says. “The big one. He hesitated.”

“He did.”

“Why?”

“He was distracted,” I say, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her ear. “In a firefight, that gets you killed. You have to trust your training. You have to trust your brothers.”

“Do you trust them?”

“With my life,” I say without hesitation. “With yours.”

She turns her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine. There is a question in them, a flicker of vulnerability that she quickly masks.

“Is that supposed to make me feel safe?”

“No, but it’s the truth.”

I straighten up, pulling away from her. The loss of contact is jarring, a sudden cold rush in the overheated warehouse.

“Pack up,” I say. “We’re done here.”

***

The ride back to the penthouse is quiet. The city lights blur past, a smear of gold and red. Freya sits beside me, her fingers curled around the door handle, her gaze fixed on the passing buildings.

I catch her glancing at me once, a quick, furtive look that she tries to hide when I turn my head. She is thinking about the training, about the men, about the violence that is now the backdrop of her life.

I let her think. It is better than the alternative. It is better than her feeling helpless.

When we arrive, the staff has already retired for the night. The penthouse is dark, the only light coming from the city outside.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she says, heading toward the bedroom without waiting for a response.