Page 84 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

Inside lies a brooch. A large, teardrop-shaped piece of gold. It’s the Gromov crest. A piece of history.

She gasps, her fingers hovering over the jewels.

“It’s…” She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “It’s too much. I already have your mother’s necklace.”

“It’s family,” I say. “It belonged to my father, and his father before him.”

Her eyes widen further.

“Nikita, I can’t—”

“You can,” I interrupt. “You will.”

I take the brooch from the box, the gold warm from my pocket. She allows me to pin it carefully to the lapel of her blouse, adjusting the fabric.

“Beautiful,” I murmur.

She reaches up, touching the stone, her fingers trembling. “It was your father’s?”

“Yes.”

“Now I have a piece of both of them.”

“Yes. They’re both dead now, have been for a long time.”

Freya turns to face me, her hand still resting on the pendant. She looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read—pity, perhaps, or understanding.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

I reach out, my hand resting on her waist. My fingers curl around her hip, pulling her closer. She comes willingly, her body molding against mine.

The contact is electric. I can feel the heat radiating from her, the softness of her skin beneath the silk. I want to pick her up and carry her to the counter, to take her right here, with the city watching.

I lean down, my lips brushing against her ear.

“You wear these,” I whisper, my voice a low growl. I tap the pendant around her neck. Then, as my hand drifts down to touch the ring, I add, “You wear my name. You wear my protection.”

“I know,” she breathes.

“No,” I say, pulling back to look her in the eye. “You don’t, but you’re starting to.”

I let my hand slide from her waist to her back, my fingers tracing the line of her spine through the silk. She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Nikita,” she whispers.

“So are you.”

I lean in, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. It is a claim, a brand, a promise. She melts into me, her hands coming up to rest on my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

The kiss deepens, becoming something more. Something raw and hungry. I bite her lower lip, and she gasps, her hips bucking against mine.

I groan, my control shattering. I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. The granite is hard against my hands, but I don’t care.

I need this. I need her.

I break the kiss, trailing my mouth down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin where the sapphire rests. She arches her back, a soft moan escaping her lips.