Page 86 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

He opens his door, stepping out into the downpour. He’s back in seconds, a black umbrella in one hand. He comes around to my side, opening the door and extending a hand.

I take it.

His grip is firm, warm, grounding. He pulls me out, shielding me with the umbrella as we run for the porch.

The front door is heavy steel, reinforced with a biometric scanner that looks dead in the gloom. Nikita places his thumb on the pad. A light flickers green, and the door clicks open.

We step inside. The air is stale, smelling of dust and disuse. It’s pitch-black.

“Wait here,” Nikita commands.

He releases my hand, and I hear him moving through the dark. There’s a click, then a low hum. The emergency lights kick on. They aren’t bright—just strips of LED along the baseboards and ceiling—but they cast enough of a glow to push back the shadows.

I blink, looking around.

It’s a bunker masquerading as a house. Minimalist furniture covered in white sheets. Concrete floors. No windows, just reinforced glass slits that offer a view of the raging storm outside.

“Power grid is down,” Nikita says, shaking the water from his hair. “Generator is finicky. It’ll run the lights, maybe the heat, but don’t expect Wi-Fi.”

I wrap my arms around myself. The temperature in here is dropping fast, the concrete walls leeching the warmth from my skin. “Great. So we’re stuck.”

“For a few hours.”

“A few hours?”

“Until the water recedes.”

He walks past me, heading deeper into the house. “I’ll check the supplies. Don’t touch the alarm system. It’s sensitive.”

I stand there for a moment, listening to the wind howling outside. It’s a primal sound, a reminder of how small we are. How fragile.

I follow him.

I find him in the kitchen. He’s opening cupboards, checking cans and sealed water bottles. His back is to me, his white shirt clinging to his shoulders, translucent where the rain has soaked through.

I watch him. I can see the tension that coils around his spine even in a place like this.

“You’re always like this,” I say.

He pauses, his hand on a can of peaches. “Like what?”

“On edge. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

He turns, leaning back against the counter. “Because I am.”

“We’re in a safe house, Nikita. In the middle of nowhere. There’s no one here but us.”

“There’s always someone,” he says. “Always.” He picks up the can, tossing it to me. I catch it instinctively. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need fuel.”

I set the can on the counter with a clatter. “Stop telling me what to do.”

“Then stop acting like a child.”

The air between us crackles. It’s not just the storm. It’s the weeks of tension, the forced proximity, the fights, the sex. All of it, simmering just beneath the surface.