Page 90 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I lean up and kiss him. It’s a gentle kiss, a promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say against his lips.

He tightens his hold on me, burying his face in my hair. “You might not have a choice.”

***

Hours later, the silence wakes me.

The storm has passed. The house is quiet, the gray light of dawn seeping through the glass slits.

I’m still on the couch, curled up in Nikita’s lap. He’s asleep, his head resting against the back of the cushion, his breathing deep and even.

I shift slightly, trying not to wake him.

His arms tighten around me instantly, a reflex. “Go back to sleep,” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep.

“I can’t. It’s morning.”

“Too early.”

“The rain stopped.”

He opens his eyes, blinking groggily. He looks down at me, a slow smile spreading across his face.

I watch as he shifts, sitting up straighter. I slide off his lap, standing up and stretching. My muscles protest, a delicious ache that reminds me of last night.

“I need to check the road,” he says, standing up. “We should move before the locals get curious.”

He walks to the window, peering out through the reinforced glass. “The water is receding,” he says. “We can leave in an hour.”

I watch him, standing there in the gray light. He’s putting his armor back on, piece by piece. The distance is returning. The control.

I walk over to him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. I rest my forehead against his back.

He stiffens for a second, then relaxes, covering my hands with his. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m just…” I trail off, searching for the right words. “Anchoring myself.”

He turns around, pulling me into his arms. “You don’t need an anchor,” he says. “You have me.”

Chapter Twenty-Four - Nikita

She thinks she’s hiding it.

Freya stands by the reinforced glass of the safe house window, her back to me, pretending to watch the water recede from the gravel drive. Her posture is rigid, her shoulders squared in a way that screams defensiveness.

I see the tremor in her hands as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. I see the faint, lingering flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold morning air.

She’s unraveling. Or perhaps, she’s finally knitting herself back together, just into a shape that fits me.

I walk up behind her, the floorboards silent under my boots. I don’t announce myself; I just step into her space.

Her breath hitches—a sharp, betrayed intake of air that she tries to swallow. She knows I’m here.