Page 97 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I pace the room. The plush carpet is soft under my bare feet. I’m wearing one of his shirts—it’s all I could find in the closet when we arrived. It smells like cedar and him, a scent that’s both comforting and intoxicating.

I catch my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. I look wild. My hair is a tangle of waves, my eyes wide and shadowed. The sapphire pendant glints against my chest, a spark of blue in the gloom.

It’s madness. I should be curled up in a ball, weeping. I should be plotting my escape.

Instead, I’m imagining his hands on me.

I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take over. I see him walking through that door. He’s covered in rain, maybe even blood, but he’s here. He sees me, and his eyes darken with that familiar, predatory hunger.

He tears the shirt from my body, his hands rough, demanding. I arch my back, silently begging for more. He gives it to me—everything, all at once. The weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer, overwhelming force of his presence.

I gasp, my hand flying to my chest. My heart is racing, my skin flushed. The ache between my thighs is a persistent, throbbing reminder of what we shared in the first safe house, and what I’m starving for now.

I walk over to the sofa and sink down, burying my face in the cushions. They smell like him.

I’m trapped. I know that. I’m caught in his web, in his world,

Maybe that’s okay.

Chapter Twenty-Six - Nikita

The rain is a relentless curtain of gray, washing the grime of the city into the gutters, but it does nothing to wash away the stench of the waterfront. It’s a cocktail of rotting fish, diesel fuel, and the salty tang of the Hudson. It’s the perfect night for a funeral.

“Target is confirmed,” Yuri says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble in my earpiece. He’s positioned on the rusted gantry of the adjacent building, a sniper’s nest with a perfect line of sight into the southern sector of the warehouse. “Lorenzo’s vehicle arrived ten minutes ago. Black Escalade, tinted windows. He went inside alone, save for two personal guards and a driver.”

I adjust the strap of my tactical vest, the nylon biting into my shoulder. The weight of the Sig Sauer in my hand is a comforting constant. “And the shipment?”

“Being offloaded. Looks like pharmaceuticals. High street value.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, checking the chamber. “We aren’t here for the product. We’re here for the architect.”

“The architect has an army, Pakhan. I count twelve hostiles on the floor. Four on the catwalk. They’re carrying AKs and wearing body armor.”

I stare at the corrugated steel of the warehouse door, watching the water run down the rivets like tears. “Let them carry what they want. It won’t save them.”

“Breaching?”

“Breaching.”

We move.

The rain is deafening, drumming against the pavement and the metal containers scattered around the docks like chaotic applause. It covers the sound of our boots on the wet concrete.

I stay low, hugging the shadows, moving with the fluidity of water. Yuri is a ghost behind me, silent and deadly.

We reach the side delivery entrance. It’s a heavy steel door reinforced with a deadlock. Yuri kneels, attaching a small strip of C4 to the hinge. He looks at me, and I give the nod.

The explosion is a sharp, concussive thud that vibrates in my teeth. The door buckles inward, hanging off its hinges. Smoke pours out, curling into the wet night air.

I’m through the gap before the dust settles.

The interior of the warehouse is a cavernous cathedral of industry. Halogen lights strung up high cast long, unnatural shadows across the concrete floor. The air is thick with humidity and the smell of cardboard. Rows of shelving units tower over us, stacked high with wooden crates marked with foreign stencils.

I spot the patrol immediately. Two men, smoking near the loading bay doors. They haven’t heard the explosion over the storm.

I raise the Sig and shoot two suppressed shots.

The back of their heads explode in red mist. They drop like sacks of wet cement.