Page 14 of Scarred Bratva King

A yawn escapes me that I can’t stop. “Thanks.”

“You’re still not sleeping, are you?”

“Nope.” I fold my arms across my chest, leaning my head against the cool window. “Insomnia’s a great companion. Always there to remind you of all the crap you don’t want to think about.”

She frowns. “Have you told the doctors? Maybe they can?—”

I interrupt before she can get any further. “Elena, I’ve been loaded up on enough meds to knock out a horse. None of it works. I close my eyes, and it’s Marco’s face I see. Every damn time. Stops me in my tracks.”

Her hands tighten on the wheel. “He’s not going to hurt you again. You know that, right?”

I don’t answer, because how can I? Marco may not be here, but his shadow still lingers, stalking me in the quiet moments, in my dreams, in every sharp corner that feels like a trap.

We drive for a few minutes in silence until I notice something—a black sedan trailing us a few cars back. My pulse spikes, and I sit up straighter, gripping the edge of the seat. “Elena,” I whisper. “We’re being followed.”

She glances in the rearview mirror, then back at me, her expression calm. “Relax. It’s one of Dmitri’s guys.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they follow me pretty much everywhere. Now, the medical team are getting set up in the staff quarters, 24 hour standby. Slightest problem, you press the button by your bed and they’ll be straight there.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“And Dmitri’s paid your hospital bills.” She wags a finger at me. “Don’t thank him. It’ll just piss him off. Now relax, we’ll be there soon and then you and me can get a pizza and I can tell you how this pregnancy is going. Newsflash, nothing exciting is happening at all.”

“Can’t wait to hear more.” I give her a wink. “You’d never find me shacked up and married to some Russian psycho.”

“Give it time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She grins at me. “You’ll see.”

The moment I step into the mansion, I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of a period drama. Everything is polished marble, gold accents, and ceilings so high I hurt my neck to look up at them.

“This place must have its own ZIP code,” I mutter, my voice laced with sarcasm.

Elena chuckles beside me, nudging my arm lightly. “It’s notthatbig.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Elena, the house I grew up in could fit in this entrance hall. Twice.”

She laughs again, the sound warm and genuine, but there’s an edge of concern in her eyes as she watches me. I know she’s looking for signs that this is all too much for me. And honestly? She’s not wrong.

My chest feels tight, and I don’t know if it’s the lingering ache from my injuries or the sheer weight of stepping into a world so completely foreign to me.

“Come on,” she says, taking my hand and gently pulling me further inside. “Let me show you around.”

The tour is a blur of grandeur. The dining room could seat an army, the kitchen looks like it belongs in a five-star restaurant, and the gardens outside are so perfectly manicured they don’t seem real.

And then we reach the library.

I stop in the doorway. The room is enormous, the walls lined with dark, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that seem to stretch into infinity.

A massive window lets in a flood of natural light, illuminating rows of plush armchairs and heavy oak tables. It’s warm and inviting, the kind of place that I could happily die inside.

“Heaven exists,” I whisper, stepping inside and running my fingers over the spines of the books. “And it’s here.”

She smiles, leaning against the doorframe. “I thought you’d like it. My favorite too.”

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