Page 30 of Scarred Bratva King

It’s overwhelming, and I hate it. I hate the way she makes me feel, like I’d tear apart anyone who so much as looked at her the wrong way.

Love is weakness, I remind myself, the mantra echoing in my head. It’s been drilled into me my whole life, and I’ve lived by it. Obsessions don’t last. Love causes pain. Business must come first.

But as I stand there, watching her sleep, the thoughts feel hollow. All I care about is watching her for a few more seconds.

15

VERONICA

The next day…

When I find out there’s a gym in this place, I head straight for it. Of course Maxim’s already in there.

The rhythmic clang of weights echoes down the hallway as I approach, the sound sending an odd flutter through my chest.

The faint smell of leather and sweat grows stronger as I near the open door, and I pause in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

And there he is.

Maxim, in a black tank top that clings to his broad chest, arms flexing as he curls a barbell with effortless precision.

The Bratva tattoos across his shoulders ripple with every movement. His expression is as cold and focused as ever, but there’s a fire in the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, lethal.

I’m staring. I know I’m staring, but I can’t stop. My mouth goes dry, and for a split second, I forget why I even came in here.

“Take a picture if you want,” he says without looking up. “You can use it later.”

I fix an indifferent grin on my face. “Whatever for? I am an innocent maiden with no clue what you might be referring to?”

“Not what you were saying at the engagement party.”

I swallow down a smile at the memory. “If you’re trying to impress me by working out, you’re failing,”

He sets the barbell down with a deliberate thud. “If I wanted to impress you, Veronica, you’d know.” He winces slightly, leaning to pick up his cane. “Why are you here?”

“Let’s do the math, shall we? Gym gear, in a gym. Must be to spy on you.” I step into the room, scanning the sleek equipment and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflect every angle of his ridiculously perfect form. “So this is your secret lair. All the better to brood in, right?”

“Something like that.” His dark eyes sweep over my loose sweater and leggings. His gaze lingers for a second too long before he picks up a towel, wiping his hands. “Change out of that before we meet with my father.”

I cross the room and sit casually on the edge of a bench, trying not to look like my knees are about to buckle under his gaze. “You in charge of my wardrobe now.”

“Someone needs to be.”

“I could go wearing my Fuck the Patriarchy tee-shirt. Think he’d like that?”

“I assume you’re joking.”

“Wait and see.”

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t reply, so I press on. “I’m thinking he might ask about my parents. And I figure we might as well stick to the truth—or close enough. They do say the best lies are hidden in truth. That’s what they said inThe X-Filesanyway.”

“You watched that too?” He snorts—an actual snort—and for a fleeting moment, I feel like I’ve won some sort of prize. “Didn’t think you were old enough.”

“Heard of reruns?”

“What do you want us to tell him,” he says, shaking his head.

“The last thing I’m guessing you want is for your father to sniff out a weak spot.”

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