Page 35 of Scarred Bratva King

“You dumb fuck, it means we’re even.” I crack my knuckles. “Tell everyone to find that son of a bitch and fast. I don’t want him escaping again.”

The mansion is quiet when I step inside, save for the faint ticking of an antique clock in the hallway. My shirt is wrinkled, a faint smear of blood on the cuff. I roll my shoulders, the dull ache in my hip a reminder of the ‘conversation’ I just had.

I find her in the library.

A fire crackles in the hearth. And there she is, sitting cross-legged on the plush armchair by the fire, a book resting on her lap.

Veronica.

My obsession. My father was wrong. This obsession only grows like ivy, suffocating me, making it impossible for me to see anything else but her.

She’s wearing one of Elena’s sweaters, oversized and slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth, pale skin that practically begs for my lips.

Her legs are bare, tucked under her as she reads. The way her lips part slightly when she’s focused, the way her fingers absently brush the edge of the page—it all feels so damn intimate. She doesn’t even know how much I want to press her back into that chair, strip away every barrier between us, and claim her.

Elena sits on the opposite side of the room, flipping through a magazine. She glances up when I enter, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Rough morning?”

Veronica finally looks up, her gaze locking onto mine. She doesn’t miss the scratch on my neck or the tension in my shoulders. “What happened to you?” she asks, arching a brow. “Lose a fight with a cat?”

“Something like that,” I reply, my voice even.

“Did you find Marco?”

“He wasn’t there but we’ll find him soon enough.” I gesture to the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”

She holds it up.The Master and Margarita.“It seemed fitting,” she says, her voice teasing.

I smirk, stepping closer. “Woland is a fascinating character, don’t you think?”

“You see yourself as Woland?” she asks, tilting her head. “The devil himself?”

I let my smirk deepen. “Why not? An enigmatic, all-powerful stranger with a penchant for chaos.”

She laughs, the sound soft and unexpected. “You’re more like the cat, Maxim. Stirring up trouble for no reason and knocking things off tables. Try not to shit on the floor, that’s all I ask.”

Elena snorts from across the room, clearly enjoying this exchange. “She’s not wrong,” she says, flipping a page in her magazine. “You should put a collar on him.”

I lean against the arm of Veronica’s chair, close enough to catch the faint scent of her—something warm and floral. “Chaos has its uses,” I murmur, my voice low.

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the air between us shifts. The teasing fades, replaced by something heavier.

“Is that what this is?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “Chaos?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I reach out and take the book from her hands, my fingers brushing hers. She tenses but doesn’t pull away. Flipping to a random page, I glance at the text. “Chaos,” I say finally, “can be the start of something extraordinary.”

Her lips part, but before she can reply, Elena clears her throat. “Am I interrupting something, or should I leave you two to your Russian literature quotes?”

Veronica flushes and shifts back in her chair. I set the book down on the table beside her.

“We were discussing the bookstore this morning,” I say smoothly. “Have you thought about what furniture you need?”

She shakes her head, still looking a little flustered. “Not yet. I?—”

“Then we’ll go find some now,” I interrupt.

Her brow furrows. “You don’t have to do that.”

“We leave in ten minutes. Be ready.”

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