Page 53 of Scarred Bratva King

“Well, maybe you hang out with the wrong people,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. “What’s your favorite movie, then? Something grim and gritty, I’m sure.”

“Heat,” he says without hesitation. “Flawless filmmaking. Great performances. The coffee shop scene alone is better than anything inThe Truman Show.”

“Of course you’d pick something so serious,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Let me guess, you think the hero should always be morally conflicted and the ending should make everyone feel miserable?”

“No,” he says, his tone playful now. “I think the hero should earn their victory. Nothing should come easy. Like in life.”

There’s something in the way he’s looking at me—like he’s saying more than he means to—and it makes my chest tighten.

I settle back against him, my head on his shoulder again. This time, I don’t bother trying to convince myself it’s just because it’s comfortable.

The scene on the screen shifts. A woman falls into dark, churning water, her arms flailing as she’s pulled under. The camera lingers on her panicked face, bubbles escaping her mouth as she struggles to reach the surface.

My chest tightens, the room tilting as the memory slams into me like a freight train.

I’m back there. The icy grip of the Hudson River, the weight dragging me down, my lungs burning as I fought to breathe.

My hands grip the armrest, my knuckles turning white. My breathing comes in shallow gasps, the walls of the room closing in.

“Veronica?”

Maxim’s voice cuts through the haze but I can’t answer. My eyes are locked on the screen, the drowning woman’s terror mirroring my own.

“Veronica.” His voice is sharper now, and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of me, blocking my view of the TV. His hands are on mine, prying my fingers from the armrest. “Look at me.”

I blink, my vision blurry, and focus on his face. His dark eyes are steady, his jaw tight with concern.

I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak.

He reaches for the remote, pausing the movie, then takes my hands in his. “Veronica,” he says again, softer this time. “You’re here with me. Focus.”

I nod, my hands trembling in his. “He threw me in like I was nothing. Like my life didn’t matter.”

Maxim shifts closer, his hands moving to my arms. “It matters,” he says firmly. “You matter. And you’re safe now. Do you hear me? He can’t hurt you anymore.”

I want to believe him, but the fear is a living thing, coiled tight in my chest. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I won’t let it happen,” he says, his voice like steel. “You’re under my protection, Veronica. No one touches you.”

Something in his tone—his certainty, his conviction—cuts through the fear, loosening its grip on my chest. I take a shaky breath, the room coming back into focus.

He doesn’t let go of me, his hands warm and steady. “Better?”

I nod, wiping at my eyes with a small laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin movie night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand.

He nods, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without a word, he stands and returns to the sofa, resuming his usual stoic posture.

“Let’s pick something else to watch,” he says, grabbing the remote. “How about something where the hero is called Truman and he doesn’t know his life is a TV show. Know any movie like that?”

“Nope, can’t think of anything like that off the top of my head.”

25

VERONICA

The next day…

---