Page 58 of Scarred Bratva King

And Veronica?

She doesn’t belong in this life. Her softness, her warmth—they’re meant for a world far away from the bloodstains and betrayals that define mine. If I keep her here, I’ll destroy her. That’s what men like me do.

The sound of footsteps outside the door pulls me from my thoughts. I glance toward the shadows under the doorframe but don’t call out. Likely Ivan or one of the guards, always pacing the halls. Still, my hand instinctively brushes against the drawer where my gun is hidden.

I exhale, shaking my head at my own paranoia.

My phone buzzes on the desk, and I glance at the screen. A text from Ivan:“Dmitri’s gone hunting.”

I type back quickly, telling him to keep me informed. When he finds Marco, I want to be there. Maybe burn him a few times on a stovetop. Then kill Lombardi.

Ending him will tie this up neatly, securing Veronica’s safety and eliminating the last threats to my new reign.

And then what?

The question hangs in the air, refusing to be ignored. Veronica is temporary. A distraction. A deal. That’s what I keep telling myself, even as the memory of her laugh creeps into my thoughts again.

Even as I imagine her curled up on the library couch, lost in one of her books, oblivious to how much space she’s started taking up in my mind.

The soft knock at my office door pulls my attention from the documents scattered across my desk.

Before I can say anything, the door creaks open, and Veronica steps inside, limping. Her face is flushed, but her chin is raised in that familiar stubborn defiance that both infuriates and captivates me.

My eyes narrow as I push back from my desk and stand. “What happened? Who hurt you?”

“It’s nothing,” she says, brushing me off with a wave of her hand. “I just slipped by the pool.”

I stride toward her, my gaze scanning her from head to toe. She’s favoring her left foot, and there’s a faint grimace she’s trying to hide.

My jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going swimming?”

She crosses her arms, her voice sharp. “Because I wanted to do it myself. I’m not helpless, Maxim.”

The defiance in her voice makes me pause. I know she’s trying to prove something—maybe to me, maybe to herself—but all I can see is her pain.

Without a word, I close the distance between us and kneel in front of her, gently grasping her injured ankle.

“Sit,” I order, nodding toward the nearby chair.

She hesitates, her stubbornness flashing in her eyes, but eventually she lowers herself into the chair.

I take her foot in my hands, carefully lifting it to examine the swelling around her ankle. Her skin is soft beneath my fingers, and I hate how delicate it feels, how fragile. It makes me feel protective in a way I can’t afford to be.

“You shouldn’t have been swimming alone,” I say, my voice low but firm. “What if you slipped and fell under the water?”

“It might surprise you to know I kept myself alive for quite a while before we met. Besides, I was doing well. No panic attacks at all. Well, just the one, but I stomped on that motherfucker.”

“Doing well doesn’t mean pushing yourself to the point of injury,” I counter, glancing up at her. Her face is flushed, and not just from pain. She’s embarrassed. Defensive.

“I don’t need you to babysit me,” she snaps, but there’s no real heat in her voice.

My thumb brushes over her ankle, testing the tenderness. She winces, and I immediately loosen my grip, guilt twisting in my chest. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

She blinks, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to say something, but then she closes her mouth and looks away.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” she says eventually, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, the whole protective Bratva husband thing.”

I arch a brow, leaning back slightly but still holding her foot. “Would you prefer I ignore you?”

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