Page 59 of Scarred Bratva King

She grins, the corners of her mouth lifting in a way that makes my chest tighten. “No, I just didn’t expect you to turn into Florence Nightingale.”

I smirk despite myself. “Trust me, I’m not that soft.”

She laughs, the sound lightening the tension in the room. “Could’ve fooled me.”

But the truth is, I’m not soft. Not by a long shot. And yet, seeing her like this—hurt, vulnerable—makes me feel things I’ve spent years trying to bury.

“You need to rest,” I say, standing and setting her foot back down gently. “No more swimming for now.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a look. “That’s not a suggestion, Veronica.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s debating whether to fight me on this, but eventually she sighs. “Fine. But only because you look like you’re about to lecture me for an hour and I can’t take it.”

“Good choice,” I say, my tone dry.

She looks small, but there’s nothing fragile about the way she stares at me—challenging, as always.

“Don’t move,” I say, heading to the cabinet by the window to grab a first-aid kit.

“I could go to the medical team, leave you in peace.”

“Yet you came to me. Keep still.”

“I’m not going anywhere, nurse,” she quips, a teasing grin tugging at her lips when I return.

I kneel in front of her, settling her foot in my lap.

My hands work carefully over the tender area, testing the swelling with just enough pressure to avoid hurting her.

She lets out a soft sigh, and for a moment, all I want to do is rip her clothes off.

“Okay, I have to ask,” she says, leaning back slightly on her hands. “How are you so good at this? Do they teach massages in Bratva training school?”

“I’ve had practice,” I reply, smirking at her curiosity.

She arches a brow. “On other damsels in distress?”

“Something like that.” My hands shift to a firmer grip, her muscles relaxing under my touch.

She studies me for a moment, her playful demeanor softening. “You know, this isn’t just about swimming.”

I pause, glancing up at her. “What do you mean?”

Her voice drops slightly, her usual armor of humor slipping away. “It was about proving something. That I can take care of myself. I don’t like relying on other people. Never have.”

I nod, my hands stilling. “And you feel you always have to do things alone?”

She shrugs, her gaze falling to her lap. “That way, no one’s there to see if you fail.”

I tilt my head, watching her closely. “You didn’t fail. But doing everything alone doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes you lonely.”

Her eyes flicker to mine, something unreadable passing through them. “Is that from personal experience?”

I lean back slightly, my hands resting on her shin. “Maybe.”

For a moment, I consider stopping there, but something about her gaze—open, waiting—pushes me to continue.

“My father ruled the family,” I say, my voice low. “Everything had to be his way. Brutal. Controlling. He thought it was the only way to maintain power.”

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