Page 65 of Scarred Bratva King

The shelves, painted a soft sage green, are lined up exactly as I’d imagined during those late-night planning sessions with him. All ready for the books to be lined up in order.

The reading nook in the far corner—a little oasis of comfort with its oversized armchair, matching ottoman, and a soft rug—is exactly where I’d dreamed it would be.

The chair we picked together sits proudly in its place, the fabric a deep navy that stands out against the lighter tones of the space.

I trail my fingers along the edge of the counter, feeling the smooth wood beneath my fingertips. He listened to me. Every detail, every little wish I’d mentioned in passing, is here.

My throat tightens as the weight of it hits me. He didn’t just give me a bookstore. He gave methis.

But the hollowness in my chest refuses to fade. I have this but I’m losing him. I’ve achieved my dream and I should be happy.

Instead, I feel empty. How can he do something so kind and thoughtful and still tell me he’s a monster who can’t change? Slit a man’s throat without giving a shit about it.

My two security guards wait near the front door, watching the street as I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus.

I grab a box cutter from the counter and start slicing open one of the cardboard boxes stacked near the shelves.

The scent of fresh ink wafts up as I pull back the flaps, revealing a stack of brand-new books, their covers glossy and inviting.

"Do you need help, ma’am?" one of the guards asks, stepping closer.

"No, I’m surprisingly capable," I reply, giving him a curt smile. “You can make me a coffee though if you like.”

He disappears into the back as his colleague moves across to the window, staring out at the street.

I start stacking the books onto the shelves, arranging them by genre, then by author.

My fingers tremble slightly as I work, my emotions bubbling too close to the surface. I blink back the sting in my eyes, unwilling to let myself cry here, of all places.

I stop to take a breath, leaning against the counter and glancing at the chair in the corner. I can still hear his voice in my head as he insisted that it would look better with a soft throw draped over the back. I laughed and told him he had surprisingly good taste for someone so terrifying.

And in a day or two, it’ll be over forever.

I shake my head, pulling myself out of my thoughts. Dwelling on what-ifs won’t change anything.

With a deep breath, I pull another box closer and get back to work.

An hour later, I stop working when I hear the faint sound of the doorbell chime. I glance up from behind the counter to see two men step into the store.

They’re not customers. One of my guards is making coffee again. The other has his hand near his jacket, waiting for shit to go south.

Something about the smirks of the newcomers—the way their eyes lazily scan the space as if they own it—sets me on edge immediately. Their leather jackets and heavy boots don’t screambook lover.

“We’re not open yet,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady as I straighten from behind the counter. My fingers curl tightly around the box cutter I’ve been using.

One of the men looks at me, his grin widening. “That’s alright. We’re just browsing.”

My stomach churns. Their tone isn’t playful—it’s mocking.

“Not today,” I reply, injecting steel into my voice. “Come back when the store is actually open.”

They ignore me, stepping further inside. One of them drags a finger across the counter, eyeing me like I’m something to eat.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” the other one says, his voice dripping with fake admiration. “Shame if something were to happen to it. Lot of fires in this area, you know?”

The guard by the window steps forward, his hand resting on the holster at his hip. “You need to leave,” he says firmly.

The first man shrugs. “Gonna make us, you Russian prick?”

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