Page 11 of Obsessed Bratva King

The spread is excessive—steaming bowls of soup, crisp slices of dark bread, small plates with pickled vegetables, and a platter of pelmeni, their golden skins glistening with melted butter.

While they’re laying everything out, a third man enters, passing me a heavy bag. “Compliments of the house, Mr. Stepanov.”

I nod in response. Then I glance at her—and feel it. Same as I did when I saw her naked in the shower.

The slow, dangerous pull of heat.

She’s beautiful. Not just the delicate bone structure, or the deep, dark eyes that hold too much grief for someone so young. It’s the fight in her. The sharpness.

The way she looks at me, like she can’t decide if she wants to stab me or ask me to hold her.

Smart girl. I like smart girls. I tip the men as they leave before locking the door. “You shouldn’t have opened it,” I tell her. “Could have been anyone.”

“You were on a call. Looked like you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

I toss her the bag. “Clothes. Take your pick.”

“For me?”

“They sure as hell won’t fit me.”

She disappears back into the bathroom while I pour myself a drink. When she returns, she’s in a soft cashmere sweater, thick socks, and a pair of loose joggers.

She looks comfortable.

Her eyes flick from the food to me, suspicious.

I lean forward. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I got one of everything. Sit. Eat.”

She hesitates before taking a first bite, as if expecting a trick. I watch the way she lifts the fork, cautious, deliberate, the way her fingers tremble ever so slightly before she shoves the food into her mouth.

Then her eyes flutter shut.

A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips. She grabs a bread roll and crams it in, cheeks bulging.

I pick up my own fork, slicing into the pelmeni. "Try this. Russian dumplings. My mother made them by hand when I was a kid."

She watches me carefully, but she takes the bite I offer her. The moment it hits her tongue, she smiles. The sight warms my cold dead heart.

"What’s in it?" she asks.

"Meat. Usually pork or beef, sometimes lamb. The dough is simple but it takes hours to make right. My mother would roll it thin, cut each perfect little circle, fold them one by one around the filling."

I take another bite, the taste pulling up memories I haven’t visited in a long time. "We ate them in the winter, mostly. They freeze well. Never seen them before?”

She stares at her plate. "Only through restaurant windows." She stares into the distance. "I’d be out in the cold," she continues, voice soft, almost lost in the quiet of the suite. "My stomach so empty it felt like it was eating itself. I’d watch them leave plates full of food, laughing like they didn’t even care about the waste. When people sat outside, I’d wait for them to leave, then grab what I could before the waiters cleared the tables."

She looks up at me, as if waiting for judgment.

"Smart," I say.

She blinks.

"You steal to survive." I take a sip of my drink. "A man in a suit does the same thing on Wall Street, and they call it business. You get no judgment from me."

Her lips twitch. "You sound like you speak from experience."

I grin. "Crime is always in the eye of the beholder."

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