Page 19 of Obsessed Bratva King

“Give me a name and he’s dead.”

She gives me an icy cold smile. “He already is.”

“You?” I ask, suddenly understanding.

“Stabbed him while he slept then got the hell out of there.”

I don’t realize how hard my jaw is clenched until it starts to ache. Something sharp and ugly claws inside me, looking for a target.

She shifts, her cheek pressing against my chest. She’s still trembling. “Should have done the same to Darren,” she mutters.

I press my lips into a thin line.

I should tell her it’s over. That none of those men can touch her now. That she’s safe.

But I don’t. Because I won’t lie.

I shift, turning just enough so that I can tip her chin up, forcing her to look at me.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, glassy with tears, her lips parted in the aftermath of sobs she’s still trying to swallow down.

"You’re not on your own anymore,” I say. "And no one will ever hurt you again."

“Says the man who told me we only get one night.”

I don’t answer. No one touches her. No one. She doesn’t need to know I’ll be watching her, keeping her safe. If she knew, she’d think we could make this work and we can’t.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” I say, helping her to settle. “Get some sleep.”

She stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, slowly, she relaxes against me. I stroke her forehead lightly, muttering a Russian lullaby in her ear.

Her body settles against mine, the tension unwinding.

Eventually, her breathing evens out. The shaking stops. And before I know it—she’s asleep again.

I don’t move.

I don’t let go.

Instead, I stare at the ceiling, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The tension in my gut shifts. The air in the room feels wrong all of a sudden.

The city is still humming outside, but something about the stillness inside the suite is off.

My body tenses. My instincts sharpen. Years of survival whisper in my ear.

I glance down at Cora. She doesn’t stir. Knows I’ll protect her.

The feeling coils tight in my gut, years of instinct screaming at me to move. I don’t question it.

I slide out of bed, fingers curling around the gun on the nightstand.

The moment my feet hit the floor, the suite door slides silently open.

A figure creeps in, gun in his hand. His eyes dart around the room but he’s yet to see me. I step out of the darkness, one hand behind my back. “Evening, Peter,” I say coolly.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he says, jumping back from me. "I came with intel.”

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