Page 26 of Obsessed Bratva King

It would be so easy.

The moment she left my sight, I tracked her. I let her think she was rebuilding her life on her own. She wasn’t. I built it for her.

The job? A small, quiet restaurant, tucked away in a place where no one will bother her, where they pay her what I told them to pay her. Where no one will dare touch her. Because they know better than to cross me.

The apartment?

One call, and the landlord miraculously decided to drop the rent. I made sure he understood the consequences of ignoring my orders.

A lucky break, Cora must think. Cheap place, well paid job, all in Manhattan.

And then there are the cameras.

She would kill me if she knew.

Tiny, unnoticeable. One outside her front door. One in the alley beside the building. One across the street, angled perfectly to catch anyone coming or going.

The inside ones? Those I justify less easily.

For safety, I tell myself. For control, a voice in my head corrects.

Because it isn’t just protection. It’s more than that.

I need to see her.

I need to know she’s breathing, eating, sleeping. That no one gets near her.

That no one else sees what I see when I look at her.

Because she’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it.

I watch her now, the way she moves, the slight crease in her brow as she focuses on a task, the way her fingers skim the rim of a glass absently before setting it down. Even now, I can see the exhaustion in her frame.

She’s still not eating properly. I’ll have to fix that.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and my fingers twitch. I should be the one doing that.

A muscle in my jaw tenses.

I exhale slowly, forcing the possessive urge back down, reminding myself why I’m here.

Darren’s men are out looking for her.

They’re sniffing around. They don’t know where she is yet, but they’re getting closer. I’ve intercepted two of them in New York already, inquiring about her. I should have got her to change her name, made her harder to trace.

I killed the two men but they’re like cockroaches. More will come.

There’s a shift at the edge of my vision.

A man.

He leans against the lamppost across the street, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Smoking, but not really smoking.

His posture is all wrong—too restless, too alert. His weight shifts from foot to foot, his gaze flicking toward the restaurant in a way that makes my blood run cold.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. The sharp, possessive fury in my chest burns hotter, sharper.

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