Page 29 of Obsessed Bratva King

I lower him to the ground smoothly, watching as the light fades from his eyes.

I wipe the blade clean against his jacket, standing up, glancing around.

It’s like he was never here.

My place is nothing like hers—bare, functional, empty. A penthouse overlooking the city, all sharp angles and cold surfaces. The kind of place no one with a soul would live in.

I strip off my jacket, tossing it onto the chair in the corner. My vodka burns as it slides down my throat, but it doesn’t settle me the way it should.

Not when I know she’s still out there. Alone. Unprotected.

They’ll keep coming. I need a way to keep her safe.

The idea comes to me at once. Marry her.

With my name, no one will touch her.

She’ll be untouchable. She’ll also be mine.

I set the glass down, exhaling slowly.

Then I pull out my phone and open the security feed from her apartment.

Nothing out of place, no shadows in the hallway, no threats lurking in the dark. She’s safe. Humming to herself in the shower, the steam making it impossible to see more than a vague outline of her body. I’ve jerked off to that outline more times than I can count.

I sit back in my chair, one hand resting on the desk as my other lingers near my gun, a habit I can’t shake. I watch the screen as she emerges and wraps a towel around herself, pulling her hair up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck.

She has no idea.

No idea that I’m watching. No idea that every ounce of peace she’s had since coming here is because I refuse to let the world touch her.

Because I refuse to let Darren reach her.

The air in my apartment suddenly feels too thick, too hot.

Her skin is still damp, a soft sheen catching the dim light as she moves. The bruises that once darkened her body, the ones that made my blood boil, that made me vow to destroy every man who had ever put a hand on her, are gone now, her skin smooth and untouched. I should be relieved.

Instead, I want to mark her all over again.

The towel clings to her frame, barely covering her. A single droplet of water slips from her collarbone, down between her breasts, over the soft curve of her stomach.

Mine.

She pads toward the bed, unaware, unguarded. The light from her bedside lamp casts a golden glow over her skin, making her look softer than she is. She’s small, delicate, but I know better than to think she’s fragile. There’s fire inside her.

Fire only I should be allowed to tame.

She sits on the edge of the bed and picks up her brush, running it through her hair. I watch the strands glide through the bristles, watch the way her throat bobs as she breathes, watch the way she closes her eyes for a second, like the act itself soothes her.

And then?—

She drops the towel.

I suck in a sharp breath through my nose.

My cock throbs with need.

Not just her curves, though they set something deep and possessive alight inside me. It’s everything. The way her skin glows under the dim light, the way her fingers absently skim over her stomach as she reads, the way she shifts lazily on the sheets, utterly unaware of what she’s doing to me.

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