Page 3 of Obsessed Bratva King

The sound of voices outside jolts me back to the present. They’re out there, looking for me.

I need to hide.

I grip the duffel bag and push deeper in, weaving through fallen beams and broken pews. Everything is jagged edges, the walls slick with old smoke, the ground treacherous with debris.

There—a recess in the corner, a collapsed doorway leading into what might have been a back room. I squeeze inside, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s rattling my ribs.

I press myself into the shadows, tucking the duffel behind a fallen beam. I need a weapon. Something—anything. My hands fumble through the wreckage, the wood splintering under my fingers.

There—a broken chair leg.

It’s not much. But it’ll do.

I tighten my grip around the wood just as I hear a noise.

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Not the frantic scramble of Darren’s men.

This is different.

Controlled. Unhurried.

I hold my breath, body rigid. A door creaks open.

For a long, terrible moment, there’s nothing. Just silence.

A shadow shifts in the dark, almost imperceptible. A presence, vast and patient. Whoever they are, they’re not in a hurry.

I barely breathe.

A figure steps forward.

The dim glow from the city filters through the broken stained-glass windows, and I catch my first real look at him.

Tall. Broad. Built like a man who knows how to break people and does it well. His face is carved from something harder than stone—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a mouth set in a hard line.

His hair is dark, streaked with just enough silver to hint at his age—late thirties, maybe early forties—the age when a man starts to slow down and soften. But not this man. There’s not an inch of softness in him.

His eyes—ice blue and precise, scan the wreckage like he already knows I’m here, like he’s just toying with me.

The suit he wears is expensive, but rumpled, streaked with blood. His left sleeve is dark with it. And in his right hand, he holds a pistol.

I shift my weight, preparing to lunge. But the second I do, his head tilts ever so slightly, like he hears it.

Hit, then run. Buy me enough time to get out of here. That’s all I need.

He takes another step. Too close.

I explode from the shadows, swinging the broken chair leg like a baseball bat, aiming straight for his face.

2

CORA

His hand snatches my wrist mid-swing, twisting just enough to make me drop the wood. I barely register the loss before I’m spun, my back slamming against his chest, his arm locking me in place.

His breath is hot against my ear, low and amused.

---