Page 37 of Obsessed Bratva King

My breath stutters.

That explains it all.

The too-good rent. The way my landlord avoided eye contact when I signed the lease.

The way my boss never questions me, never pushes me, always looks afraid of me.

“You’re bleeding,” I say as he shakes off his jacket. “Who got you this time?”

“Dead men,” he replies. “First aid kit. You got one?”

I bring it out from beneath the counter, my fingers trembling.

He leans against the counter, his gaze unreadable, his breathing slow and even like he isn’t dying all over my workplace. Like he hasn’t just walked in here, tearing my life apart all over again. “Was that you?” I ask, pointing at the chaos outside, the sirens getting louder.

My fingers brush the first button of his ruined shirt.

He doesn’t stop me.

Doesn’t even flinch. Says nothing.

I hesitate.

It’s not fear that holds me still—it’s something far worse.

Memory.

I remember this.

I remember the feel of his body beneath my hands. The sharp edges of him, the way he felt unmovable, untouchable—except when he was touching me.

I force my hands to keep going, sliding each button free, revealing the damage beneath.

God help me.

His body is all hard muscle and old scars, a canvas of violence and history I’ll never understand. Blood streaks his ribs, the deep, angry gash beneath screaming for attention.

And his skin is warm.

Too warm.

I shouldn’t be touching him. I shouldn’t be here, pressing a cloth to his side, cleaning the blood from his skin.

The weight of his stare sets my nerves on fire. His breathing slows as I work.

Heat grows low in my stomach.

I clear my throat. “I need to clean it first.”

His lips twitch, a slow, knowing smirk.

“You remember.”

He watches as I grab the bottle of alcohol and a clean cloth.

When I pour it over the wound, he doesn’t flinch.

Of course he doesn’t. Ivan isn’t the kind of man who shows pain.

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