Page 40 of Obsessed Bratva King

11

CORA

Ishove clothes into the suitcase, fearing Darren might appear at any moment. Jeans, shirts, a sweater. Zip. Repeat. If I keep moving, keep packing my few possessions, maybe I can pretend this isn’t happening, that I’m not in the grips of a Russian madman.

Ivan sits on my couch, his long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the cushion. The other hand idly flicks open the chamber of his gun, checking it with the kind of ease that comes from a lifetime of violence. Click. A soft, metallic sound, barely louder than my own heartbeat. Death, just inches away.

A rich, bitter scent drifts through the air, invading my senses before I even realize what it is. Coffee. I freeze, the breath catching in my throat as he puts down the gun to take a sip. He made himself coffee.

The absurdity of it slams into me like a slap in the face. He has waltzed back into my life, broken into my apartment, installed goddamn surveillance cameras without my knowledge, and hehas the audacity to make himself at home? The audacity to sit there, relaxed, as if I’m the one intruding?

The pressure in my chest snaps. I whirl around, the words leaving my lips before I can stop them. “You could have made me one.”

His gaze flicks to my half-packed suitcase. “Keep going,” he says. “We don’t have all day.”

I don’t move. My heart pounds against my ribs. The sudden shift—the assumption that I will listen, that I will comply—ignites something reckless inside me. “Shouldn’t you be watching those precious cameras, seeing if he’s coming?”

He exhales, slow and measured, as if I’m a child testing his patience. “They’re alarmed.” He smiles coldly, his eyes like flint.

A chill ripples through me. “Got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

I should be disgusted. I should be screaming, demanding answers, ripping those cameras out of the walls with my bare hands. And yet, beneath the outrage, beneath the shock, something darker sits inside me. A part of me—the part I don’t want to acknowledge—feels safer knowing they’re there. Knowing he’s been watching.

The realization makes my stomach churn. What the hell is wrong with me?

My jaw tightens as I force myself to focus. “Are there cameras everywhere?” I ask, the words feeling heavier than they should.

Ivan doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. My favorite’s the one above your bed.”

The air vanishes from my lungs. My body goes stiff. My skin burns—not just from embarrassment, not just from rage, but from the raw, undeniable fact that he’s seen me. Not the version I present to the world. Not the one who fights and glares and stands her ground. The real me, the unguarded, aching, exposed me. The one who called out his name when I came.

Heat floods my face, but I lift my chin, my voice sharp as I grit out, “You shouldn’t have been looking.”

Ivan smirks, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. “You need to finish packing.”

The casual cruelty of it, the audacity, snaps something inside me.

Before I can think, before I can stop myself, my hand flies through the air.

The crack of my palm against his cheek is deafening. “How dare you?” I yell. “You invaded my privacy.”

For a second, there’s nothing—just the sound of my own ragged breathing, the sting in my palm, the electric charge between us turning sharp, violent. Then, everything happens at once.

I don’t have time to step back before he’s on me.

His body slams into mine, pinning me to the wall, the impact stealing the breath from my lungs. One of his hands captures my wrist, the other pressing into the wall beside my head, his gun still cool between his fingers.

He cages me in, overwhelming every one of my senses—his heat, his scent, the unshakable dominance in the way he towers over me.

His face is inches from mine. His breath fans across my lips.

The worst part? I don’t try to push him away.

His voice drops, low and rough. “You are the only person to hit me and live.”

I shudder, but it’s not with fear. That would be easier. Fear is simple. Fear is clean. But this is much worse.

His hold tightens, his thumb brushing against my pulse point like he’s measuring it, like he knows it’s racing for all the wrong reasons. His eyes are dark, fathomless, filled with something just as dangerous as the heat coiling inside me.

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