Page 41 of Obsessed Bratva King

“I could ruin you, Cora,” he murmurs, his lips so close they almost—almost—graze my skin. “I could break you in ways you can’t even imagine.” His voice is a purr. “Or I could make you beg for me. Reckon we should risk an interlude?”

Heat slams through me, unwanted and undeniable.

I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.

His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my chin up, forcing me to look at him, to see exactly what he’s offering. Control. Possession. Power disguised as protection.

My nails dig into my palms. “I thought I was supposed to be packing,” I force out, hating how weak my voice sounds, how my body betrays me with every shallow breath.

His thumb drags over my bottom lip, his gaze darkening. “You paused to get my blood up. This is on you.”

My pulse pounds, my knees threatening to buckle beneath me, but I fight it. I fight him. With every last scrap of resistance, I shove him away, my palms pressing against the solid wall of his chest. He grabs me again, pressing his lips to mine.

A sharp knock on the door shatters the moment.

I jerk, my breath still uneven, my heart still racing, my body trembling in ways I don’t want to acknowledge.

He doesn’t react. He doesn’t look away from me, doesn’t move for a long, taut second. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turns toward the door. “I’ll get that,” he says. “You pack.”

"This is my apartment," I snap back, my voice defiant, clinging to the last shred of authority I have left.

“It’s for me.”

He pulls open the door without hesitation. My stomach tightens as a thin, wiry man steps inside. He’s in his sixties. His suit is a deep charcoal, perfectly tailored, the fabric smooth.

His pure white hair is slicked back, each strand in place, but it does nothing to soften the harsh edges of his face, the sharp angles that speak of ruthlessness rather than age.

His eyes, a piercing shade of ice blue, settle on me with a gaze so assessing, so devoid of warmth, that it feels less like being looked at and more like being sized up.

I don’t move. I don’t blink.

Without a word to me, he turns to Ivan and greets him in Russian. I don’t understand the words, but I don’t need to. The exchange is efficient, impersonal, a business transaction between men who have done this before.

Then, finally, the man turns his gaze back to me. His expression is unreadable, cold in its detachment, as if he is not looking at a person but a contract to be signed. A necessary step in whatever game Ivan is playing.

From his briefcase, he pulls a thick stack of cream-colored documents. He hands them to me.

“Sign,” Ivan says, the command in his tone so absolute that my body nearly obeys on instinct.

I blink at him, my arms crossing tightly over my chest as a deep unease spreads through me. "What is this?"

His jaw clenches. He holds the papers up slightly, an unbearable calmness in his voice when he answers. “Our marriage certificate. Associated paperwork. This is my lawyer.”

The words don’t make sense at first.

Marriage certificate. Our marriage certificate.

No.

No, this isn’t happening.

Something cold rushes through me, my body locking up as my mind scrambles to process the words, the sheer audacity, the absolute control he has just assumed over my life.

"Absolutely not." My voice is sharp, edged in steel, but even I can hear the slight tremor beneath it.

He doesn’t react. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t look remotely surprised. Instead, his expression darkens, the softest shift in his features signaling something far more dangerous than anger.

"This isn’t a request, Cora."

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