Page 59 of Obsessed Bratva King

“This’ll do until he gets here. Son of a bitch better be quick or I’ll break his fucking neck.”

His touch is surprisingly gentle as he dabs antiseptic over the raw scrapes along my wrist. I hiss through my teeth, but he doesn’t let me pull away.

"I know," he murmurs, his thumb stroking absently over my pulse point. "I’ll be careful."

When he presses an ice pack against my ribs, I flinch. He stills. Then his voice drops into something dangerous, something dark.

“I’ll kill him for this."

He exhales sharply through his nose, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he tightens his grip on the ice pack. But then, just as quickly, the storm in him settles. He adjusts the pack carefully, his fingers brushing against my side, his touch achingly gentle.

"The doctor’s is on his way. Just try to relax until he gets here. Want to watch some TV?"

I want to tell him it’s impossible. That I don’t know how to relax.

My fingers curl into the sheets beneath me, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The fear I’ve been shoving down all night rises, sharp and overwhelming.

I don’t even realize I’m shaking until his hand slides over mine, stilling me. “What is it?”

"I’m worried about the baby, Ivan."

My throat tightens as I force myself to look up at him. His expression is unreadable at first—a storm of something too deep, too dangerous to name.

“Me too.”

He lifts his gaze to mine, something unrelenting burning behind his eyes.

His grip tightens.

"I will never let you get hurt again." The words are low, deliberate, absolute. "And I will never let anyone hurt our child."

The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.

He combs his fingers through my hair.

I don’t stop him.

“You’re good at this protection thing,” I say, touching his arm. “The killing, I get, but the protection? Where’d you learn it?”

He replies in a rough voice. The words feel dragged from him. "My mother died protecting me."

My chest tightens. I don’t move, afraid that if I do, he’ll clam up again. “I didn’t know,” I whisper.

"I was five," he continues, voice flat. "My father was old school. He thought emotions were weaknesses, that love was something to be beaten out of you if you wanted to reach the top. My mother…"

He exhales, shaking his head. "She tried to protect me from him. So he killed her. I couldn’t stop him. He made me watch. Told me no one could protect me but me. Slapped me so I fell over. I fell into her blood."

I tilt my head back, searching his face, but he isn’t looking at me. His gaze is locked on some invisible past, something far away, but the tension in his jaw tells me he’s there, still bleeding from wounds that never closed. “I should have stopped him. Should have run when she suggested it.”

"You were just a kid," I whisper.

His hand stills in my hair.

"It doesn’t matter. The world doesn’t care how young you are." His voice drops lower, something dark curling beneath it. "I vowed I’d never be like him, never kill out of insecurity."

I understand that better than anyone.

For a long moment, we don’t speak. The weight of his confession lingers, heavy between us.

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