Page 8 of Obsessed Bratva King

I wait.

Finally, she exhales. “You’re rich.”

I smirk. “Observant.”

“But not like Darren.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re different.”

She’s not wrong.

I am control. Ruthless. A scalpel where he’s a hammer. He sent ten men to the ambush. That’s why I got away. They tripped over each other in the chaos while I picked them off one by one.

I fucked up chasing her. Got distracted. Let one of them get a decent shot.

She had the bag. I should have killed her and taken it but I didn’t. Why?

And now I find out the bag’s a fucking hoax.

“Bathroom’s through there,” I say, nodding to the door. “Get cleaned up.”

She hesitates, then disappears inside, shutting the door behind her.

I sit, exhaling slowly, and pull the duffel toward me. I search it again.

Nothing but used notes.

It doesn’t make sense.

There’s got to be something else. Something I’m missing.

And I don’t like missing things.

From the bathroom I hear a sharp cry of pain.

I kick the door open, shattering the lock. My heart thunders in my ears as I rush over to the shower, where Cora stands naked under a cascade of water.

The sight of her takes my breath away.

“Get out,” she snaps. “What are you doing?”

“What happened?” I ask, my voice raw with a desire I haven’t felt in years.

She cowers beneath the torrent, her arms instinctively rising to shield her naked form. “It’s nothing,” she whispers, a strained edge in her tone. “It just hurts. Could you please stop looking at me like that?”

I realize I’m still staring. The water traces rivulets along her porcelain skin, highlighting every curve and contour. My gaze lingers on the delicate dip of her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts, and the gentle slope of her waist.

Every inch of her speaks to me. I see scars that tell stories of past torments yet overlaid by a raw, undeniable beauty. The curve of her hip, the way her water-slicked hair frames her face in a cascade of dark, damp strands—all of it ignites a fierce longing inside me.

“You’re still staring,” she says.

“You’re still bleeding,” I reply.

“I’m fine,” she says, turning her back to me. “Get out, will you?”

“Relax. If I was going to fuck you, I’d have done it already.” I move carefully. Not touching her, not forcing her. Justdampening a cloth, gently pressing it to the bruises on her back. “He did this to you?”

She stiffens at first, but after a moment, her muscles relax. A couple of days ago. He was drunk. Bought me the dress to say sorry, promised me a date night to make it up to me. Begged me not to leave him. Sobbed on my shoulder.”

I press the cloth to her shoulder. “Better?”

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