Page 93 of Obsessed Bratva King

I don’t remember closing my eyes. I don’t remember allowing myself to rest. But exhaustion has a way of catching up to you, even when you fight it, even when you convince yourself you can go just a little longer.

My body has finally given in, curled uncomfortably in the stiff chair beside Ivan’s hospital bed, my hand still wrapped around his.

My body is sore from being in the same position for too long, my muscles stiff as I shift slightly.

“We should talk about Chicago,” Dmitri is saying. There’s no urgency to his words, no emotion—just cold practicality.

There’s a brief pause before Maxim responds, his tone more thoughtful, more calculating.

“The city’s up for grabs,” he muses, like they’re discussing a business acquisition, not an entire empire. “It’s his if he wants it.”

They aren’t just talking about business. They’re talking about his future.

A future that won’t include me. I can’t go back there, I just can’t.

Of course, he would go, wouldn’t he?

I want to believe I know him better than that.

But a part of me—the part that’s spent years learning not to trust, not to expect anything from anyone—whispers otherwise. I’m alone. I deserve to be alone. That’s always been the case, right?

The silence in the room stretches, a long, heavy pause that seems to hold more weight than the conversation itself.

And then?—

A deep, gravel-rough voice cuts through the quiet.

“No.”

The entire room freezes.

My breath stutters, my pulse a deafening roar in my ears.

It’s not Maxim. It’s not Dmitri.

It’s Ivan.

My head snaps toward the bed, heart slamming against my ribs as I push forward, straightening in my chair. Ivan is awake.

His eyes are barely open, heavy-lidded and fogged with pain, but there’s no hesitation in them.

“I don’t want Chicago.”

Maxim and Dmitri exchange a glance, but I barely see them. I only see him.

“I stay here with her.”

My lungs seize, my fingers trembling where they’re still wrapped around his hand. I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe.

He’s choosing me.

Not power. Not an empire. Me.

I feel like I might break apart entirely, but before I can say anything—before I can do anything—his tired, blue eyes shift toward me.

The air in the room shifts, the weight of the last few days pressing down on my chest.

I should say something. I should breathe. I should?—

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