Page 18 of Obsessed Bratva King

I should let her deal with it. I don’t do this—comfort, reassurance. People handle their own demons. No one ever helped me deal with mine.

But something about the way she trembles, the way her face twists in pain, makes it impossible to sit back and watch.

I reach for her before I can think.

"Cora." My voice is low, rough. I shake her lightly. “Shush, you’re all right.”

She jerks upright with a strangled gasp.

Her eyes snap open—wild, unfocused. Her breath comes in harsh, uneven pants. Her fingers curl around my arm in a white-knuckle grip, like she’s holding on for dear life. She claws at me, eyes closing again, fists slamming into my chest. “Help them,” she cries. “Get them out.”

She’s not here. Not in this room. Not in this bed.

"It’s just a dream," I murmur, my voice quieter than it should be.

A lie.

Because whatever haunts her? It’s real.

I can see it in the way her body won’t stop shaking. In the way she swallows hard, trying to force herself back to the present.

Her breathing is uneven, her body trembling against mine. I should let go, should put space between us, should remind myself that her burdens aren’t mine to carry.

But I don’t.

Instead, I hold her, my grip firm as her movements slow to a stop. She opens her eyes again, seeing me for the first time.

She sniffles, her fingers curling into my arm like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

"It was the fire." Her voice is hoarse, small. "Smelling the smoke today, it brought it all back to me."

I want to find the people who did it, torture them to death.

"I was only a kid," she whispers as the truth slips from her. Her throat bobs as she swallows. "How could someone do that?”

I rub a slow, careful circle against her back. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but it works.

"But it’s over," I say quietly. “Done with.”

“The assholes that did it ended up dead a month later. Some shootout or other.” She lets out a hollow laugh. "What a waste of lives.”

I don’t like the way she says it.

I don’t like any of this.

My world seeped into hers. Men like me killed her parents.

“What happened after the fire?” I ask. “Who looked after you?”

“No one,” she replies, voice shaking. "Cops got hold of me. Sent me into the system. I bounced around foster homes." She takes a shuddering breath.

The way she stiffens, I already know where this is going.

"The last one was the worst," she says, voice hollow. "He was connected to the Italians. Had a thing for young girls."

My grip tightens before I can stop myself.

"The first time he tried, I froze but the doorbell interrupted him.”

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