Page 4 of Obsessed Bratva King

"You’d make a terrible assassin, printsessa," he murmurs, the deep timbre of his voice curling through me like smoke. "You breathe too loudly and you left footprints all the way to your hiding place.”

I shudder. Despite the terror racing through my veins, and the pure survival instinct screaming at me to get away, he doesn’t feel anything like Darren.

Darren is cruelty wrapped in a cheap suit.

This man?

This man is colder. Sharper.

His arm tightens just slightly as I try to move away. He’s strong, unshakably solid, and for one brief, insane second, I feel safe.

I crush the thought before it can take root.

Men can’t be trusted.

They lie. They hurt. They take.

So I bare my teeth and hiss, “If you’re going to kill me, just get on with it. Stop the yakking.”

His chest vibrates with a soft, almost mocking chuckle. “Who said anything about killing?”

His grip loosens just enough.

I take my chance.

I twist, aiming for his ribs with my elbow. But he anticipates it, shifting effortlessly, spinning me right back where I started.

Trapped.

His smirk is slow, like he’s enjoying this.

“You’re persistent,” he muses. “I’ll give you that.”

His gaze flicks to the duffel bag, then back to me. He releases me, and I whirl, putting space between us.

“Over there by that wall panel behind you.” His voice is cold. “Open it.”

“Open what?”

He sets the gun down. I think about lunging for it but he reads my mind. “I wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m faster than you.”

I watch as he shrugs out of his jacket, then yanks his ruined shirt over his head, revealing hard, lean muscle cut with fresh blood. A deep gash slices across his side, dark and ugly, but what really catches my eye is the tattoos.

Black ink sprawls across his skin—intricate lines, symbols, words in Cyrillic. Some are faded and amateur, like they’ve been there for years. Others look newer, etched into his body with far more precision.

I force my gaze away. Focus on the wound. Not the rock hard abs as he points at the wall behind me. “There’s a first aid kit in there.” He nods toward a section of rotting wood. “Get it.”

I hesitate. “And if I say no?”

His eyes flick to mine, unreadable. Then, flatly, “I bleed to death. Are you the type of person to watch a man die when you could help?”

I move to the panel. It pulls back with a creak, revealing a sterile metal cabinet, its interior bathed in a dim blue LED glow. A temperature reading tells me it’s close to zero in there.

The contents make me pause.

Blood bags. Plasma. Scalpel sets sealed in plastic. Like a miniature emergency room.

“What the hell is all this?” I ask, grabbing the first aid kit.

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