Page 42 of Obsessed Bratva King

He steps closer, forcing me back, forcing me into the small, inescapable space between his dominance and the wall behind me. I try to hold my ground, but my feet betray me, retreating asmy breath comes quicker, sharper. I don’t want to feel trapped, but I am.

“You can’t just?—”

"I can," he cuts me off smoothly, his tone so calm, it sends a shiver through me. "And I have."

His hand lifts, fingers grazing my jaw before curling around my chin, firm and unyielding. He tilts my face up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze, no choice but to see the absolute, unshakable possession in his dark eyes.

“You’ve been mine from the moment we met,” he murmurs, his thumb dragging slowly over my bottom lip, lingering, owning. “This just makes it official.”

A slow, sick wave of realization crashes over me.

This isn’t just about power. It isn’t about control.

It’s about claiming.

Not just my name, not just my body—but all of me.

My heart slams against my ribs, panic fighting to claw its way out of my throat, but the lawyer clears his throat sharply, the sound cutting through the tension as he taps his watch. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t care about me. He is here for a signature. That is all.

Ivan doesn’t move. His grip stays firm, his eyes never leaving mine.

The choice isn’t real.

Sign willingly, or he will make me.

My hands shake as I take the pen.

The weight of his stare burns into me as I press the tip to the paper. I hesitate, my fingers trembling, my mind screaming at me to fight, to run, to do anything but this. But there is nowhere to go.

I sign.

The lawyer nods, tucks the documents back into his briefcase, and closes the latch with a final, snapping click. He does not congratulate us. He does not speak. Why would he? There is nothing to say.

He turns and leaves.

The door shuts behind him, a solid, echoing sound, and I stand there, frozen in the silence he leaves behind. My hands are shaking. My pulse is erratic. My skin feels too hot, too cold, too tight.

This is real.

I am his.

I barely register the movement when he leans in, his breath warm against my ear, his voice a low, dark whisper that seeps beneath my skin like poison.

“As your husband,” he murmurs, satisfaction dripping from every syllable, “I have certain rights.”

And I’m carrying your child.The words sit on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t force them out. Instead, I shift nervously, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my skirt.

“You have something you want to tell me,” he says. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lie, my voice wavering. “Doesn’t matter.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You’re a terrible liar, printsessa.” His hands reach for me, his fingers brushing against my waist, sending a shiver up my spine. “Tell me the truth. What are you hiding from me?”

His touch is electric, distracting, and I can’t think straight. “I’m not hiding anything,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Why do you think I’m hiding something?”

His smirk deepens, his hands sliding up to my hips, pulling me closer. “Because you are,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear.

God, he’s infuriating. And intoxicating. And impossible to resist. I tilt my head, meeting his gaze, trying to summon some semblance of courage. But the words still won’t come.

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