Page 44 of Obsessed Bratva King

“Yours,” I whisper, my body arching into his thrusts. “Always yours.”

He kisses me deeply, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. His hands grip my hips, his body pressing into mine, his lips brushing against my ear. “Come for me,” he growls, his voice low. “Let me feel you.”

I obey, my body trembling with pleasure as I climax beneath him. He groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, his body pressing into mine as he finds his release. He collapses on top of me, his breath hot against my skin.

“So good,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re always so good for me.”

He pulls out, standing at once. “Get dressed,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

12

IVAN

The city stretches out beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, Darren is hunting. But he’s never had a quarry protected by me.

The flash drive is wrapped in a Faraday pouch, not transmitting a thing until I want it to happen. All he knows is it was at the restaurant, then at her place, then it vanished.

I look across at my bathroom door. Cora’s in there, throwing up, third day in a row. I’m not surprised. Her stress levels must be through the roof.

I push the door open, crouching beside her, ignoring the smell of vomit. I gather her hair in one hand, my other braced on the small of her back as she trembles through the convulsions. I don’t speak. What is there to say? She doesn’t need words. She needs someone who won’t leave.

When it’s over, she sags against the cool porcelain, her breath ragged, her arms trembling as she tries to push herself upright. I grab a towel, run a cloth under warm water, and wipe her face clean. Slow, careful strokes.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push me away. Just lets me do it, her body momentarily pliant in a way I’ve never seen before.

That unsettles me more than I want to admit.

I press a glass of water into her hand. She takes it without a word, her fingers brushing mine as she drinks.

She looks up at me, lashes fluttering, uncertainty flickering in her eyes like she isn’t sure what to make of me.

I don’t know what to make of myself either.

I should feel nothing. That’s what I’m used to. But since she came along, I’ve felt a whole load of things. All of them new.

I pull away before she can look at me too closely and see what I’m not ready to acknowledge. Grabbing one of my shirts and a pair of sweatpants, I set them beside her before stepping out.

When she emerges from the bathroom, she is drowning in my clothes, the soft cotton swallowing her small frame, sleeves too long, waistband cinched tight.

She refuses to look at me, her expression carefully blank, but the fact that she is wearing my clothes, wrapped in something that smells like me, sends something possessive tearing through my chest.

The weight of what I’ve done still hangs between us. She sits on the edge of my bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them like she can make herself smaller, like she can shrink away from the reality that she’s mine now. Legally. Irrevocably. “Sorry about that,” she mutters. “Bit sick, I guess.”

I lean against the dresser, arms crossed over my chest, watching her. The distance between us is deliberate, a buffer for both our sakes.

Her expression is carefully blank, but I know the war she’s fighting inside her head. The marriage, the contract, me.

“You need to rest,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. “Take a nap.”

She lifts her gaze to me, eyes shadowed but sharp. “I’m fine.” The words are hoarse, edged in defiance, but she’s still pale, still fragile from the toll the day has taken on her.

I study her, searching for any sign that she’s lying. “Do you need a doctor?”

She shakes her head. “No. Just—” She bites her lower lip, hesitating before forcing the words out. “I just need space.”

My jaw tightens, but I let it go. There’s no point in telling her the truth—not when she already knows it. Instead, I give her the one thing I can: honesty about the war she’s now trapped in.

“Not until Darren is dead.”

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