Page 47 of Obsessed Bratva King

But it’s not enough.

A sharp punch to my ribs. A boot slamming into the back of my knee.

I stumble but don’t go down.

I swing, my fist colliding with bone—another crunch. Another grunt. But then?—

A gun slams into the back of my skull.

Pain erupts. Blinding. White-hot.

The world tilts. My vision blurs.

No.

I sway, trying to steady myself, but another impact—a sharp, brutal blow—sends me to my knees. My vision tunnels, darkness pressing at the edges.

Rough hands grab me, yanking me up, dragging me across the pavement. My boots scrape against the concrete, my body too heavy, too slow.

Distantly, I hear laughter. “Cora,” I mutter, seeing her walk toward me. She’s smiling, about to kiss me. “I’m coming,” I say.

I blink and she’s gone. There’s a man, gun held in his hand, standing over me. I fight to get to my feet as more kicks land in my stomach, my back, my head.

A voice, sickeningly amused. “You’ll see her real soon, asshole.”

The butt of the gun into my skull. With a sickening crunch, darkness swallows me whole.

13

CORA

Laughter echoes from the hallway—our baby’s laughter. I turn, and Ivan’s there. The sharp edges of him are softened in the morning light, the weight he always carries seemingly gone.

But it’s not just us. I look down. Our baby is in my arms.

The tiny bundle shifts, making a small, contented cooing sound. When did I give birth?

I adjust my hold, cradling the infant closer, feeling the delicate weight settle against my chest. Soft, chubby fingers curl and uncurl, stretching in the dappled sunlight. The warmth of her little body seeps into me.

Ivan reaches out, brushing his knuckles over the baby’s cheek, his movements careful, deliberate. His hands—so large, so capable of violence, of destruction—are impossibly gentle.

“What’s her name?” I ask.

He looks at me and smiles. “You know, printsessa, don’t you? You chose it.”

This is peace. A stolen moment in time, untouched by the world outside these walls. No threats, no danger, no blood staining his hands, no fear curling in my gut.

I lean into him, the warmth of his body solid against mine. His arm comes around my waist, his grip firm in a way that feels safe instead of suffocating.

A chill slides down my spine, sudden and sharp, wrong. The golden light flickers, darkens. Shadows creep along the edges of my vision, twisting, curling like smoke.

No.

The warmth fades, replaced by something colder, something familiar—fear.

The scent of coffee disappears. The laughter silences. Ivan’s grip loosens. His expression changes.

The baby in my arms vanishes.

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