Page 52 of Obsessed Bratva King

"You have one hour to make up your mind," he murmurs, slipping the phone back into his pocket. His gloved fingers brush against the fabric, slow and deliberate. Unbothered.

He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a murmur.

"If you choose wrong," he says, dragging a single gloved finger along my temple, over my hair, a mockery of gentleness, "I’ll let my men have their fun with you first. Then I’ll kill him myself. Then I’ll have you.”

He straightens. Adjusts the sleeve of his coat. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away.

The lights cut out.

Darkness engulfs me, swallowing the room whole. Swallowing me.

My breath is loud in the silence, uneven, shaky. I clench my jaw, fighting the way my body trembles, fighting the way my mind screams.

The pain in my ribs throbs in time with my heartbeat. My wrists strain against the bindings, the rough rope cutting into raw skin.

I grit my teeth. I will not break.

But my mind is already reaching for him.

Ivan.

My chest aches with something worse than pain.

I tilt my head back against the table, eyes squeezing shut, and a single broken whisper slips past my lips.

"Ivan. Help me."

14

IVAN

Cora is laughing.

The sound is soft, carefree—something I’ve never truly heard from her before. It seeps into my bones.

She stands in a kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of my shirts, sleeves rolled up as she stirs something on the stove. The room smells like coffee and cinnamon, the windows thrown open to let in the gentle morning breeze. Where are we? I don’t know this place. Something isn’t right here.

“Paranoid much?” she asks without looking back at me.

A small giggle pulls my attention.

I turn, and there she is.

A girl.

Dark-haired, bright-eyed, her mother’s stubborn chin, my frown. She’s sitting at the table, playing with a wooden toy, her tiny fingers gripping it with pure determination.

Cora turns, catching my gaze. Her eyes shine.

"You’re staring," she teases, a soft smirk tugging at her lips.

I don’t respond. I just watch.

This is peace.

How did I get this?

The thought unsettles me. A slow, creeping sense of wrongness tugs at the edges of the dream, warping it. The air thickens, growing heavy with something unseen.

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