Page 9 of Obsessed Bratva King

She studies me. “Who taught you to look after people?”

“My father,” I say. “When I was young.”

She’s quiet for a beat. “Was he a doctor?”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “No. He was poor. We couldn’t afford doctors.”

A flicker of something in her gaze. Understanding.

I dampen the cloth again, slowly running it along her spine, tracing the bruises left by Darren’s fists. I move the cloth down, my eyes taking in the curve of her ass. My cock twitches.

I force my own breath to steady, like I’m getting ready to take a long distance rifle shot.

I’ve wanted to fuck women before. But I’ve never wanted to protect one.

I turn her my way, cupping her jaw gently, tilting her face toward me, brushing damp hair away from the cut on her cheek.

She looks at me. Eyes dark. Searching. If she’s looking for goodness, she won’t find it.

“Your hair needs washing,” I say at last.

“I can do it.”

“You can barely use your arms. Let me.”

“Your clothes are getting wet.”

“I don’t care.” My fingers work the shampoo through her hair, slow and careful. She shivers—but doesn’t pull away. I take my time. Blood swirls down the drain, turning the water pink.

She sighs, eyes fluttering closed.

I rinse and repeat, washing away the night, the filth, the fear.

Her shoulders relax, just a little.

“Why are you helping me?” she murmurs.

I rinse the last of the soap from her hair, gently wringing out the water.

“Because you need it.” My cellphone buzzes in my pocket. “Take your time,” I tell her. “I’ll order us some food for when you’re done.”

I leave her to it, ignoring my cell and picking up the suite phone. I press the button to call downstairs. After a few rings, a familiar voice answers.

“Good evening, Mr. Stepanov. This is Marcus.” His tone is as smooth as always. I know Marcus well—he’s been manager at the hotel for years. “What can I get for you?”

“First, I need you to order food,” I say. “One of everything.”

Marcus chuckles lightly. “One of everything, huh? Hungry tonight?”

I pause, imagining Cora’s smile. “I have a guest and I’m not sure of her preferences.”

“Understood. I’ll have our chef prepare a little feast for her—appetizers, mains, sides, desserts… the works. “There’s a brief pause, then he adds, “Might I suggest a freshening of her wardrobe? Size ten, I believe?”

The words carry a lot of weight. He saw her when we arrived. Wouldn’t normally let someone like that in a hotel like this. But he knows me, knows he can’t overrule me. So he’s trying to compromise, as best he can.

I shift my weight, thinking carefully. “Nothing too constricting. Soft fabrics, cozy layers.

“How about a couple of sweaters, some leggings, perhaps a nice jacket that isn’t too heavy.”

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