Page 90 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“This one.” She indicates the forearm without making contact. “It looks surgical.”
“It was. Bullet fragments. They had to dig deep.”
“This?” The scar along my palm.
“Knife. The man was better than I expected. He’s dead now.”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “Do they hurt?”
“Sometimes. When it rains. When I’m tired.” I watch her watch me, cataloging her reactions. “Does it bother you, seeing proof of what I am?”
“No.” The word is quiet but certain. “It bothers me that you had to survive this. That you’ve been hurt badly enough to carry permanent reminders.”
The sympathy I expected doesn’t materialize. Instead, there’s something else in her eyes—understanding, maybe. Recognition that these marks are part of the machinery that made me, necessary damage in the process of becoming what the world required.
“You’re not asking about the worst ones,” I observe.
“Would you tell me the truth?”
“Probably not.”
“Then why ask?” She finally steps back, restoring distance. “I can see enough. You’ve survived things that should have killed you. You’re still standing. That’s all I need to know.”
The restraint hits harder than questions would have. She’s not treating me like a curiosity or a project. Just acknowledging reality without trying to fix or judge or understand it beyond what’s visible.
“All clear,”Felix announces via radio.“False alarm. We’re good to go.”
I nod, rolling my sleeves back down. The moment passes, but the weight of it lingers. Janice saw something I usuallykeep hidden and didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil, didn’t try to extract explanations I wouldn’t give.
She just looked, and somehow, that felt more intimate than any touch.
The drive back is quiet. Janice falls asleep against the window somewhere around the bridge, head tilted at an angle that will hurt her neck when she wakes. I reach across, ease her toward me. She settles against my shoulder without waking, trust so complete it makes my chest tight.
She shouldn’t trust me. Shouldn’t feel safe enough to sleep while I’m this close, knowing what I am and what I’m capable of.
She does anyway.
Felix catches my eye in the rearview mirror. Says nothing, but I read the warning there.This is dangerous. She’s making you soft.
Maybe. Probably.
I don’t care.
By the time we reach the penthouse, Janice is deeply asleep. I carry her to the bedroom, her body limp and trusting in my arms. Misha lifts her head from the bed when we enter, watches as I settle Janice carefully on the mattress.
The kitten curls against Janice’s side immediately, protective despite her size.
I should leave. Should give her space, maintain the distance that keeps us both safe from whatever this is becoming.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. Her breathing is even, face soft without the careful control she maintains when awake. She looks younger like this. Vulnerable.
Mine.
The possessiveness should disturb me, but it doesn’t. It just settles in my chest like certainty, absolute and unshakable.
I want to protect her from everything. From the Volkovs and the Zullos and anyone else who might see her as leverage. From the world that would use her softness as weakness. From the choices she’s making that will eventually force my hand.
From myself.
