Page 72 of Ruthless Bratva King

“I’d watch other kids with their families,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “See how they had parents to hold them, to tell them they mattered. And I’d wonder if there was something wrong with me. If maybe I didn’t deserve it.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Eventually, I stopped wondering. Stopped caring. You can’t miss what you convince yourself you were never meant to have.”

The pain in his words cuts deep, but his expression remains composed, his jaw tight.

“And now?” I ask softly.

His grip on my hands tightens as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmurs. “How much I need you. But I have to go do something I don’t want to do. And it will either fix everything or destroy it all.”

My heart feels like it might burst. I raise a hand to his face, brushing my thumb along his jawline. “What do you have to do?” I whisper. “Tell me.”

His eyes search mine, filled with tenderness and something deeper—something unspoken. “I will,” he says, his voice thick. “But not now.”

The words send a ripple of unease through me, but I force a smile, knowing better than to push. “Okay,” I say softly. “Just come back to me.”

“Whatever happens, promise me you’ll become an architect.”

“I promise.”

“I have to go,” he says quietly, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place.

I try to keep my expression neutral, but my chest tightens. “Is it business?”

He hesitates, his dark eyes meeting mine. “It’s just something I need to handle alone. One last thing.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. One last thing. My stomach twists. I want to ask him what he means, to press him for answers, but the look in his eyes stops me. There’s a shadow there, a weight he’s carrying that he’s not ready to share.

Instead, I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

He steps closer, his gaze softening as he studies me. “You’ll be safe here for now.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes the unease inside me grow. Safe. Safe from what? From whom?

He cups my face in his hands, his touch warm and steady. For a moment, we just stand there, locked in each other’s gaze, the silence between us filled with everything we’re not saying.

His lips meet mine in a kiss that steals my breath. It’s not rushed or frantic, but lingering, like he’s trying to memorize every detail, every sensation. My hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding on as if I can keep him here with me a little longer.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed. “I’ll come back to you,” he says. “I promise.”

I nod, my own eyes stinging. “You’d better,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, but it cracks on the last word. “I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down.”

I watch as he opens the door and walks out.

And as I sit there, waiting for him to come back, a single thought echoes through my mind:What if he doesn’t come back?

52

ELENA

The unspoken words churn in my stomach after he leaves.

I love you.

Three simple words, and yet they felt impossible to say as he stood there, his shadow long against the pale afternoon light spilling through the window.

His kiss lingered—soft, but weighted, like he knew something I didn’t. Like he was walking away forever.

The thought sends a shiver through me.

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