Page 11 of Stolen By The Bratva King

“Okay,” Leon murmurs, his gaze lingering on my face. “But believe me, Dr. Bright—I won’t go far. Leave the blind open.”

He reaches for me, and I freeze, conditioned by the many times my violent fiancé put his hands on me in anger.

I squeeze my eyes closed, but instead of harsh fingers circling my wrist, I feel Leon’s hand on my face, brushing a loose tendril of hair back so he can tuck it behind my ear.

“Easy, Emery,” he says. “You’ll be alright. I promise.”

The gentleness in his voice makes me ache inside, longing for a tenderness I didn’t know I craved. Then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

I give a shuddering sigh and snatch my phone, frowning at the number before I swipe to green.

“Emery? It’s Debra from staffing. Can you come in early tomorrow?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I just got home. How early?”

“Six. Dr. Harrison needs cover for his first clinic because he’s going to the ballet tonight; it’s a make-up gift for his wife after that thing with his secretary.”

Ah, I heard about that. A man with a loving wife and family, who had a dalliance with a young, impressionable woman, knocked her up, forced her into an abortion, and then made it impossible for her to stay in her job.

I’m not in any position to judge the wife or the mistress. I’m here in my fancy apartment, paid for by my soon-to-be-husband, who doesn’t even know what love means.

Some women get to believe in happily ever afters, if only for a while.

Adoration is for princesses in fairy tales, not for lonely women like me who use work to hide from the world and accept mistreatment like it’s all they deserve.

But Leon gave me a glimpse of a life where I don’t allow myself to be pushed around.

Maybe I should try it on for size? Just to see how it feels.

“Tell Dr. Harrison to go to Hell,” I say into the phone. “And you know what else, Debra? Six a.m. is only five hours away, so it’s shitty of you to ask. Take your unreasonable requests elsewhere for a change because I’m saying no.”

I hang up and stare at the phone, half expecting her to call back, but she doesn’t. I’m shocked at myself but proud.

Who is this assertive woman, and what has she done with Dr. Doormat?

My eyes fall on the takeout bag. It’s been months since I last had ramen; Dante likes to pontificate about the adverse effects of carbs even as he tucks into his fifth slice of pizza.

I take a drink and chopsticks over to the couch and dig into my meal, almost tearfully grateful.

It’s not just the physical sustenance; it’s the unexpected soul food of having someone else consider what I want, even briefly.

I still can’t believe I got caught talking to Phil. ‘Mad Plant Lady’ has to be worse than ‘Mad Cat Lady.’

Congrats, Em.You’ve hit new depths of loserdom, but don’t worry—it’s not like an insanely hot man witnessed it. That would have beenreallyembarrassing.

I feel stupid, sure, but beneath that is a primal stirring, an ache that feels deeper than hunger.

I’ve lived a sheltered life, and I didn’t keep my virginity until twenty-six without some restless nights. But the sensation was never this insistent. A simmering tension thrums through me, refusing to fade.

Although I’m exhausted, my need for sleep is overtaken by the urge to give myself some relief, to indulge in a lurid fantasy as I move my hands over my most intimate places.

After all, no one, not even Dante, can take my secret thoughts away.

I close my eyes and see Leon’s intense, focused gaze. He looked at me like no other woman existed.

Tonight, I’ll let myself go. I’ll let my fantasies roam where they will.

And when I come, it’ll be with Leon’s name on my lips.

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