Page 2 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I’m supposed to maintain distance, but his presence heats the air between us, drawing me in, and against my better judgment, I take a step closer.

“Doctor Bright,” he says, breaking the silence before I get the chance. “What’s your first name?”

“Emery,” I reply. “Are you injured?”

“Come to think of it, I don’t feel so good.” He places a hand over his chest, his eyes gleaming with something I can’t quite place. “Right here, doctor. I’m in pain.”

“I don’t understand,” I stammer, heat rising to my cheeks. “There’s something wrong with your heart?”

He smirks. “You could say that.”

Oh, I see.He’s mocking me by pretending to flirt. I fold my arms and do my best to give him a hard look.

“Are you hurt or not? I won’t call the police without treating you first.”

“That’s sweet of you, Emery, but I don’t need medical attention.”

“Look, it’s clear you’ve been involved in some kind of violence?—”

“Leave it alone, Doctor.”

The atmosphere is heavy with unsaid words. He moves toward me, closing the already limited space until I’m against the counter, every nerve in my body on high alert.

The aluminum surface presses into my back, and a subtle aroma hits my nose—an expensive, woodsy scent.

“You can’t make me stay,” he murmurs, leaning close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “But you did good, helping that kid. If anyone asks, you say nothing. Understand?”

I’m scared but keep it together. I manage a nod, my throat too tight to speak.

“Good girl.”

Two simple words, but something shatters inside me, and I draw a harsh breath as he pulls back. His eyes roam over my body, stopping suddenly, and he exhales heavily.

Shit.I rolled up my sleeves to wash the blood from my wrists, and I was so distracted I forgot to roll them down again.

He can see the dark bruises circling my forearms.

2

Emery

“No woman deserves that kind of treatment,” the stranger says, his eyes darkening. “Especially not you.”

The sincerity in his gaze catches me off-guard, making my breath hitch. Despite my apprehension, I feel a restless, heated rush low in my stomach.

He takes my wrist in his hand, and I flinch, unable to resist. It’s an uncontrollable reaction to being grabbed, but this isn’t a harsh grip, more an examination.

“You’re wearing an engagement ring.” He releases me, nodding at the thin band on my left hand. “Either your man can’t protect you, or he’s the one doing this to you.”

“That’s none of your business,” I say. “And why do you care? I don’t know who you are or why you’re doing this, but you can’t just walk in here and tell me what to do.”

His mouth curves into a smirk. “Can’t I?”

His eyes hold mine, daring me to look away. He’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. He traces a finger along my collarbone, and I close my eyes, the gentleness at odds with the intensity rolling off him.

“You’re wound up tight,” he murmurs. “Let me ask you this: if you had a chance at a fresh start, far away from him, would you take it?”

“I’m getting married.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “It’s already decided.”

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