Page 54 of Obsessed Bratva King

She’s close.

And if they’ve touched her?—

I force down the thought before it can consume me.

My fingers twitch against the ropes, testing for slack. Nothing. But the knots—sloppy. Rushed.

Darren’s men made a mistake.

Heat coils in my chest, slow and lethal, a force waiting to erupt.

I will find her.

I exhale slowly, flexing my hands, feeling the tension in the ropes that bind me. The fibers cut into my wrists, biting into raw skin, but I barely register the discomfort. Darren’s men tied these knots hastily, overconfident in their victory.

I shift my fingers, feeling along the back of the chair. The wood is rough, uneven. There—a jagged edge, where a bolt has loosened from the frame. My pulse slows, my focus narrowing to that one imperfect piece of metal.

I angle my wrists, pressing the thick rope against the bolt’s exposed edge, and pull. The friction is instant, searing. The fibers grind against my skin but I don’t stop.

I grit my teeth, dragging the rope back and forth, harder, faster, ignoring the sting as it saws into flesh.

Warm blood slicks my wrists, making the work messier, more painful. The coppery scent thickens in the air, but I keep going, forcing myself past the burn, past the ache, past the body’s natural instinct to recoil.

Then—a snap.

The pressure vanishes.

I yank my hands free, my breath coming slow and measured as I flex my fingers. My skin is flayed, the cuts still leaking warm trails of blood, but I barely feel it. My hands immediately drop to my ankles, working at the knots. They’re tight, but not tight enough.

Every second I waste is another second she’s at risk. She’s here somewhere. I know she is.

The ropes fall away.

I push off the chair, rising to my feet. The shift sends a violent shockwave of pain through my ribs, the bruises blooming deeper, sharper with the movement. My skull pounds, the ache spreading down my spine, but I shove it aside.

The door looms ahead, a single obstacle between me and the hunt. Outside, I can hear the steady shuffle of a guard’s boots, his weight shifting lazily from foot to foot. His posture is too relaxed, his focus fixed on his cellphone, watching a soccer match, headphones in.

My arm snaps around his throat, wrenching him backward into the room. His body collides with mine, a sharp jolt of surprise rippling through him as he tries to react. But I don’t give him the chance.

My forearm tightens.

One brutal twist.

The crack of his neck echoes in the silence.

His body goes limp, the fight snuffed out instantly. I lower him to the ground, careful to keep the noise to a minimum, stripping him of his gun, knife, and spare ammo. The weight of the weapons settles into my grip like an old friend.

Better.

I step over the corpse and slip into the hall. The air is damp, thick with the scent of oil and rust.

I move like a shadow, slipping between pools of darkness, my steps silent. There are voices up ahead, low murmurs, a lazy conversation between two guards who have no idea death is coming for them. I hug the wall, the cold steel pressing against my back as I wait, my breathing steady, controlled.

The moment one of them turns his back, I move.

The knife glides through the air, buries deep in the base of his skull. The second man barely has time to react before I yank the blade free and slam it into his throat. A gurgle, a choked breath, and then silence.

I catch his body before it hits the ground.

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