Page 4 of Brutal Reign (Bratva Kings #3)

CHAPTER

FOUR

PAVEL

The Tube doors hiss open, releasing a gust of damp air into the station. I step out into the human traffic, cap pulled low, just another face in London’s endless crowd.

London has always suited me. I’ve spent enough time here over the years. Russian oligarchs love buying up prime real estate, and where the money goes, organized crime follows. The city has an energy I appreciate—the relentless pace of any major metropolis, tempered by a certain British restraint.

I never expected Hope King to settle in the country she spent most of her life in. It seemed too obvious for someone trying to disappear. But maybe that’s the genius of it. She’s hiding in plain sight, betting that we’d overlook it.

Which we did, for a while.

Finding her took six months. The girl figured out how to disappear.

No credit cards, no mobile contracts, no digital footprint of any kind.

No social media, no email addresses we could trace.

She’s been living completely off the grid, paying for everything in cash, existing in the spaces between official records.

The only reason we found her was because a landlord insisted on a photo ID for her rental.

Our system flagged it the moment it hit the online database.

Impressive, for someone who’d never had to fend for herself before.

But I’m not here to admire her survival skills. I’m here to do my job, to ensure that Hope King and any possibility of a Black Company resurrection die.

I’ve been in London for a week, studying her like I would any target. Watching her work, mapping her routines, learning her patterns. Gathering intelligence. I need to know who she’s in contact with, what her plans are, and to shut down anything that could become a threat.

But so far, all I’ve seen is a woman trying to make rent, not someone plotting to rebuild an empire.

The Hope King I’ve been tracking works double shifts at a shitty pub, puts up with drunken assholes, and then hurries home through rough neighborhoods.

There’s something addictive about watching Hope. Watching her survive, watching her adapt to a life that’s so far from her privileged upbringing.

I’ve eliminated dozens of targets over the years, but I’ve never felt compelled to study one like this. Never wanted to understand who they were beneath the surface. Never lost sleep thinking about what made them tick.

Which is why I’m about to step into the pub she works at.

Because something about her has hooked me and won’t let go.

After tonight, once this obsession is out of my system, I’ll do what I came here to do. Easier said than done, but duty is duty, and I’m not the type to leave a job unfinished.

I pull my cap lower as I round the corner to the pub, shielding my face from both the drizzle and any security cameras that might be watching.

I pause for a breath before pushing through the heavy wooden door, rain still clinging to my coat. If I thought there was a chance she’d recognize me, I wouldn’t be here. But since I was wearing a tactical mask and the hallway was dark, I don’t really see it as a risk.

The Lamb and Flag has seen better days. Well, better decades.

There’s paint peeling around the windows.

The sour tang of old beer mingles with the cigarette smoke that has soaked into every surface.

Men crowd around the bar three deep, pints clutched in weathered hands.

Their eyes are glued to the flatscreen mounted above, showing tonight’s Premier League game.

A roar erupts from the crowd as one team scores, voices raised in triumph or disappointment depending on which side you support. I move deeper into the pub, mapping exits and cataloging faces. A habit drilled into me years ago.

And then I see her. She’s behind the bar, pulling a pint, her head tilted as she listens to something one of the regulars is saying. Fuck, she’s beautiful. She laughs, and the rich sound cuts through the pub’s chaos.

Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, longer than in the photograph Maxim showed me months ago. She’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that shows off her gentle curves, paired with jeans that hug her petite frame.

She turns, scanning the crowd with the casual attention of someone checking on her customers. But when those dark eyes land on me, the air turns charged, like a live wire sparking in water.

Jesus, get a grip.

But I can’t stop looking at her. Christ, she’s small. My hands could probably span her entire waist. The thought sends heat coursing through me, and I suddenly realize that coming here might have been a mistake.

I pull off my cap, running my fingers through my hair. When I look up, her eyes find mine again. For a split second, it feels like the air changes, tightens. She looks away quickly, a flush creeping up her neck.

Good. I’m not the only one feeling this pull.

A pretty redhead appears beside her. It’s the other bartender I’ve seen during my surveillance. While the redhead is all bold confidence and calculated sex appeal, Hope moves with quiet grace. She isn’t trying to be sexy; she just is.

Her workmate leans in, whispering something. Hope shakes her head, though I can feel her attention drifting back to me. I fight a smirk, pretending not to notice and checking my phone instead.

Finally, the redhead gives her a little shove toward me. Hope seems to hesitate, then collects herself. Her shoulders straighten, and she smooths her hair back with nervous fingers.

It’s fucking adorable.

When she finally approaches, I flash her a broad, disarming smile. I can be nice when I want to be.

“Hi there.” Her voice is warm, but there’s a hint of shyness beneath it. “What can I get you?”

I lean back in my chair, taking her in. Up close, she’s even more breathtaking. No makeup except for a touch of mascara and something glossy on her lips. When she tucks a strand of silky hair behind her ear, I catch a glimpse of a delicate jade pendant at her throat.

“What do you recommend?” I ask.

She glances toward the taps, then back at me with a wry smile. “Well, if you want to play it safe, I’d go with a bottle. The draft lines here aren’t exactly… pristine.”

A low laugh escapes me. “I appreciate the heads-up. A bottle it is then. Your choice.”

She grabs a local brew from the fridge below. She pops the cap, and pours it into a pint glass before sliding it across the bar to me. I can tell she’s curious about who I am. With my Swedish accent and the fact that I'm a foot taller than every other man in this place, I stand out.

She leans forward, hands braced on the bar and a sweet smile gracing her full mouth. “Anything else I can get you?”

“How’s the food here?” I ask, holding her gaze.

She wrinkles her nose. “I hate to disappoint, but honestly, your best bet’s a pack of crisps. If you’re still hungry, though, there’s a decent Indian takeaway around the corner.”

“Perfect. I’ll swing by on my way back to the hotel.”

She hesitates, a flicker of curiosity passing across her face. “Not many hotels around here. What brings you?—”

Her question gets drowned out by a roar from the crowd as Chelsea’s keeper dives and misses, letting Arsenal score. Someone yells about a bloody foul, and a handful of pints nearly spill as fans jump to their feet.

She winces. “Sorry about that. Football brings out the worst in us.”

I grin. “Don’t worry, Swedes are just as obsessed.”

Her eyes brighten—warm chocolate brown with amber flecks. “Oh, you’re from Sweden?”

I’ve used my Swedish heritage before when going undercover.

People trust Scandinavians; they have a reputation for being mild-mannered and progressive, basically the golden retrievers of international relations.

My mother’s bloodline gives me the bone structure to sell it, and I picked up enough language from my grandfather to fake the accent.

“Stockholm,” I say, letting my voice carry that slight Nordic lilt. “Actually, I could use some local advice if you don’t mind.”

She casts a quick look toward the bar where the redhead is covering for her, then looks back at me. When she tucks her hair behind her ear, I catch the scent of her soap. It’s clean and citrusy, cutting through the pub’s stale atmosphere like a breath of fresh air.

“I’m not a native Londoner, but I might be able to help.” She shrugs. “What kind of advice?”

“This is oddly specific, but do you know any museums that cover the Viking invasions of Anglo-Saxon England?”

She giggles. “Yeah, that is oddly specific, but I actually do know the answer to that question.” A smile lights up her face.

There she is, the history major. “The British Museum has a killer collection, but if you want somewhere quieter, try the Museum of London Docklands. They’ve got a whole Viking exhibit running right now.

” She tilts her head. “So, is this like an interest of yours, or what’s the deal? ”

“Work, actually.” I rub the back of my neck, playing up the modest angle. “I write historical fiction. Viking sagas, that sort of thing.” I engineered this identity knowing it would appeal to her interests. Even had an author website made for me.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh, cool. Any books I might have heard of?”

“Probably not. All my books are in Swedish, but I’m working on my first English-language novel. One of the reasons why I’m here in London, meeting with publishers.”

She rests her hands on the bar, leaning forward. “So, what’s the book you’re writing about?”

“Think Game of Thrones meets tenth-century Viking explorers, but with more emotional trauma and people dying of exposure on frozen battlefields.”

She snorts. “That sounds thoroughly depressing.”

“I prefer ‘emotionally complex,’” I say, laying a hand over my heart in mock offense. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t read about political scheming, family betrayal, and morally ambiguous characters fighting for the fate of their clan? All while wearing fur loincloths.”

She narrows her eyes. “Vikings never wore loincloths.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you know?”

“Because I didn’t learn my history from TV shows. I actually paid attention in class.”

“Fair point.”

I study her face, drawn in by the spark in her eyes when she challenges me. But I also can’t help noticing the faint shadows beneath them from too many double shifts.

“I’m Lukas, by the way. Lukas Viklund,” I say, offering my hand across the bar.

She hesitates for a second, then takes it, her hand soft and warm. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lily.”

Before she can say more, a man materializes from behind her.

He’s barrel-chested, thick-necked, with eyes like a pit bull.

Darren. The owner of this dump. I recognize him from surveillance and the reports I pulled.

He has two prior complaints of inappropriate behavior, one of them settled out of court.

He’s got a temper and an ego. A dangerous combination.

She startles when his voice growls in her ear. “Did you forget you’re working, sweetheart?”

Her back goes rigid as she turns to face her boss. From the tight set of her shoulders, I can tell how much it costs her to deal with him.

“Your bartender was taking my order, which is her job, isn’t it?” My words come out between clenched teeth.

He shoots me a scowl, then lets his gaze rake over her in a slow, deliberate pass. He doesn’t like her giving another man attention. Assholes like that never do.

“It doesn’t take five minutes to take an order. And funny, you already have a drink.”

I’ve perfected the gentle Scandinavian writer persona, but right now, I don’t bother hiding who I really am. I give him a hard look, letting him see the predator beneath the surface, the man who isn’t going to let this go.

He’s either too stupid or too drunk on his own power to recognize the threat. Looks like I need to be a lot less subtle.

“My office. Now,” he hisses at Hope, then turns and stomps away.

Cheeks burning, she glances at me, her earlier warmth gone. “If you need another drink, Chloe can help you.”

She doesn’t wait for my reply before she turns and walks away.

Something dangerous rises in me as I watch that motherfucker strip the smile from her face and make her feel small.

Hope King may not be long for this world, but no one gets to talk to her like that and think there won’t be consequences.