Page 7 of Brutal Reign (Bratva Kings #3)

CHAPTER

SEVEN

PAVEL

Hope’s building sits between a kebab shop and a pawnbroker, its pre-war brick stained black by decades of exhaust and neglect. I slip through the entrance behind a takeaway delivery driver, then climb the back stairs to avoid the security camera in the main lobby.

Tonight, I finish what I should have done in Switzerland.

Breaking in here is something I should have done from the start, but her building’s been crawling with construction workers doing pipe repairs, making it impossible to move undetected.

Tonight’s the first time the place has been quiet, and the late shift she’s working means she won’t be home until past midnight.

My first challenge is getting in. She was smart enough to upgrade the locks on her unit, as well as install a Ring camera on her front door.

Having scoped out her place beforehand, I’ve come prepared with a small device designed to kill Wi-Fi signals. I point the device at the camera and hold down the button. To Hope, it’ll seem like her internet cut out for a few minutes. It gives me a short window to break in.

The Yale lock is a cinch to pick, but the deadbolt puts up more of a fight. I work each pin individually, hoping no neighbors decide to make an appearance. I’d really rather not kill anyone else tonight. When I hear the satisfying click of the final pin sliding into place, I let myself in.

I pause in the doorway, listening. There’s nothing but the distant hum of traffic and someone’s television bleeding through thin walls.

Two weeks of following her around has shown me her patterns. I know she shops on Saturday mornings, does her laundry on Sunday, occasionally stops by the bookstore on her way to work, and treats herself to a movie at the cinema once in a while.

At first, it was reconnaissance. I was making sure she wasn’t taking secret meetings in person. But so far, that’s not the case. All I’ve seen is a woman who works, sleeps, and repeats the cycle.

But somewhere along the way, watching her became an obsession. When I follow her home at night, I don’t watch her, I watch over her. The instinct that made me spare her in Switzerland has only grown stronger, mixed with something I haven’t wanted to admit to myself—desire.

And every day that passes, the feeling sharpens. I want to protect her from every threat, but I also want to pin her beneath me and hear her cry out my name… my real one.

And that’s why Hope King needs to die.

Tonight.

Before she fucks with my head any more than she already has. I’ll do what needs to be done and never look back. Because even if she’s not a threat now, she could be one in the future.

Her apartment is small, clean, and deliberately anonymous. The main room combines the kitchen and living area in a space no bigger than my walk-in closet. There are no personal photos. No mementos of her past life, not that I expected there to be.

There’s a TV tray and a chair on one end and a thrifted couch in the other corner, with a stack of romance novels on the floor beside it. They’re old paperbacks, the kind with shirtless men with long, flowing hair on the covers.

One book lies open on the arm of the sofa, and I can’t help but peek.

I pick it up, pages open to a scene that makes me smirk.

The hero has the heroine pinned against a wall, promising to show her pleasure she’s never imagined.

My cock springs to life as I picture Hope curled up here, cheeks flushed as she reads about a proper lady being ravished by a savage brute much like myself.

She might be living like a nun, but her imagination is clearly active.

When I step into her bedroom, the fresh, clean, citrusy smell of Hope fills the space, and my dick, which had just settled, springs right back to life.

I go through her dresser drawers, her nightstand, and her closet which only contains a few casual items, and one black dress that looks like it came from a thrift store.

Her personal items are few. I find a small sewing kit with mismatched thread spools, a pair of old earbuds, a candle. No jewelry except for a cheap digital watch on the nightstand. No photos, no mementos, no collections of anything.

I look under her bed and under the mattress—all the usual places people hide shit—but I don’t find anything that suggests she’s using her family name to rebuild the Black Company.

It's the room of someone who owns exactly what she needs to survive and nothing more.

I move on to search the two paltry kitchen cupboards. Nothing. Next, I check under the sink, then under the couch, and even the medicine cabinet in her bathroom.

Killing her would be easier if I found something incriminating, but after an hour of desperate searching, I’ve found no evidence she’s planning anything beyond surviving another day.

That fucks with my head more than it should. Maybe it’s because I recognize something in her. She grew up alone, much like me. No family. No support.

I know that emptiness. I’ve been carrying it since I was fifteen and lost everything that mattered. The difference is I filled mine with violence and power. Hope didn’t. She deserves better than the hand she was dealt. Better than what I’m here to do.

Just as I sit down heavily on her bed, forearms resting on my knees, I hear the rattle of a lock turning.

Fuck.

Hope’s not supposed to be home yet, but it’s her melodic voice that floats in from the other room. Metal clinks into a bowl and shoes hit the floor, followed by that soft sigh of someone finally safe in their sanctuary.

Except she’s not safe. Not even close.

My hand moves automatically to the Glock tucked against my spine, fingers wrapping around the grip as I pull it free. The weight feels wrong. It’s too heavy in my hand, like the metal itself is resisting what I need to do when she walks through that door. One bullet to the head, then I disappear.

That was always the plan, even if it makes bile rise in my throat.

I brace myself for what comes next, but then I hear her voice again, carrying from the main room. She’s talking on the phone. Shit. I can’t take the chance of someone hearing me kill her.

I dart to the closet, sliding between coats and sweaters as her bedroom door opens. She’s only a few feet away from me now, still talking on the phone. I watch her through the narrow slats, my hand resting on the grip of my pistol, praying she doesn’t open the closet door.

“Seriously, I couldn’t believe it. Darren finally showed up at the pub tonight after being MIA for an entire week.

Didn’t say where he’d been, but he’s got his leg in a cast and he looks worse for wear.

He hobbled in and gave me the night off, along with a raise and better shifts.

No weird comments, no smirking, no staring. He was a perfect fucking gentleman.”

Satisfaction rolls through me despite everything.

Good. Hope’s asshole boss got the message loud and clear.

“I’m not kidding,” she says to whoever’s on the other end—Chloe, probably. “Trust me, I’m as shocked as you are.”

I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes at the sheer absurdity. I’m trying to keep her safe from every other man, even while I’m here to kill her.

She pauses, then says, “I don’t know. He looked like he got pummeled in a fight or something. Maybe someone finally kicked his ass over those gambling debts. Either way, he got some sense knocked into him because he’s never that decent. Oh, one minute, Chlo.”

Her phone hits the bed, and in the next heartbeat her T-shirt is gone, peeled off in one fluid motion. Fuck me. No bra. Just bare skin and perfect tits bouncing free, nipples tight and flushed a deep, dusky pink. My mouth waters, and my cock pulses so hard against my zipper it’s almost painful.

She pushes her jeans down, the denim hugging her thighs before giving way, revealing supple legs I want thrown over my shoulders. In nothing but simple black cotton panties, she turns and stretches, the gentle arch of her spine highlighting the curve of her ass.

Then, with a careless flick of her thumbs, her panties slide down those smooth legs, leaving her completely bare. My eyes lock on her pussy, and it punches the breath from my lungs. It’s pink and perfect, framed by a neat strip of hair.

I can’t hear a word she’s saying to her friend. My brain has short-circuited, every ounce of my focus trained on her naked body. She’s stunning, even more so than I let myself imagine.

I’ve fucked plenty of women, but no one has ever made me feel this kind of savage, possessive hunger. She’s so innocent, so fucking oblivious, with a killer hiding in her closet, desperate to ruin her for anyone else.

“Alright, hun, I’m beat,” Hope says, suppressing a yawn. “I need to shower and get some sleep. See you tomorrow.”

After a few seconds pause, she says goodnight and hangs up.

This is my chance. I need to step out, get the job done, and move on with my life. I’ve never hesitated to kill before. Not until her. But now, standing in her closet with a pistol in one hand and my dick throbbing in my jeans, every cell in my body rebels.

I press my forehead against the closet door, forcing myself to breathe. It’s time to admit the truth. I can’t do it. Not tonight, maybe not ever.

The smart thing would be to get the hell out while she’s in the bathroom, but when I glance through the partially open door, I see Hope stepping into the shower. It must be my lucky fucking day because the curtain is clear plastic, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Water streams over her back, tracing the elegant line of her spine, gliding over the soft swell of her ass. Her hair clings in wet, dark ropes down her neck and shoulders, and just like that, I’m glued to the spot.