Page 42 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

A soft, trembling sigh escapes my lips as I reach out and ruffle his messy hair. The sheer relief of seeing him like this, of knowing the poison has entirely cleared his system, is the only thing keeping me grounded.

“That was a huge jump, sweetie,” I say, forcing a warm, steady smile. “But let’s keep the trucks on the rug, okay? We don’t want to scratch the table.”

“Okay!” he chirps, happily steering the truck back into his plastic storage bin.

I watch him, trying desperately to wrap myself in this small, simple moment of domestic normalcy. I want to believe we can go back to how things were. I want to believe that the locks on the doors and the invisible perimeter of Samuel’s men outside are enough.

But as I look toward the front entryway, the memory of Samuel’s heavy, absolute declaration in the hospital corridor rushes back to meet me, cold and unyielding.

We’re getting married.

He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t negotiated. He’d laid it down as an inescapable fact, a shield forged from the violent legacy of the Rusnak name to wrap around our son and me. And deep down, in the quietest, most terrified corners of my heart, I know the stalker is still out there, watching and waiting.

The normalcy I am desperately clinging to is an illusion, and the clock is rapidly ticking down.

The calm is abruptly, violently disrupted.

The heavy front door swings open without a knock, the lock clicking back with a sharp, chilling familiarity. I bolt to my feet, my heart instantly leaping into my throat as my body braces for a threat.

Samuel steps into the foyer. His massive frame completely dominates the space, his face set in a grim, unyielding expression that brooks no argument. But he is not alone.

A team of nearly a dozen people follows him inside. Among them are several stern-faced men in dark suits and three women dressed in sharp, identical black uniforms. Before I can even open my mouth to speak, the women move past Samuel with quiet, chilling efficiency. They carry heavy, high-quality packing crates and garment bags, dispersing into my home as if they own it. They head straight for the stairs, toward my bedroom, toward Ethan’s playroom, moving with absolute purpose.

They start packing our belongings.

The intrusion is overwhelming, a physical violation of the sacred space I have spent four years building. It shreds the fragile sense of control I have fought so hard to maintain, exposing just how easily my boundaries can be flattened by the sheer force of the Rusnak name.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I demand, my voice sharp, raw, and entirely unfiltered as I step into the hallway to block one of the women carrying an empty crate. “Stop. Stop touching my things!”

The woman doesn’t even look at me; she simply bypasses me with a polite, robotic nod and continues up the stairs.

I spin around, my chest heaving, and march directly up to Samuel. I push my hand against his broad chest, but it is like trying to move a brick wall. “Samuel! Tell your people to get the hell out of my house! What are you doing?”

Samuel doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften his posture or offer a comforting look. His blue eyes lock onto mine, cold, determined, and entirely devoid of hesitation.

“We’re leaving, Ashley,” he says, his deep voice cutting through my panic with absolute authority. “And we’re getting married.”

The declaration lands like a heavy, suffocating ultimatum, leaving no room for negotiation, no room to breathe, and absolutely no way out.

“No,” I snap, my voice trembling with a potent mix of fear and indignation. I step back, shaking my head violently. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to barge into my life, rearrange it, and dictate my future like it’s a corporate acquisition. I’m not marrying you, Samuel! I’m not going anywhere!”

I glare at him, waiting for him to justify this, to argue, to try and win me over with logic.

He does none of those things. He stands perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, watching me with a steady, haunting intensity. He doesn’t engage with my fury. He doesn’t raise his voice. He simply waits for me to exhaust myself against the immovable reality of his decision.

“The decision is made, Ashley,” he says, his tone devoid of malice but completely hollow of flexibility. “The perimeter around this house is no longer sufficient. You’re coming with me, and we’re completing the legal requirements as soon as we can.”

“I said no!” I shout, my frustration boiling over. “I don’t care what you think is necessary. This is my life. You’re terrorizing me, Samuel! Is this your version of protection? Forcing me into a cage?”

His jaw tightens, and for the first time, a flicker of something volatile crosses his gaze. He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me, lowering his voice until it vibrates in the small, crowded hallway.

“Do not mistake my resolve for cruelty,” he warns, his eyes darting toward the living room, where Ethan is still blissfully occupied with his trucks. “I will not allow Ethan to witness a scene. I will not have him see me forcibly remove you from this house. I will not have him learn that his father is a man who resorts to raw force against his mother.”

My blood turns to ice. The implication is crystal clear, draped in the calmest threat I have ever heard.

“If you do not leave willingly,” he continues, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rasp, “I will still take you. I will carry you out of here myself if I have to. But I would much rather avoid exposing our son to that trauma. The choice of how we leave is yours, but the outcome is not.”

The fight drains out of me, replaced by a hollow, aching defeat. He knows exactly where my heart is anchored. He knows that I will swallow any amount of bitterness and submit to any amount of control if it means protecting Ethan’s innocence.