Page 59 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“Stop,” he commands, his voice dangerously quiet, stripped of all emotion. “Stop fighting me, Ashley.”

I freeze, my chest heaving, the blade pressed tight enough against my neck that I can feel my own pulse vibrating against the steel.

He leans down, his breath cold against my ear. “I’ve given you everything. I’ve built a world for us. If you refuse to live in it…if you refuse to let me love you…” He pulls back slightly, his eyes dead and unblinking. “I would rather see you dead. I would rather carve the heart out of your chest myself than watch you live a single day without me in your life.”

I still.

The frantic beat of my heart seems to stop. The realization is absolute: He isn’t bluffing. The delusion has reached its terminal point. If I push him even an inch further, he’ll slide that blade across my throat and end it all right here.

I swallow hard, feeling the sharp sting of the steel against my skin. I force my hands to lie flat against the velvet, signaling surrender.

“Okay,” I whisper, my voice trembling but quiet. “Okay, Daniel.”

The dead vacancy in his eyes slowly warms back into that terrifying, euphoric glow. He pulls the blade back just a fraction of an inch, though the tip still hovers near my collarbone.

“I knew you’d see,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a twisted sort of relief. “I knew you wouldn’t abandon what we’re meant to be.”

He steps back, straightening his tuxedo jacket with a twitchy, manic precision. The silver blade remains gripped firmly in his right hand. He walks over to the small table under the tulle archway, pouring champagne into the two crystal flutes. The liquid fizzes, the sound horribly normal against the backdrop of my nightmare.

He picks up both glasses and turns back to me. “Let us begin. No priest, no witnesses. Just God, the universe, and our vows.”

I slowly sit up on the chaise lounge, the heavy white silk of the wedding dress pooling around my legs. I keep my hands flat, open, and visible. I need him to believe the compliance. I need him to let his guard down.

“We promise to cherish,” Daniel begins, his voice rising in a dramatic, theatrical cadence as he steps toward me, holding out one of the glasses. “To honor. To strip away the poison of the outside world and exist only for—”

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood detonates from the lower level of the house, rattling the floorboards beneath my bare feet.

Daniel freezes, the champagne flutes trembling in his hands.

Before he can even register the noise, a heavy, concussive boom—the unmistakable sound of a breaching charge—shudders through the walls. Shouts echo from the hallways below, sharp, authoritative, and fast, followed by the rapid-fire pop-pop-pop of suppressed weapons.

Samuel.

The realization hits me like a lightning strike.

Daniel’s face distorts, the pristine illusion of his perfect ceremony shattering in an instant. “No,” he whispers, his eyes wide with a frantic, cornered fury. “No, no, no! He can’t be here! He can’t have found us!”

His attention splits. His head whips toward the double doors, his body instinctively turning toward the threat.

It’s the only opening I’m going to get.

I don’t hesitate. I throw my weight forward, driving my body off the chaise lounge. I swing my arm with everything I have left, aiming directly for the hand holding the champagne glasses.

The crystal shatters against his knuckles, spraying sharp shards and alcohol directly into his face.

He screams in pain and surprise, stepping back as he claws at his stinging eyes. The silver blade in his other hand slashes wildly through the air, but his balance is gone.

I lunge forward, ignoring the heavy, restrictive train of the white gown, and grab his wrist with both hands. I twist with all my might, digging my nails into the raw scrape I left on his cheek earlier, forcing his weight backward.

“You bastard!” Daniel shrieks, blind with rage, his grip on the knife slipping as the chaos downstairs grows louder, closer, and completely unstoppable.

“I should have killed you!” His face twisted into a grotesque mask of blood, sweat, and spilled alcohol. He drives his weight forward, trying to force the blade down toward my chest.

I scream, straining every muscle in my arms to keep the knife away from my throat. Our feet slip on the wet hardwood floor. The heavy white satin of the dress drags me down, but I refuse to let go of his wrist.

The double doors of the room suddenly detonate inward, splintering into raw kindling.