Page 51 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

“About your newfound obsession with that girl.”

A pause.

“What I do with my life is none of your business.”

“You’re right. It isn’t,” he answered. “But it’s different this time.” Ilya uncrossed his legs and leaned in, holding my gaze. “My sources tell me this girl in question witnessed something she shouldn’t have, and you’re taking it lightly with her.”

“The situation is under control.”

“Is it?” he asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “Because it doesn’t seem that way to me.”

A faint scowl settled on my face. “Drop it, Ilya.”

“Listen, I’m not trying to tell you what to do here. But your head’s not in the game anymore. The other day during our meeting, you zoned out. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed the changes.”

Of course, he wasn’t. I was almost certain that the Bratva elites had put him up to this.

“You’re distracted, brother—and I’ve never seen you distracted.” A pause. “Wait a minute…”

I watched that pesky little smirk of his slowly spread across his face.

“…are you falling for this girl?”

My expression hardened. “Don’t be silly, Ilya.”

He laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair. “That explains why you’re so obsessed with her.”

“I’m not obsessed.” The words came out more intensely than I intended.

He retained his smirk and said, in a gentle tone, “Nobody who’s obsessed with someone ever agrees that they are.”

Deep down, I knew he was right. However, hearing him say it so bluntly and out loud did something to me that I wasn’t ready to label.

“Has she found out who you are yet?” he asked.

“I thought your sources told you everything. How come they left out this piece of information?”

“Is it wrong to want to hear it from the horse’s mouth?”

I rose to my feet. “Whiskey or vodka?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I strolled over to the minibar in my large office space.

“You’re trying to avoid this conversation.”

“Yes. Because there’s nothing to talk about.”

“My brother, a stone-cold son of a bitch with ice in his veins, is obsessed with a twenty-two-year-old journalism student,” he said, his gaze following me around. “I think that’s a conversation worth having.”

I grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured a generous amount into two glasses. “Like I said, I’m not obsessed.” I handed one to him.

“Tell that to somebody who doesn’t know you.” He accepted the glass.

I took a sip and leaned against the edge of my mahogany table. “What’s your point? What exactly do you want from me, Ilya?”

“I want you to get your head back in the game,” he replied sternly. “I want you focused because your recent distraction is becoming alarming.” Ilya rose to his feet and stood in front of me. “People are talking, brother.”