Page 13 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

Ashley.

She looks different. The wild, breathless girl who let her hair down in a dimly lit hotel penthouse has been replaced by a woman wrapped in pristine, razor-sharp cream armor. Her dark eyes are wide, her chest rising and falling in a microscopic tremor of sheer shock as she stares at me.

A normal man would have let the surprise show. A normal man would have flinched, or smiled, or let some ghost of the past crack his composure.

But I’m not the man I was four years ago.

Years of cold, ruthless discipline and the brutal lessons of survival snap into place like a lock clicking shut. My face remains an absolute, impenetrable mask of stone. Not a single muscle in my jaw tightens; my breathing doesn’t even stutter.

To Kaplan, sitting beside me, and to her assistant waiting by the door, I’m simply the principal owner of an international enterprise waiting to execute a high-value contract.

I don’t offer her a smile. I don’t offer her a nod. I simply hold her gaze, letting the icy, commanding weight of my blue eyes ground her back to the present.

Ashley blinks, a sudden, fierce flash of self-preservation washing over her features. She draws a sharp breath, her spine instantly straightening as she steps fully into the room. The momentary shock is swept away, replaced by a cold, glittering mask of professional hostility.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she says, her voice smooth, level, and entirely businesslike as she walks to the head of the table opposite me. “I’m Ashley Kang, CEO of Kang Global Logistics. Let’s begin.”

She sits down, smoothing the fabric of her trousers with a deliberate, calm grace.

“Samuel,” Kaplan says, giving me a brief, subtle glance before gesturing to her. “This is Ms. Kang. Her firm handles the exact type of secure, high-volume Mediterranean shipping corridors we require.”

“I’m aware,” I say, my voice deep, gravelly, and entirely stripped of the warmth she might remember. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the glass table, my large, tattooed wrists emerging from the cuffs of my tailored suit jacket. “Which is why we’re here, Ms. Kang. My firm doesn’t tolerate delays, and we don’t tolerate indiscretion.”

Ashley’s eyes narrow slightly at my tone, a dangerous, sharp edge cutting through her professional veneer. “Then you’ve come to the right place, Mr…”

“Mr. Samuel Rusnak,” I answer.

I catch it. It’s microscopic, invisible to anyone else in the room, but her breath hitches sharply on the second syllable of my name, and her dark eyes widen for a split, fraction of a second.

The composure she’s fighting so hard to maintain slips just enough for me to see the crack in her armor. Like she remembers something. The brief slip is gone before it can fully form, her eyes hardening back into glittering stones as she looks at me.

“My company has a flawless track record, Mr. Rusnak,” she continues, her voice tighter now. “We don’t just move cargo; we buy silence and guarantee security. But our discretion doesn’t come cheap.”

“Budget isn’t an issue,” I reply smoothly, my tone measured and authoritative, giving no indication that I noticed her stumble. “Precision is. The operations we are talking about require highly specialized container routing. We need your ships to bypass the standard, high-traffic customs hubs in the Aegean. We require isolated, private docks where cargo can be offloaded directly into our secure transports without paper trails.”

I slide the black leather folder across the table toward her.

“Inside, you’ll find the structural parameters,” I continue, holding her gaze as her fingers touch the edge of the file. “Three shipments a month. High-value, sensitive assets. If a single manifest is leaked, or if one of your port captains asks the wrong question, the contract is terminated. Instantly.”

Ashley doesn’t open the folder immediately. Instead, she slides her hands together, resting her chin on her steepled fingers, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an assertiveness that is both captivating and incredibly sharp.

“I don’t appreciate being threatened in my own boardroom, Mr. Rusnak,” she says, her voice dropping to a quiet, dangerous register. “My port captains are highly paid to keep their mouths shut. If your assets are as sensitive as you claim, then the risk to my shipping licenses increases exponentially. A three-shipment-a-month rotation demands a complete reallocation of my private fleet.”

She leans back, a cold, challenging smile playing on her lips.

“The standard rate Kaplan discussed with my associate is no longer on the table. For this level of risk, and this level of discretion, my fee is double.”

Beside me, Kaplan shifts slightly, his eyebrows raising at her sheer audacity. Nobody doubles my rates. Nobody dictates terms to me.

But as I look at her—seeing the fierce, unyielding pride radiating off her frame, seeing the absolute refusal to be overshadowed or intimidated by my size and wealth—a dark, microscopic spark of amusement flickers deep in my chest.

She hasn’t changed. She is still very confident in herself.

“Double,” I repeat, the word rolling off my tongue like a low, dangerous purr. I let the silence stretch, letting the tension in the room build until the air feels heavy enough to snap. I don’t blink. I just watch her, testing her resolve. “You have a very high opinion of your services, Ms. Kang.”

“I have an accurate opinion of my worth,” she counters instantly, her eyes flashing with a white-hot defiance. “If you wanted cheap, you would have contracted a standard commercial freighter. You came to me because I am the only one who can guarantee your cargo doesn’t end up seized by the maritime coast guard. You pay for the security, Mr. Rusnak. Or you can take your business elsewhere and risk the fallout.”

It’s a beautiful, calculated play. She’s daring me to walk. She’s trying to claw back the control she lost to me four years ago, trying to prove that she’s the one holding the cards in this room.