Page 2 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“Watch the cargo, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, playful purr. “You almost took us both down.”

My blood instantly turns to liquid fire. I look at the shattered crystals on the floor, then step right back into his space, my small frame vibrating with pure, unfiltered fury.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap, pointing a sharp, manicured finger at his chest. “You just destroyed the finale’s centerpiece because you were too busy taking up space to look where you’re going. I don’t care how much money you have or whose guest you are—apologize, pick that up, and get the hell out of my backstage before I have security throw you out on your face.”

Instead of flinching, his smirk only widens. He slowly lowers his gaze to my finger on his chest, then brings his eyes back to mine, his blue eyes gleaming with absolute entertainment. He is clearly a man used to being liked, used to controlling every conversation he walks into, but my hostility is just a game to him.

“You’ve got a hell of a mouth on you, Ashley,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to read the VIP badge pinned to my dress before slowly, deliberately trailing down the plunge of my emerald blazer, taking in my curves with a heat that makes my skin tingle. “And a temper to match. But I don’t do apologies for accidents. Especially when you’re the one who ran into me.”

“I didn’t run into you, you arrogant prick. You were standing in a restricted lane,” I fire back, my chest heaving as I stare him down.

The air between us is suddenly thick, charged with a volatile, heavy current that has absolutely nothing to do with the ruined headpiece on the floor. It’s raw, magnetic, and completely infuriating. I hate him on principle, yet my heart is hammering against my ribs in a way that has nothing to do with anger.

“Then maybe you should have steered more clearly,” he teases, leaning down just enough for the scents of cedarwood, rich whiskey, and pure male heat to invade my senses. “But since you’re so worried about the cheap rocks on the floor, how about I write you a check to cover the damage? Or better yet, I’ll buy you a drink, and you can tell me all the other things I’m doing wrong.”

“I don’t want your fucking money, and I sure as hell don’t want a drink with a man who thinks his smile excuses his stupidity,” I hiss, locking my dark eyes onto his. “Step aside. Now.”

He doesn’t move an inch. He just stands there, completely solid, his gaze burning into mine with a quiet, dangerous confidence that tells me he isn’t a man who takes orders. But beneath the playful arrogance, there’s a sudden, sharp focus in his eyes that tells me he’s feeling the exact same electric pull.

“Ashley!”

Maya’s voice slices through the thick, suffocating tension like a siren. I pull my gaze away from him, my heart hammering a furious rhythm against my ribs as I force myself to blink.

“The Paris flight team is on the radio,” Maya says, rushing up to us with her iPad clutched to her chest, her eyes widening slightly as she registers the shattered crystals on the floor and the sheer, physical mass of the man towering over me. “The customs broker needs your authorization code for the second shipment of runway shoes, or they’re holding the truck.”

“I’m on it,” I say. My voice is tight, but I force it to remain steady, refusing to give this man the satisfaction of knowing he has rattled me.

I look up at him one last time, my dark eyes hard and dismissive. “We’re done here.”

“Are we, Ashley?” he murmurs, his lazy smirk returning as he speaks my name, letting it roll off his tongue with a low, deep resonance that sends an unwelcome shiver straight down my spine.

I don’t answer him. I step around his massive frame, deliberately brushing my shoulder against his chest as I sweep past, leaving him standing in the corridor with his empty glass and his infuriating confidence.

For the next two hours, I lose myself in the work. I coordinate with the backstage handlers, sign the high-value transport manifests, and direct the models with sharp, clinical precision.

But no matter how hard I try to lock my focus onto the runway, my mind keeps betraying me. Every time the bass swells, I feel the phantom vibration of that hard, muscular chest against mine. Every time I glance toward the VIP entrance, my eyes automatically search for a tailored black shirt and striking, lazy blue eyes.

It’s irritating. I don’t get distracted. I don’t let arrogant, smooth-talking men occupy a single millimeter of my thoughts. Yet, the memory of his scent—woodsmoke, expensive whiskey, and pure, raw heat—clings to me like a second skin.

By midnight, the intense rush of the showcase finally begins to level out. The applause from the final walk has faded, the high-profile clients are filtering out toward the after-parties, and Maya has the breakdown crews fully under control.

Exhausted and needing a desperate escape from the suffocating heat of the backstage lights, I slip away from the main crowd. I step out onto the secluded, dimly lit stone terrace at the back of the venue, leaning my hands against the cool marble railing. I close my eyes, letting the crisp night air hit my face, finally letting my guard drop for the first time all night.

I take a slow, deep breath, letting the tension drain from my shoulders as I listen to the muted hum of the city traffic below. Despite the broken headpiece and the minor disasters, the show was a triumph.

My team executed everything flawlessly. I’m quietly congratulating myself on pulling off another highly lucrative, successful event when the hair on the back of my neck suddenly stands on end.

“You know, you’re a hard woman to track down, Ashley.”

The deep, gravelly voice rumbles from the shadows of the terrace door. My eyes snap open, and I straighten up, my walls immediately locking back into place.

The arrogant jerk from earlier steps out into the dim light of the terrace. He has ditched his suit jacket, and his tailored black shirt is unbuttoned a fraction lower, the rolled-up sleeves revealing the sharp lines of his forearms as he leans casually against the stone archway.

The lazy smirk is gone, replaced by a much more deliberate, focused intent. He looks at me with an intensity that makes the cool night air feel suddenly thick.

“Are you stalking me now?” I ask, my voice cool, though my heart takes an annoying leap against my ribs.

“Not my usual style,” he says, walking slowly toward the railing until he’s standing just a few feet away, invading my space with that intoxicating scent of woodsmoke and expensive whiskey. “I came to apologize. For earlier.”