Page 23 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“I’m Ethan. This is Barnaby.”

The contrast between my son’s innocent warmth and the icy terror paralyzing my limbs is deafening.

Samuel looks down. The ruthless, untouchable contractor—the man who handles black-market empires and commands rooms with a single glance—is visibly thrown off balance.

His large frame seems to shrink slightly as he slowly drops to one knee, bringing himself down to Ethan’s eye level. He acts as if a sudden movement might shatter the air between them.

“Hi, Ethan,” Samuel says. His voice is incredibly raw, stripped of all its gravelly authority, sounding almost hollowed out.

Samuel studies him. I watch his gaze trace the curve of Ethan’s jaw, the slight cowlick in his dark hair, and the shape of his small hands. He’s looking at a mirror of his own childhood, a physical manifestation of a past he never knew existed.

Ethan smiles, entirely unbothered by the intensity of the man staring at him. He reaches out a small hand, pointing a sticky finger directly toward Samuel’s face.

“You have blue eyes,” Ethan observes innocently, his voice bright. “Just like mine. And Mommy’s are brown.”

The words hang in the damp night air, a fragile, undeniable truth.

Samuel flinches as if he’s been struck. He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he slowly raises his head. He stands back up to his full, imposing height, his eyes shifting from Ethan back to me. The question in his gaze is roaring, heavy with shock, betrayal, and a sudden, terrifying claim. He doesn’t voice it, but the silent demand for confirmation echoes through the corridor.

I look at him, and the panic in my chest suddenly numbs into a cold, hard resolve.

There’s no point in denying it. There are no lies strong enough to erase the identical blue of their eyes, or the math of a timeline we both know by heart. The truth is already standing between us, breathing and alive.

I place a gentle, protective hand on Ethan’s shoulder and draw him slightly behind my leg. I look Samuel dead in the eyes, keeping my chin lifted, my voice controlled, even, and entirely devoid of drama.

“He’s yours, Samuel.”

The reaction is immediate. It’s like a physical detonation. The color drains completely from Samuel’s face before a dark, violent flush of pure, unadulterated fury rushes to take its place. His chest heaves, his massive frame shaking as the sheer weight of my words crashes into him. Anger, disbelief, and a terrifying, turbulent storm of unprocessed emotion war in his eyes.

“What?” he rasps, his voice suddenly rising, carrying a dangerous, booming vibration that threatens to shake the walls. “You—”

Before the word can fully leave his throat, before he can roar at me or say something that will scar my son forever, I react.

I reach out, my fingers wrapping tightly around the lapel of his expensive tuxedo jacket. With a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I yank him forward, pulling his massive frame over the threshold and into the entryway.

“Shut up,” I hiss, my voice a lethal, commanding whisper as I slam the front door behind him. The lock clicks into place with a definitive snap, shutting out the storm outside and trapping us in the suffocating heat of the hallway. “Not a word. Not in front of him.”

Samuel freezes, his jaw clenching so hard I hear the joints pop. He glares down at me, his chest rising and falling in ragged, shallow breaths, but he stays quiet.

I force the trembling out of my hands, plastering on a soft, calm smile as I turn back to my son. I kneel down, completely blocking Samuel from Ethan’s view.

“Sweetie,” I say, my voice sounding incredibly light, a stark contrast to the violence in my chest. “Mommy has to talk to this man about some business for a little bit. Can you do me a huge favor and go back to bed?”

Ethan pouts, clutching his teddy bear tighter. “But I’m not sleepy anymore.”

“I know, baby,” I say, reaching out to brush a stray curl from his forehead. I press a lingering, warm kiss to his cheek, breathing him in one last time before the storm hits. “But if you go back to sleep right now, I promise we will have double-chocolate cookies and strawberry ice cream tomorrow after school. Deal?”

Ethan’s eyes light up instantly. The bribe works like magic. “With sprinkles?”

“With all the sprinkles you want,” I promise softly.

“Okay! Deal!” He beams. He turns his head, looking past my shoulder toward the towering, silent man standing by the door. Ethan waves his small hand. “Goodbye.”

Samuel flinches, a raw, visible ache fracturing the anger on his face. He swallows hard, his eyes tracking the boy with a helpless, desperate intensity. “Goodbye, Ethan,” he chokes out.

We both stand in agonizing silence, watching Ethan’s little pajama-clad feet patter back down the hallway. We hold our breath, waiting until the soft click of his bedroom door echoes through the house.

The safety net is gone.