Page 3 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “Oh, you can apologize? I find that hard to believe.”

“Fucking hell, you really don’t make anything easy, do you?” he rumbles, a low chuckle escaping him. He rubs the back of his neck, his confidence still intact but tempered by a raw sincerity that catches me off guard. “Look, I was an arrogant prick backstage. The glass slipped, but I shouldn’t have brushed it off. I know how much work goes into a production like this, and I ruined a key piece of your show. I’m sorry. For the mess, and for pushing your buttons.”

It’s not the most polished apology I’ve ever heard, but there’s enough genuine weight behind his words to make my irritation falter. I study him closely, searching his striking blue eyes for any sign of a game, but he meets my gaze directly, completely locked in.

“The headpiece was an archival piece from Paris,” I say, my tone calmer now, though the heavy undercurrent of tension between us remains as thick as ever. “It took my team three weeks of customs negotiations just to get it into the country.”

“Then I’ll make sure my people handle the logistics to get it sent back to Paris for a full restoration, on my dime,” he says smoothly, his voice dropping to a quieter, more intimate register. His confidence is still there, but instead of using it to provoke me, he’s directing every ounce of it toward drawing me in. “No checks. Just a clean, hassle-free fix. Deal?”

I let out a soft, dry breath, looking out over the skyline before turning my eyes back to him. “You’re very used to getting your way, aren’t you?”

“Usually, yeah,” he admits, a slow, devastatingly handsome smile tugging at his lips as he steps a fraction closer. “But right now, I’m just trying to get on your good side.”

When I scoff, his smile turns even more patient.

“Let me get you that drink,” he says, his voice dropping a fraction lower, holding my gaze with absolute focus. “No strings, no business talk. Just starting over.”

I look at him, my arms still crossed, though the defensive posture feels more like a shield against his sheer physical presence than actual anger now. “I don’t even know who you are.”

A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that is entirely too charming. He takes a half-step closer, extending his hand. “Samuel.”

I look down at his hand. His fingers are long, his palm broad, and the dark ink of his tattoos catches my eyes.

Every professional instinct I have is screaming at me to walk away. I don’t mix business with pleasure, I don’t tolerate arrogant men, and I certainly don’t let strangers who break my cargo charm their way into my night.

But as I look from his hand back up to his striking, expectant face, my curiosity wins the battle. There’s something dangerously magnetic about him—a sharp, unpredictable edge beneath the smooth talk that makes my pulse race.

I reach out, letting my hand slide into his.

The contact is brief, but the warmth of his skin sends a sharp, electric jolt straight up my arm. I pull my hand back, keeping my expression cool and composed. “Ashley. But you already knew that.”

“I did,” he murmurs, his smile turning wicked as he gestures back toward the venue’s double doors. “After you, Ashley.”

We walk back inside together, leaving the quiet of the terrace behind as we head toward the VIP bar. As we cut through the lingering crowd, his massive frame naturally shields me from the bustling guests, his presence a warm, solid weight at my side.

The hostility is gone, replaced by a charged, intoxicating current of anticipation that tells me my night is far from over.

Chapter 2 – Samuel

I lean my elbow against the polished mahogany of the VIP bar, watching her over the rim of my glass.

Usually, this is the part of the night where the script writes itself. A smile, a laugh, a casual brush of the shoulder, and whoever is standing next to me is playing along, laughing at my jokes, and doing everything they can to keep my attention. I’m used to it. I’m used to the easy slide of conversations where I hold all the cards and steer the room exactly where I want it to go.

But Ashley? Ashley isn’t playing the game.

She stands next to me, her petite frame radiating a quiet, unyielding power that makes the rest of the crowded room feel like background noise. She isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at the bartender as he pours her drink, her dark eyes completely focused, her posture poised and untouchable in that bold, curve-hugging emerald dress. Her dark hair catches the low amber light of the bar, and up close, her presence is flat-out magnetic.

She isn’t trying to impress me. In fact, she looks like she’s actively calculating the quickest way to finish her drink and get the fuck away from me.

And that’s exactly what makes me want to stay.

It’s not just that she’s striking—though, fucking hell, her curves are enough to make a man lose his train of thought mid-sentence. It’s the total lack of awe in her eyes when she looks at me. I’m used to people seeing the name, the watch, or the heavy, dangerous reputation that follows my family, and adjusting their behavior accordingly. But to Ashley, I’m just the loud-mouthed idiot who broke her expensive French headpiece.

The bartender slides a glass of dry white wine toward her and a fresh scotch to me.

I lift my glass, catching her eye. “To clean slates,” I say, offering her a slow, genuine smile. “And to not throwing me off the terrace.”

She clinks her glass against mine, a sudden, genuine laugh spilling from her lips.