Page 32 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“I’ve always wanted you,” I whisper, my pace quickening, shifting into a hard, demanding friction that leaves her completely breathless. “You’re mine. You were mine then, and you’re damn sure mine now.”

The combination of the heavy, deep friction and the raw truth of my voice is too much for her to handle. Ashley shatters beneath me, her body tightening violently as she cums, her hips jerking against mine in an uncontrollable release. But I don’t stop. I keep the pace steady, driving her higher, pushing her straight into another wave before she can even catch her breath.

She’s weeping softly now, the hot, silent tears of pure, unadulterated pleasure slipping down her temples into her hair as she rides the relentless waves of her own ecstasy, cumming over and over again.

On her third orgasm, her inner muscles clamp down on me so tightly that my own control completely snaps.

I let out a low, ragged groan, burying my face in the crook of her neck as I deliver one final, crushing thrust. I come violently inside her, the heat of the release flooding through my lower abdomen as my body shudders against hers.

As the tremors slowly fade, I don’t pull away. I collapse softly against her, wrapping my massive arms around her frame and pulling her flush against my chest, holding her tight in the quiet, shadowed room.

Slowly, the frantic heat and the desperate intensity of the room fade into a quiet, heavy stillness. The only sound left is the synchronized, slow rhythm of our breathing. Beneath my cheek, Ashley’s heart rate gradually drops, her body completely relaxed and heavy against mine in a way she would never allow herself to be while awake.

Within minutes, she falls asleep in my arms.

It mirrors the past—that single night in New York four years ago where we lay tangled in the sheets of a high-end penthouse.

But the circumstances tonight are entirely, fundamentally different. We aren’t strangers playing a game of anonymous passion anymore. We are two people bound by blood, by secrets, and by a little boy sleeping just a few yards down the hallway.

And this time, I do not leave.

I don’t slide out of the bed in the dead of night, pull on my clothes, and disappear back into the shadows. I stay.

I remain awake for a long time in the dark, watching the soft, golden light from the hallway slice across her face. I study the gentle curve of her jaw, the way her dark eyelashes cast long shadows on her cheeks, and the absolute peace that finally relaxes her features when she isn’t busy fighting me.

My mind races, reflecting on how much has changed in a mere twenty-four hours, and how much I still do not understand. The weight of Ethan’s presence in my life is a massive, crushing anchor. I’m a father. I have a son who draws dinosaurs, who laughs on the swings, and who has my eyes.

But I also have Ashley’s fierce, unyielding resistance to contend with. She wants to keep me in the margins. She wants to hide me in the dark to protect her perfect, stable fortress. The sheer urgency of it claws at my chest—an overwhelming, desperate need to claim my place in their lives, to force her to see that I am not a ghost anymore. I cannot, and will not, be ignored.

But tonight, the battle is paused.

I tighten my grip around her waist, pulling her back flush against my chest, burying my face in the scent of her hair. I’m wide awake in her bed, holding onto a moment and a family I have absolutely no intention of walking away from ever again.

Chapter 17 – Ashley

Waking up is a slow, agonizingly gentle process.

For a few fleeting seconds, I am disoriented by a profound, unfamiliar sense of calm. The sheets against my bare skin are warm, the morning light filtering soft and golden through the sheer curtains of my bedroom. My body feels heavy, deeply relaxed in a way it hasn’t in years.

Then, the memories of the night before return in a sudden, breathless rush.

The fierce argument in the dining room. The desperate, bruising collision of our mouths. The heat of Samuel’s hands, the raw intensity of his confessions, and the absolute surrender of my body beneath his in the dark.

My heart takes a sudden leap into my throat. I roll over, my hand reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed.

The space beside me is cold. The sheets are empty, the pillows smoothed over.

A hollow, sickening weight drops straight into my stomach. My breath hitches as a wave of bitter familiarity washes over me. He’s gone. Just like before. Just like that night in New York, he took what he wanted, unraveling my entire world, and slipped away into the shadows before the sun could even expose him. The fool I was to let him back in, to think that this time would be any different—

A sharp, metallic clink echoes from downstairs.

I freeze.

It’s the distinct sound of a metal spatula tapping against the edge of a skillet.

I scramble out of bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I grab my silk robe from the chair, wrapping it tightly around myself and tying the belt with trembling hands. I don’t even stop to find my slippers. Barefoot, I hurry out of the bedroom, my feet padding quickly down the carpeted hallway and down the stairs, guided by the warm, rich scent of melting butter and sizzling bacon.

I round the corner into the kitchen, my breath catching in my throat.