Page 33 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

Samuel is standing at the stove.

He’s wearing the same dark trousers from last night, but he’s rolled the sleeves of his charcoal knit sweater up to his forearms, revealing the strong, corded muscles and faint scars of his wrists. He moves with a quiet, domestic efficiency, flipping pancakes with a steady hand—a stark, surreal contrast to the high-stakes corporate power play and underlying danger he usually projects.

But it’s not just Samuel in the kitchen.

Ethan is already awake. He is sitting in his usual booster seat at the kitchen island, his little legs swinging back and forth under the counter. He’s eating happily, a half-eaten pancake covered in a messy swirl of syrup on his plate.

The sight stops me dead in my tracks. I lean against the doorframe, my hand clutching the lapel of my robe, completely unable to move or speak.

I just watch them.

The interaction between Samuel and Ethan is entirely natural, almost completely effortless.

“And then,” Ethan chirps, his mouth slightly full as he waves a plastic fork in the air, “the blue power ranger did a giant flip over the mountain!”

“A giant flip?” Samuel asks, his deep, gravelly voice incredibly soft and attentive. He doesn’t look away from Ethan, focusing on him with a genuine warmth that has absolutely nothing to do with performance or obligation. He reaches over, using a napkin to gently wipe a drop of syrup from Ethan’s chin. “Did he land on his feet, or did he crash?”

“He landed on one foot!” Ethan giggles, highly animated and clearly thrilled to have an audience that is hanging onto his every word. “Just like a ninja!”

“Impressive,” Samuel murmurs, a slow, real smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll have to try that move sometime.”

My throat tightens as I watch my son look up at Samuel with an innocent, glowing admiration. For nearly four years, I have been Ethan’s entire world. I have filled every role, carried every burden, and tried to be everything he could ever need. But watching them together, seeing the instinctual, unshakeable bond that has formed in less than twenty-four hours, something shifts inside me.

For a brief, terrifying moment, I let my guard drop.

I stand in the quiet shadow of the doorway and allow myself to imagine what this could actually be. A real family. No hiding, no corporate contracts as shields, no constant fear of the dangerous world Samuel belongs to. Just mornings like this—warm, safe, and complete.

It is a beautiful, intoxicating dream. But as I take a step forward into the light of the kitchen, the cold reality of who Samuel is rushes back to meet me, and the dream begins to fade.

Samuel looks up from the stove, his brilliant blue eyes locking onto mine. There is a quiet, knowing warmth in his gaze that makes my skin tingle, but his expression remains perfectly composed.

“Good morning,” he says, his deep voice carrying a soft, morning rasp. “I made breakfast. Sit down and eat before it gets cold.”

“Mommy!” Ethan shrieks with delight, nearly dropping his fork. “Samuel made the best pancakes ever! They look like little clouds!”

A genuine laugh escapes my lips, the tight knot in my chest loosening just a fraction at the sight of my son’s sticky, beaming face. I walk over to the island, leaning down to wrap my arms around Ethan’s small shoulders. I press a lingering, fierce kiss to his temple, breathing in his familiar, comforting scent of baby shampoo.

“I see that, sweetie,” I smile, smoothing down his messy bedhead. “Did you say thank you to Samuel?”

“Yes! Twice!” Ethan says proudly.

I take a deep breath and sit down on the stool next to Ethan. Samuel slides a plate in front of me—perfectly golden pancakes, crisp bacon, and a mug of black coffee, exactly how I like it. He joins us at the counter, sitting on the stool on Ethan’s other side, and the three of us share breakfast together.

The atmosphere in the sunlit kitchen is unexpectedly, heartbreakingly normal.

There’s no heavy silence, no sharp glares, and no lingering static from the explosive argument we had on the other side of the wall last night. Instead, there is just the clinking of forks, the hum of the refrigerator, and the sweet, steady sound of Ethan telling us a wildly fabricated story about a squirrel he saw in the yard. For the first time in my life, I’m sitting in my own home, sharing a meal with my son and his father, and it feels complete in a way I have never experienced before. It fits like a puzzle piece I didn’t even know was missing.

But that very sense of perfection is exactly what terrifies me.

The sudden, easy normalcy of it all rattles me to my core. I look at Samuel—sitting here in his dark sweater, patiently listening to a three-year-old’s ramblings—and my mind violently flashes to the word Bratva. I think of Sofia’s life, of the heavy security, of the blood and the shadows that follow the Rusnak name everywhere it goes. I think of how easily I let him back into my bed last night, abandoning my defenses the second his mouth touched mine.

I’m letting myself be lulled into a false sense of security. I’m playing house with a beautiful monster.

As quickly as the warmth had bloomed in my chest, I shut it down. The cold, analytical wall of my armor snaps back into place, brick by brick. I look down at my plate, the pancakes suddenly tasting like ash in my mouth. I cannot afford to be soft. I cannot let a night of passion and a plate of pancakes make me forget that Samuel is a threat to the quiet, safe fortress I spent four years building.

The emotional walls I had completely leveled hours ago begin to rise again, higher and thicker than before.

The heavy silence of my thoughts is suddenly shattered by the sharp, demanding ring of my phone.