Page 48 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

I go feral.

The composure I pride myself on vanishes, replaced by a raw, guttural need that’s been starving for years. I don’t just undress her; I tear the remaining silk away with frantic, trembling hands, and I shed my own clothes with the same violent urgency. I need to feel her, every inch of her, against my skin.

I pull her down onto the sprawling bed, my mouth seeking hers again, a hunger that borders on desperation. I’m kissing her lips, her neck, the pulse point that is thrumming wildly against my tongue. I’m breathing her in, drowning in the scent of her, needing to know she’s solid and present and here.

“Samuel,” she gasps, her voice breaking. She shakes her head, her hands tangling into my hair, pulling me down, pulling me closer. “No more waiting. I need you…please. Now.”

The plea is a catalyst. I shift, my movements hurried but governed by a protective, focused intensity. I move between her thighs, my hands finding her hips, anchoring her to the mattress as I sink inside her.

It’s a slow, agonizingly beautiful entry. I want to savor the feeling of her body yielding to mine, the way she gasps, the way she wraps herself around me as if she’s trying to disappear into my soul. I set a rhythm that’s deep, deliberate, and fueled by a passion that feels like it’s burning through the sheets. Every movement is a conversation of possession and relief.

She arches into me, her breath hitching, her eyes fluttering shut. And then, a small, shimmering tear escapes her eye, tracking into the hair at her temple.

I freeze, my hips stilling, my instinct shifting instantly from raw desire to concern. I pull back just an inch, my thumbs gently brushing the moisture from her cheeks.

“Ashley,” I rasp, my voice thick with the exertion and the sudden, sharp worry. “Why? Did I hurt you? Tell me.”

She opens her eyes, looking up at me, her expression a mix of vulnerability and something so profound it stops my heart. She reaches up, her fingers tracing the hard line of my cheekbone, her touch trembling.

“Nothing,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. A soft, watery smile plays on her lips as she pulls me back down, pressing her forehead against mine. “I’m not hurt, Samuel. I’m just…it’s been a long few days. Everything is just so much all at once. I’m a little emotional today.”

I don’t need to ask for further explanation. I see it in her eyes—the exhaustion, the relief, the overwhelming reality of the ring on her finger and the life we just committed to. I lower my head, kissing her brow, her nose, her lips, and then I begin to move again—slower this time, more reverent, holding her through the wave of her own emotions until the world outside, the stalker, and every fear we’ve ever known is silenced entirely.

I move with deliberate, agonizing precision, my hands gripping her hips with a possessive strength that borders on bruising. I don’t just want to be inside her; I want to brand her with the reality of this union, to fill the hollow spaces carved by the last four years of separation into both of us.

“Look at me,” I growl, my voice a dark, gravelly command against the silence of the suite.

She meets my gaze, her eyes dark, dilated, and drowning in the same hunger that consumes me. I lean down, my lips grazing the sensitive skin of her ear, my breath hitching as I feel the tremors running through her limbs.

“Beautiful,” I whisper, the word rough with an obsession that has lived in my gut since the first time I saw her. “You’re so beautiful, my wife. My queen. Mine in every way that matters.”

Each stroke is soft, teasing, designed to drag out the exquisite torture of our arrival. I shift my weight, arching over her, my shadow eclipsing the lamp’s amber glow. I’m a predator who’s finally claimed his territory, and I intend to make sure she never forgets the weight of my vow.

“You have no idea,” I murmur, my hand sliding up to capture her chin, forcing her to hold my gaze, “how many times I’ve envisioned this. How many times I’ve imagined exactly how you sound when you belong to me—completely, irrevocably, without a single wall left standing.”

She gasps, her nails digging into the muscles of my shoulders, her body pulsing against mine in a rhythmic, desperate response. The tension in her—the lingering fear, the exhaustion, the trauma of the kidnapping—it all starts to unravel, replaced by the white-hot heat of our collision.

I accelerate the pace, the friction becoming a frantic, seamless friction of skin on skin. The atmosphere in the room is thick with the scent of sex and salt, the sounds of our breathing weaving into a jagged, primal melody.

“I’m never letting you go,” I vow, my voice dropping to a harsh, possessive rasp as I drive into her deeper, harder, the dark romance of this life finally distilled into this singular, pulsing connection. “I don’t care who’s watching from the shadows. I don’t care what threats are waiting. You’re tucked behind my guard, Ashley. You’re my life. My pulse. My wife.”

Her grip on me tightens, her arch becoming more pronounced, her head tossing back against the pillows. She’s unraveling, and I’m the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth. I watch the pleasure shatter her resolve, the way her lips part on a silent, broken plea, and I push through, dragging her into the dark, exhilarating surrender until we are both shivering in the aftermath of the vow I’ve finally, violently kept.

The world narrows to the sound of our ragged, synchronized gasps, a frantic rhythm that eventually slows into the deep, heavy labor of shared relief. As the final tremors subside, I collapse against her, my chest heaving, my forehead pressed firmly against her shoulder. I want to stay here, in this pocket of silence, anchored by the warmth of her skin.

But as the seconds stretch on, the silence begins to feel wrong.

Ashley isn’t pulling me closer. She isn’t whispering, or sighing, or drifting into the easy sleep I was expecting. She lies perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, her body stiffening under my weight.

I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are open, focused on a point far beyond the walls of this room. The soft glow of the aftermath has been stripped away, leaving her pale and drawn.

“Ashley?” I murmur, my hand tracing the line of her arm, but she doesn’t flinch. “What is it? You’re a thousand miles away.”

She stays quiet for so long I think she might not answer. Then, she slowly reaches out to the nightstand, her fingers brushing the cold screen of her phone. She doesn’t speak; she just pushes the device toward me, the screen lighting up the room with its harsh, unnatural glare.

I read the text.

A beautiful ceremony, my love. White suits you, though it looks far too pure for a woman who belongs to a monster. You think this ceremony makes you safe? You’ve only given me a better view of what I intend to take. Enjoy the masquerade while it lasts. I’m closer than you think.