Page 53 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

Every muscle in my body is coiled, ready to fight, but I force my expression to go slack. I need him to think I am still drifting, still under the influence of the drugs.

I hear a soft click—the distinct, mechanical sound of a lock being engaged from the other side of the door.

I close my eyes, letting my head loll back against the leather, feigning unconsciousness. I control my breathing, making it slow and rhythmic, even as my mind races through the tactical possibilities.

The door handle turns. A shadow stretches across the floor, long and predatory.

He’s here. And as much as I want to scream, to tear my way out of these restraints, I know the only way I’m walking out of this room is if I play the part of the broken woman long enough to find his opening.

The stalker walks into the room, and the silence he brings with him is absolute. I hold my breath, waiting for the first word.

The door clicks shut behind him, the sound heavy and final. I keep my eyes closed, my head lolled against the leather, forcing my pulse to remain sluggish. My heart screams to break the rhythm, but I govern it with the same discipline I use in all aspects of my life.

Footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. He stops just a few feet away.

“I know you’re awake, Ashley,” he says.

His voice is exactly as I remember it—smooth, melodic, the kind of voice that used to make me feel at ease in a studio. Now, it sounds like velvet stretched over a blade. I don’t open my eyes. I let a ragged, shallow breath escape my lips, feigning the disorientation of the sedative.

He sighs, a sound of genuine, heartbreaking disappointment. “Don’t fight it. The world outside is loud, chaotic, and dangerous. Here, it’s just us. It’s quiet. It’s exactly what you deserve.”

He steps closer. I smell the coffee he had in the office, mixed with something sharp—the chemicals he used to subdue me. He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. His touch is light, almost tender, but my skin rebels, gooseflesh erupting along my arms.

“You look so beautiful when you’re still,” he murmurs, his intensity spiking. “For years, I’ve watched you build that life—those projects, those pathetic little events. I watched you move on, act like you didn’t need me. Act like he could ever understand the way your mind works.”

I force my eyes to flutter open, slowly, painfully. I look up at him, letting my gaze slide into a vacant, unfocused blur.

“Daniel?” I whisper, my voice cracked and dry.

He smiles, and it’s a brilliant, blinding expression that fails to light up his eyes. “Finally. Welcome back, my love.”

He pulls up a chair, sitting directly in front of me, his knees pressing against the frame of mine. He leans in, his face inches from my own, his eyes wide and hungry.

“I had to take you,” he says, as if he’s explaining a minor, unfortunate necessity. “He was suffocating you. Look at you—the anxiety, the constant fear, the ‘bodyguards’ shadowing your every step. You were living in a fortress, Ashley. I’m the only one who sees you. The only one who knows that you don’t belong to a Rusnak. You belong to the art. You belong to the story we were supposed to write together.”

He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the small notebook I saw on my desk. He flips it open to the fresh page.

“We’re going to fix this,” he says, his fixation glowing like a fever. “We’re going to strip away all the noise. Just you and me. No more husband. No more child. Just the two of us, finally existing in the reality I created for us.”

He isn’t raving. He isn’t shouting. He’s perfectly calm, speaking with the terrifying certainty of a man who has replaced reality with his own twisted devotion.

“Tell me you see it now,” he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, his grip tightening just enough to signal that this isn’t a conversation—it’s a verdict. “Tell me you know that I’m the only one who truly loves you.”

“You’re insane,” I breathe, the words sharp and cold, cutting through the eerie stillness of his ‘sanctuary.’ “You think this is love? You think you can kidnap me, lock me in a room, and I’ll just smile and play along with your delusions? You’re not a savior, Daniel. You’re a stalker. You’re a criminal.”

The transformation is instantaneous. The composed, gentle mask peels away, leaving behind a raw, shrieking void.

He lunges forward, his face contorting into a mask of pure, vitriolic rage. “Do not tell me what I am!” he screams, his voice cracking, reverberating off the wood-paneled walls. He stands up, pacing the small room like a caged animal, his composure disintegrating into frantic, jagged movements.

And then, the tears start—hot, angry streams carving paths through the tension on his face.

“You think this is easy for me?” he sobs, his voice breaking into a high, pathetic wail. “I’ve given you everything! I’ve watched you break my heart over and over again, choosing everyone else, choosing your career, choosing your son, choosing that bastard Rusnak! And still, I give you another chance. I give you everything!”

He stops in front of me, leaning down until his forehead is pressed against mine. He’s shaking, his breath coming in jagged, wet gasps.

“The pact, Ashley! We had a pact!” he yells, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural whisper. “You were supposed to come alone that day. You were supposed to come alone to save your son. You knew the rules! But you broke us. You brought him with you. You chose him.”

He pushes away from me, throwing his hands up in a gesture of agonizing betrayal. “He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t even know who you are! He just wants to own you, to lock you in that penthouse and keep you hidden like a trophy. I’m the only one who sees your soul, Ashley. I’m the only one who’s been here since the beginning.”