Page 25 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

First toward me. Then toward the door, where Daniel had nearly reached the exit. By now, two other men I hadn’t even registered entering had positioned themselves at the exit—casual, unhurried.

My stomach dropped somewhere south of my shoes.

This had been compromised before I ever sat down. Maybe before Daniel had ever hit send on that email.

The thought arrived whole and terrible, and right behind it came the obvious, nauseating follow-up. If they’d been watching him closely enough to know about this meeting, they’d been watching me too, long enough to know exactly where to find me sitting.

Who were they?

Bratva?

My heart skipped a beat at the possibility, and my breath hitched.

Then the espresso machine screamed.

Not metaphorically—screamed, a high, mechanical shriek of steam escaping improperly, followed immediately by a barista’s startled shout and the unmistakable crash as a tray of glasses met the tile. Heads turned.

Every head, every single person in that café, snapped toward the counter on pure reflex, the universal human response to sudden noise.

I turned too.

And in that half-second of total, communal distraction, a hand closed around my upper arm.

At first, I flinched at the sudden touch, but then, for reasons I couldn’t explain, a strange sense of safety washed over me.

The grip wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed either. The same controlled, exact pressure I’d felt at the festival. In a split second, I was pulled half a step backward and sideways, away from the table. Away from the door Daniel had been heading toward, and toward the café’s side entrance I didn’t know existed until I was being moved past it.

This quiet presence beside me and the protective arm around my shoulder were familiar in a way that made my pulse stutter even through the fear.

I didn’t fight it. I should’ve. Yet I didn’t.

I couldn’t explain why I didn’t fight it. It was like every instinct that should have screamed stranger’s hand, unknown threat, get away simply didn’t fire. Some older, less rational part of my brain had already filed this particular grip as safe without consulting the rest of me.

I heard the voices on the other side of the café. Thick. Raucous. Accent English. Even though I couldn’t see what was happening, I could sense the bad energy oozing from that corner.

While the crash at the counter resolved into apologetic murmurs and a barista was sweeping glass, I was led out of the building. Next thing I knew, I was standing outside, alone in the alley beside the café, the side door swinging shut behind me with a soft, pneumatic hiss.

The air was cool against my skin as I spun in a full circle, scanning the narrow space. Nearby were a dumpster, a fire escape, and a parked delivery bike chained to a drainpipe.

But that was it. No other person was out here except me, meaning whoever had brought me out of the café was gone. Vanished without a trace.

I stood there alone, my pulse quickening as I heard the muffled sound of the café’s interior chaos through the door. My own breath was coming too fast, fogging slightly in the cold. Siren wailed in the distance, and the air smelled faintly of brewed coffee and baked bread.

It was him. My mystery man. I knew in my heart that it was him. This whole exit strategy had his prints all over it. It was his signature move—his M.O.

My lips curled into a small grin, my arm still holding the shape of his hand.

I pressed my fingers against the spot, like I could read something there through touch alone, some message left behind in the pressure of his grip.

There wasn’t one, obviously. There was just my own pulse, hammering too hard, and the slow, sick understanding settling into my chest.

Whatever had almost happened at that table—to Daniel, possibly to me—had been close enough that my mystery man had needed to physically remove me from it.

Daniel. My mind shot back to him.

I looked back at the door, every part of me wanting to go back in, to find him, to make sure he’d gotten out the way I had.

But some colder, more practical version of myself knew exactly how that would end. Walking back into that café wouldn’t help Daniel. It would just put me back in the one place I’d just been pulled out of.