Page 84 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

Funny how I never snapped at any of the maids. Not even once. A couple of the guards, though, had felt my wrath. But in my defense, they were at fault and sort of deserved it.

The real victim, however, was my husband.

He was the one I dumped all of my anger and frustration on. And he tolerated me—probably longer than I would’ve if I were him. I saw the effort he was making to ensure I was comfortable. Because of that, I began to rethink all of my decisions.

Rodion hadn’t made any sexual moves toward me in all these months, even though I could tell that he wanted me. Sometimes when we were in the bathroom together, and he was bathing me, I’d feel his erection against my skin.

At first, I thought he would intentionally brush his dick against me in an attempt to tease me. But then I realized that wasn’t the case.

Two nights ago, I had deliberately lain carelessly on the bed. The strap of my nightgown hung loosely off my shoulder, revealing a provocative glimpse of skin above my swollen breasts.

The hem of my dress was lifted way above my knees, exposing my thighs. I’d pretended to be fast asleep, waiting for him to make a move. In all honesty, I was ready for him that night. I wanted him so badly, and if he had touched me, I would’ve responded, and we would’ve made out.

But Rodion didn’t.

He towered over me for a moment that night, as if drinking in the sight in front of him. When I opened my eyes slightly, I noticed he had a hard-on, and the print was visible beneath his pants. Instead of taking me like he clearly wanted to, he chose to adjust my dress and cover me with the sheets.

That act of self-control alone won him a special place in my heart he wasn’t aware of yet. He’d proven himself to me on multiple occasions, and I decided then that I was done playing this game. I was done making him suffer. Because apparently, torturing him was torturing me as well.

Rodion had adjusted his schedule so he could spend more time with me at home. And I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to having him around until today. He’d received a call he couldn’t ignore and had promised to return home before four p.m.

It was already past six in the evening, and I still hadn’t heard from him. For some reason, I felt like something was wrong, and I became so uneasy. His phone wasn’t connecting; neither was Yuri’s—his right-hand man.

Rodion wouldn’t switch off his phone after promising me he’d return before four p.m. He would’ve called me to explain why he was running late.

I didn’t like this radio silence.

I overheard him talking to Yuri the other day about some kind of attack against his network. I didn’t ask him what that was about because I didn’t want to pry. But now I wished I had.

I paced the length of our bedroom, my heart racing as I wondered if anything bad had happened to him. The mere thought of that scared me in a way I never expected.

Was he ambushed wherever he went?

Was that phone call part of a setup?

The uncertainty of what was happening unsettled me more than anything else. I placed a hand on my swollen belly and began rubbing it slowly while reassuring myself that he was fine.

I had just stepped away from the window when I heard it. The gunshots. Loud and alarming. My first instinct was to get down. The second I hit the floor, bullets pelted into the room, shattering the window.

I screamed, hands over my ears, as glass shards rained down on me, the sharp edges pricking my skin. I lay there, shaking like a leaf on the floor, thinking how nothing must happen to my baby.

“They’re in the house!” a familiar voice bellowed outside the corridor.

More gunshots followed as the guards exchanged fire with the intruders. I crawled away from the window as quickly as I could after hearing voices, like two men were climbing up the wall.

I dragged myself under the bed and covered my mouth with my palm. My heart was pounding in my chest as I lay there, hoping that I didn’t get discovered.

Heavy boots landed in the room from the window, and from the gap under the bed, I saw two legs pacing back and forth.

“Remember, the wife is the target,” one of them said, his voice deep and raucous. “Find her.”

The second man headed toward the door, his large boots thumping on the floor as he moved. I could still hear the chaos outside, people screaming, guns blazing.

I was the target?

Whoever they were, these people clearly wanted to hit my husband where it would hurt him the most. Me.

I stayed still under the bed, slowing my breathing as I watched the legs of the remaining man. He was quietly moving about, as if looking for something.