Page 34 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

I blink, pulled abruptly out of my head. I clear my throat and step away from the counter, leaving my half-eaten breakfast behind. “Excuse me,” I murmur, keeping my voice light for Ethan’s sake.

I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, following the sound to the sofa where I had tossed my purse and phone the night before during our explosive argument. I pick up the device. The screen glows with an unrecognized, ten-digit number.

Normally, I would let an unknown call go to voicemail, but with the active shipping logistics campaigns running this week, my guard is down. I swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear.

“Hello? Ashley speaking.”

There’s a beat of dead air, filled only by a strange, hollow static. Then, a voice cuts through the line. It is heavily modulated—metallic, distorted, and deeply unsettling.

“You look so beautiful when you play house, Ashley.”

My blood runs instantly cold. The breath catches in my throat, my fingers freezing around the cool glass of the phone.

“Who is this?” I whisper, my voice barely carrying across the room as I instinctively glance back toward the kitchen doorway.

“He doesn’t belong in your kitchen,” the distorted voice continues, shifting rapidly from a cold, controlled drawl to a fast, erratic pitch that makes my skin crawl. “He doesn’t deserve the warmth. No other man does. You built that fortress for us, Ashley. Not for him. Not for the bastard child. I’m watching you. I’ve always been watching. He needs to leave. Make him leave.”

The possessive, invasive words hit me like a physical blow. The absolute obsession dripping from the caller’s voice is no longer a subtle, distant threat—it is right here, suffocatingly close, reaching inside the walls of my home.

“Don’t call me ever again,” I choke out, my voice trembling with a mixture of terror and white-hot fury.

Without waiting for a response, I slam my thumb against the red end-call icon. My heart hammers violently against my ribs as I quickly tap into the settings, blocking the number entirely.

I stand in the middle of the living room, my phone gripped so tightly in my hand that my knuckles turn white. The lingering impact of the call wraps around my throat like a vice. My chest heaves as I try to pull in air, desperately trying to force the panic down, to swallow the terror before I walk back into the kitchen.

I smooth down my robe, take a deep, shaky breath, and force my legs to move. But the moment I step back into the dining area, Samuel’s eyes lock onto mine.

He notices the shift in my demeanor instantly. The easy, domestic warmth in his expression vanishes, replaced by the sharp, lethal focus of a predator sensing danger. He sets his fork down slowly, his gaze scanning my pale face, my rigid posture, and the slight tremor in my hands.

“Ashley,” Samuel says, his deep voice dropping to a low, commanding register that demands the truth. “What happened? Who called?”

“Nothing,” I lie quickly, offering a tight, fragile smile as I try to sit back down next to Ethan. “Just…a work call. An issue at the docks.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Samuel cuts in, his blue eyes narrowing to razor-sharp slits. He stands up, his massive frame instantly dominating the space, though he keeps his movements controlled so as not to scare Ethan. “Your color is completely gone. Who was on the phone?”

I look at him, then down at Ethan, who has stopped chewing his pancake and is looking between the two of us with wide, confused eyes. The fear clutching my chest is simply too heavy, too evident to ignore. My defenses crumble under the weight of the threat.

“Ethan, sweetie,” I say, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts. “Why don’t you take your plate into the living room and watch your cartoons for a few minutes?”

“Okay, Mommy,” Ethan murmurs softly. He slides down from his stool, holding his plate carefully, and walks out of the room.

The moment the television screen hums to life in the other room, I turn to Samuel, the terror finally breaking through my executive mask.

“It was a blocked number,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I press my back against the kitchen counter. “The voice…it was distorted. Artificial. But they knew, Samuel. They knew you were here. They mentioned you. They mentioned Ethan. They said you don’t belong in my kitchen, and that I need to make you leave.” My breath hitches as the full reality of it sinks in. “They’ve been watching us. It’s not just messages anymore, Samuel. They’re watching my house.”

The confession pours out of me like water breaking through a dam. Once I start, I can’t stop.

“It’s not the first time,” I whisper, my hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard the marble bites into my palms. “I’ve been getting messages. Cryptic, invasive texts. I thought it was just some sick prank, or maybe a bitter competitor trying to rattle me. I blocked them. I tried to downplay it. I told myself I was handling it. But this…they knew you were here, Samuel. They knew about everything.”

As the words leave my mouth, Samuel’s entire demeanor undergoes a terrifying, instantaneous transformation.

The domestic father who was just flipping pancakes and laughing at cartoon trivia vanishes. In his place stands the cold, lethal lieutenant of the Bratva. His massive shoulders lock, his jaw tightening into a hard, dangerous line. He moves into my space immediately, his broad frame shifting into an instinctively protective stance that completely blocks me from the line of sight of any windows.

He doesn’t panic. His reaction is terrifyingly controlled, but the sheer, raw intensity radiating from him is palpable.

“You’ve been getting messages,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “And you didn’t think to tell me, Ashley? You have someone stalking you, threatening our son, and you kept it to yourself?”

“I thought I could handle it!” I hiss back, defensive even through my fear. “I didn’t want to scare Ethan!”