Page 41 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

My priorities shift, locking into place with a terrifying, absolute clarity. There’s no hesitation left in my mind. No doubt. No corporate boundaries or legal agreements.

Ashley and Ethan are central to everything I do now. They’re my blood, my family, and my entire world. Every ounce of my power, every dollar in my name, and every bullet in my gun exists solely to keep them breathing.

Once the nurses check his vitals again and Ethan drifts back into a deep, natural sleep, I turn my focus entirely to Ashley.

She looks completely spent, her eyes hollow, her hands still trembling as she stares at our sleeping son. I wrap my hand around her wrist, my grip firm but gentle, and pull her out of the room into the quiet, private corridor.

“Samuel, what is it?” she whispers, trying to pull her hand back, her defensive walls trying to rebuild themselves even in her exhaustion. “I need to be with him.”

“He’s sleeping, Ashley. Look at me,” I command, stepping close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

The time for negotiating is over. The time for letting her play house in her fragile, unprotected fortress is gone.

“This situation cannot continue,” I tell her, my voice low, flat, and laced with an unyielding certainty. “The risks are too high. The threat is too real. This sick bastard bypassed your security, took our son, and nearly killed him. I’m not leaving your safety to chance anymore. I’m not waiting for him to make another move.”

“We’ll increase the security,” she argues weakly, her voice shaking. “We can hire more guards—”

“No,” I cut her off, my tone absolute. “Guards can be bought. Security can be breached. There’s only one way to ensure that you and Ethan are completely protected. There’s only one way to wrap the entire, crushing weight of the Rusnak name around you so tightly that no one in this city will ever dare to look in your direction again.”

I take a deep breath, my eyes locking onto hers with a dark, heavy resolution.

“We’re getting married.”

Ashley freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She stares at me as if I’ve just spoken in a foreign language. “What? Samuel, no—”

“It isn’t a suggestion, Ashley,” I say, my voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive register. “It’s a resolution. It’s happening.”

“You cannot just dictate my life!” she whispers fiercely, her eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate anger. “A forced marriage? To protect us? That’s insane!”

“It’s the only way,” I counter, refusing to back down even an inch. “As my wife, you’re legally and physically bound to the Bratva. Under our law, my brothers, my soldiers, and my resources are yours. Anyone who touches you touches the entire family. It gives us a shield that no court and no stalker can pierce.”

I step even closer, my chest pressing against hers, trapping her against the hospital wall. I look down at her pale, beautiful face, and the cold, clinical reasoning in my head begins to blur with something far more volatile.

“But it isn’t just about the protection, Ashley,” I murmur, my hand coming up to gently cup her jaw, my thumb sweeping over her cheekbone.

I don’t know how to express feelings softly. I don’t know how to speak of love or gentleness—those things were burned out of me a long time ago. But the raw, suffocating fear I felt when I thought I had lost her and Ethan was a waking death.

“I’m not doing this just out of obligation,” I confess, my voice rough, carrying a dark, honest weight. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you. You are mine, Ashley. You have been mine since that night in New York, and I’m not letting anyone take you from me. Not now. Not ever.”

The confession hangs heavily in the sterile, quiet air of the corridor, suffocating and absolute.

Ashley stares up at me, her chest heaving, completely paralyzed by the sheer force of my words.

Chapter 21 – Ashley

The quiet of my house is no longer peaceful. It’s fragile, like thin ice holding back a dark, freezing ocean.

It’s been three days since we brought Ethan home from the hospital, three days of trying to piece our lives back together inside a fortress that no longer feels safe. Every sound—the settling of the floorboards, the wind brushing the branches against the window, the distant hum of a car on the street—makes my chest tighten. I am hyper-aware of everything now. My eyes constantly dart to the doorways, and my hand instinctively reaches for my phone every few minutes just to ensure the screen is blank.

I don’t let Ethan out of my sight.

When he plays with his toy cars on the living room rug, I sit on the floor right beside him. When he naps, I lie down next to him, listening to the steady, reassuring rise and fall of his chest. The boundary between maternal protection and absolute paranoia has completely blurred, and I cannot bring myself to care.

Yet despite my internal chaos, Ethan is recovering beautifully.

“Look, Mommy! Giant jump!”

He giggles, launching a red monster truck off the edge of the coffee table. The sound of his laughter—bright, innocent, and entirely unbothered—is the sweetest thing I have ever heard. His cheeks have regained their warm, rosy color, and his boundless energy is slowly but surely returning. He does not understand the gravity of what happened to him. To Ethan, he simply had a bad dream, and his father chased the monsters away.