Page 60 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“Drop the weapon!”

Through the dust and smoke, a massive, dark silhouette charges into the room. It’s a force of nature. Heavy tactical gear, the cold gleam of a rifle, and eyes that burn with a lethal, terrifying focus.

Samuel.

Daniel doesn’t look up. In his final, ruined madness, he raises the knife for one last desperate plunge. “If I can’t have you—”

Before the blade can descend, Samuel is there. He moves with a terrifying, instantaneous speed. His heavy boot connects with Daniel’s ribs with a sickening crack, sending the stalker crashing sideways across the polished floor.

In a fraction of a second, Samuel’s rifle is slung, and he is on his knees beside me. His large, gloved hands cup my face, his eyes frantically scanning my body, taking in the blood on my wrists, the tear-streaked face, and the white dress.

“Ashley,” he breathes, his voice a raw, ragged rasp I’ve never heard from him before. “Ashley, I’ve got you.”

“Samuel,” I sob, the word finally breaking through the terror.

He pulls a tactical knife from his vest and cuts the remaining fabric of the gown that has tangled around my ankles, instantly freeing me. He hauls me up, pulling me entirely behind the heavy, protective mass of his body, shielding me from the center of the room.

Across the floor, Daniel scrambles to his knees. His tuxedo is torn, his face bloody, his eyes completely vacant of any human reason. He grabs the silver blade from the floor, his knuckles white. He looks at Samuel, then at me, a wild, chilling laugh bubbling up from his chest.

“You can’t have her!” Daniel screams, lunging forward with the knife raised, a dead man running. “She’s mine! We are meant to—”

Samuel doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t warn him again.

He draws his sidearm in a single, fluid motion. Two deafening shots echo through the high-ceilinged room, the concussive blasts ringing in my ears.

Daniel stops mid-stride. The knife slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor. He looks down at his chest, then up at us with a look of profound, quiet confusion. He collapses backward into the circle of white candles, scattering the flickering wax as he hits the floor.

He doesn’t move again.

A heavy, absolute silence descends upon the room, broken only by the distant, fading shouts of the tactical team clearing the rest of the estate. The scent of gunpowder and copper replaces the cloying smell of roses.

It’s over.

Samuel slowly lowers his weapon, his shoulders dropping as the predator recedes. He turns to me, his face pale beneath the greasepaint. He discards his gun, reaching out with both arms.

I collapse into him, my face burying into the rough, bulletproof fabric of his vest. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me so tight against his chest I can barely breathe, his chin resting heavily on the top of my head. He’s shaking—a subtle, violent tremor that betrays the absolute terror he felt of losing me.

“You’re safe,” he whispers into my hair, his voice thick with an emotion he can no longer hide. “I’ve got you, Ashley. You’re safe. I’m taking you home.”

I close my eyes, letting the dark warmth of his embrace swallow the lingering horrors of the room, listening to the steady, frantic beat of his heart against my cheek.

Chapter 30 – Samuel

The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains of the master bedroom, casting long, warm pools of amber light across the hardwood floor.

I lie awake, my arm draped gently over Ashley’s waist, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulders. For years, my mornings begin with a cold, kinetic jolt—eyes snapping open at dawn, mind instantly cataloging threats, checking schedules, and analyzing security feeds. I used to think safety is a math problem, an equation of high walls, armed guards, and absolute detachment.

I was entirely wrong.

Safety is the soft warmth of my wife’s skin beneath my palm. It’s the quiet, undisturbed rhythm of her breathing. I look at her wrists, where the faint, healing marks of the restraints are covered by a soothing salve. She fights so hard. We both do. And as I gently brush a stray lock of hair from her temple, the sheer gravity of what I almost lost presses against my chest. I don’t feel weak because I love her; I feel invincible because I have her back.

A soft, hesitant patter of footsteps echoes from the hallway.

The bedroom door creaks open a fraction of an inch. A small, messy-haired head peeks through the gap, clutching a stuffed toy. Ethan’s wide, anxious eyes scan the room, landing first on me, and then on the sleeping form of his mother.

“Daddy?” he whispers, his voice tiny.

Beside me, Ashley stirs, her eyes fluttering open at the sound of our son’s voice. A soft, radiant smile immediately breaks across her tired face.