Page 62 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

I don’t need to be told twice. I quickly strip off my clothes, discarding the heavy burden of the day onto the floor, and slide into the deep tub behind her.

I settle into the hot water, pulling her gently backward until her spine is flush against my chest. She lets out a long, heavy sigh, sinking completely into my warmth.

We sit in silence for a moment, the quiet steam rising around us, the gentle lapping of the lavender-scented water the only sound in the room. The peace of it is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the violence of last night.

“When I was there…with Daniel,” Ashley says softly, her voice cutting through the quiet. “I knew you would save me. I trusted you wholeheartedly, Samuel. And even in the middle of all that terror, I knew Ethan was safe with you while I was away.”

My chest tightens, a swell of fierce, protective emotion rising in my throat. I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her so close against me that I can feel the steady, reassuring beat of her heart.

“I love you,” I tell her, pressing a kiss to the side of her wet shoulder. “I love you and Ethan so much. You two are the entire reason for my life. I’m always going to love you.”

Ashley shifts in the water, turning around in the wide tub to face me. Her wet skin glistens in the soft light of the bathroom. She reaches up, her damp hands cupping my jaw, her eyes locking onto mine with absolute, unwavering clarity.

“Thank you for convincing me to do this with you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for barging into my life the way you did. I need you. Ethan needs you. And I love you too, Samuel.”

I pull her into a tight, desperate hug, hiding my face in the crook of her neck. The warmth of her body, the scent of lavender and roses, and the sheer relief of having her safe in my arms wash over me completely.

It isn’t a perfect world we live in. The scars are there, and the shadows of our pasts will always linger. But as I hold my wife in the quiet of our home, I know we have built something real. Something hard-fought, fiercely protected, and deeply earned.

I pull back just enough to look at her. I slide my hand up her neck, tilting her chin, and lean down.

Our lips meet in a deep, lingering kiss that tastes of relief, of survival, and of the beautiful, quiet future we’re going to build together.

Epilogue – Ashley

Two Years Later

The backstage of the Grand Palais is a chaotic symphony of running assistants, hissing garment steamers, and the sharp, overlapping scent of expensive hairspray and fresh paint. It is a world I know by heart. The frantic energy, the blinding strobe lights leaking through the heavy velvet curtains, the high-stakes pressure of a debut collection—it’s the exact canvas where Samuel and I first collided.

But tonight, everything feels different.

I stand near the main dressing racks, adjusting the drape of an asymmetrical emerald gown on a mannequin. When I lean forward, the heavy silk of my own black maternity dress clings to the soft, unmistakable curve of my swollen belly. I’m six months pregnant, glowing, and completely in control.

“I don’t care what the seating chart says, Ashley,” a sharp, whining voice cuts through the room’s hum. It’s Julianna, a notoriously difficult heiress and major brand investor, who crosses her arms and glares at her digital invitation. “If I’m not seated next to the runway center point, my media team is leaving before the finale.”

I turn slowly, offering her a calm, polished smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t stress.

“Julianna, you’re seated next to the editorial director of French Vogue,” I say, my voice smooth, level, and entirely unyielding. “If you would prefer to swap seats with a junior influencer in the third row just to be closer to the center, I can certainly arrange that. But I imagine your media team would prefer the cover feature instead.”

Julianna blinks, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to find a counter-argument. Realizing she’s been thoroughly outmaneuvered, she huffs, turns on her heel, and sweeps away.

“Still as stubborn as ever, I see.”

The deep, rumbling baritone vibrates right down my spine, sending a familiar, electric thrill through my veins.

I turn to find Samuel leaning against a clothing rack, a dark, devastatingly handsome shadow in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His hands are casually tucked into his pockets, his lips curved into a lazy, knowing smirk. He looks so breathtakingly handsome it should be illegal, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes the chaotic room around us completely fade.

“I’m not stubborn, Samuel. I’m efficient,” I say, stepping toward him, my eyes scanning the broad line of his shoulders. “And what are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be in the VIP lounge.”

He steps out of the shadows, bridging the distance between us in a single, confident stride. The sheer physical presence of him still takes my breath away. He looks down at me, his gaze dropping to the curve of my stomach before rising back to my face, heavy with a heat that makes my skin tingle.

“I got bored of the champagne,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a register meant only for me. He reaches out, his large, warm hand sliding naturally over the side of my waist, his thumb caressing my hip. “And I wanted to see my wife in her element. You look incredible, Ashley.”

“I’m working, Mr. Rusnak,” I tease, leaning into his touch even as I offer a mock-stern look. “If you don’t get out of my backstage area right now, you’re going to distract me and ruin my show.”

“Let them be distracted,” Samuel chuckles, his grip tightening just enough to pull my hips flush against his. He bends his head, his breath warm against my ear. “Let them see exactly who you belong to.”

“Samuel,” I gasp quietly, my hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. The familiar, thick sexual tension between us flutters to life, hot and demanding. “Go. Before I make a scene.”