Page 23 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
I need to get out of here.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, trying to get my bearings.
Then I see him.
Someone is standing at the window. Arms folded across his chest. Icy blue eyes fixed on me.
The same man from last night. Or…when was it? Or this morning? Time lost meaning somewhere between the car and this room.
We stare at each other silently.
He is impossibly handsome. Dark hair cut short. Broad shoulders. Black shirt, fitted. Black pants. Forearms inked with tattoos that peek from under the sleeves.
He takes one step toward me.
I stumble back instinctively.
He had been covered in blood last night. That much I know. He isn’t innocent.
My voice trembles, but I force the words out.
“You’re a murderer.”
He freezes.
The air between us thickens.
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches. And I feel—chilled to the bone—how calm he is. Calm like a predator sizing up prey.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my racing heart.
“I know what you are,” I whisper, though my voice shakes. “And I’m not afraid to call it.”
For a fraction of a second, I think I see something flicker in his eyes. Possession? Amusement? Something darker.
Then he shifts slightly, just a fraction, and the room feels smaller, tighter.
“I don’t want you afraid,” he says quietly. Calm. Too calm.
I shake my head, backing up again.
“I should be,” I say, voice steadier now. “After last night. You’re a murderer. I saw you shoot someone.”
He doesn’t deny it. He explains, calm and measured, “The men belonged to a Baltic syndicate trying to destabilize my family.”
“And who is your family?” I ask, frowning.
“I am Mike Rusnak.”
The Rusnaks. The biggest, most powerful Russian Mafia in the U.S. My brain can’t help the connection—Raelyn. She’s married to a Rusnak. Konstantin Rusnak.
I shake my head. “If they’re trying to destabilize your family, what has that got to do with me? I’m not related to you.”
He smiles slightly, like he’s amused by my ignorance. “They probably found out I’d been tracking you. They assumed you were my weakness, so they marked you. In our world,” he says, “marked means hunted.”
“You’ve been tracking me?”
“Yes.”
