Page 25 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
“You don’t get to cage me,” I spit, voice sharp and trembling.
He leans down slightly, eyes darkening, voice low and steady, almost a growl: “You were already in a cage. You just didn’t see the bars.”
I jerk my hands, trying to pull free. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t release me. Not yet. His fingers tighten just enough to remind me he could crush me, but he doesn’t.
“You don’t understand,” he says, his tone dangerously soft. “I’m keeping you safe. That’s all that matters right now.”
“Safe?” I laugh bitterly, tugging at my wrists again. “You call this safe?”
His eyes narrow, sharp. “Better alive here than dead out there.”
My stomach twists at the words. Fear, anger, something unnameable…all coil inside me.
I push again, more desperate this time, but the intensity in his gaze pins me.
The world narrows to him, to his presence, his hands, his icy blue stare, and the undeniable pulse of control radiating from him.
And even as I hate him, even as I fight, part of me can’t look away.
“Let me go!”
“The only way to remove the mark is to change your status,” he replies, calm, deadly certain.
I freeze. “What does that mean?”
He meets my eyes directly, unwavering. “Marriage.”
I laugh, disbelief choking the sound.
He doesn’t. His stare holds me in place. “It’s not a proposal. And I’m not joking.”
“Oh, you must be. You think this is the 19th century. I’ll never marry you.”
“Like I said, Ellie,” he says, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument, “it’s not a proposal. You don’t get to say ‘I do’ or ‘I don’t.’ You’re marrying me.”
The words hit me like a punch. My chest tightens. I feel the room tilt slightly, the chandeliers above swaying in my blurred vision.
“I…you can’t—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“No, Ellie. This isn’t about choice. This is about survival. Your life. Your freedom from the mark they put on you. Everything else comes after.”
I glare, furious, breath coming fast. “You’re insane. I don’t belong in your world!”
I yank at my wrist again, desperate. The tension snaps.
He uses my struggling hand against me, pulling me toward him.
Then his lips are on mine. Hard. Dominant. Explosive. Not gentle. Not soft.
Shock freezes me for a split second.
Then instinct takes over. I shove him back with everything I have. He stumbles, but that’s not enough for me. My hand comes up, and I slap him hard.
“I hate you!” I scream, my voice raw, breath jagged.
His eyes darken. Sharp. Dangerous. Cold. “You won’t run. If you do… you die.”
