Page 51 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
But it’s unyielding.
“You don’t need to be involved in this,” I tell her calmly.
“Yes, I do.”
Her hands press against the arms of the chair as she leans forward. “I refuse to be a passive figure in decisions that literally determine whether I live or die.”
The bluntness of it lands harder than she probably realizes.
My jaw tightens slightly.
“This isn’t your world,” I say. “You don’t understand the risks of interfering in something like this.”
“And you don’t understand what it’s like to be the person everyone is trying to take,” she fires back.
The room falls silent.
Her breathing is slightly uneven now, but she doesn’t look away from me.
“I may not understand your world,” she continues more quietly, “but I understand patterns. I understand behavior. I understand language and the way people reveal things they don’t realize they’re revealing.”
Of course.
The forensic linguist.
She sits back slightly, but her gaze remains steady.
“You want to investigate Sergei discreetly?” she says. “Fine. But don’t sideline me like I’m just luggage you’re transporting between safe houses.”
I study her.
The determination in her expression isn’t temporary anger.
It’s resolve.
And that realization irritates something deep in my chest.
“Ellie,” I say slowly, “every time you ignore my instructions, something bad happens.”
Her eyes flash immediately.
“That means you’re not protecting me the way you should,” she shoots back.
The words land like a slap.
“And if that’s the case,” she continues, her voice tightening, “then maybe this whole arrangement doesn’t work for me anymore.”
A cold warning spreads through my chest.
“What are you saying?”
Her chin lifts. “I’m saying maybe I should leave this marriage.”
For a second, the room goes completely silent.
Then something inside me snaps.
I push back from my chair so abruptly that it scrapes across the floor. In two strides, I’m around the desk.
