Page 7 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

I noticed it yesterday when housekeeping came through. The lack of anyone tracking my gaze and my steps is another mistake.

Evening arrives gradually, light draining from the sky in layers until gold turns silver and silver turns blue-gray. The city begins to glow from within. There’s a faint chime of an elevator, followed by low Russian voices.

That’s the meal delivery.

My pulse remains steady, though every nerve feels pulled taut.

One guard steps toward the tray while the second glances toward the corridor.

Their attention shifts.

Four seconds. Go!

I dart.

The concealed panel gives beneath my hand. I slip inside and ease it shut behind me, swallowed instantly by darkness andcold concrete air. The silence inside the service stairwell feels absolute, broken only by the faint mechanical hum of the building’s infrastructure.

I descend quickly, one hand grazing the rail.

Thirty floors in this building.

Twenty-eight, twenty-five.I count.

Nineteen, sixteen—

I jolt to a stop as voices echo above.

The sound of footsteps is metallic against concrete. Judging by their low tenors, it’s two men. The sound reverberates strangely in enclosed spaces, making distance difficult to judge.

Creeping closer…

One door opens and shuts, then silence returns.

I start tiptoeing again, my stride catching the same speed as before.

By the time I reach the ground floor, sweat cools between my shoulder blades despite the chill of the stairwell. My hand presses against the exit bar.

The door opens under my hand and cold spring wind laced with exhaust, rain, and the faint scent of roasted nuts from a street cart half a block away hits my lungs so sharply it almost hurts.

Horns, footsteps, conversations, sirens, music bleeding from somewhere unseen all crash into me at once. For one small moment, relief floods me so fast it nearly buckles my knees.

I made it.

But something much deeper, more primitive in my gut crawls up my spine with cold, deliberate fingers.

My feet begin walking, pace even. I let my body do what’s natural, but every sense has sharpened.

A black SUV idles too close to the curb, its engine running, no visible passenger movement. A man near a newspaper stand appears occupied with his phone, but his thumb has not moved once across the screen.

A woman waiting at the corner turns her head a fraction too late after I pass, the delay polished enough to look natural unless someone is trained to look otherwise.

It all feels familiar, like I’ve seen the same choreography before, dancing to the same music.

My throat tightens.

They were waiting.

The realization cuts cleanly through every stubborn argument I have made in my head about Mikhail’s control. This was never only about his obsession with dominance. Whatever is happening around me is real and organized, and terrifyingly dangerous.