Page 21 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
Sergei is already on him.
I crouch to look at Ellie properly, now that she’s alone in the backseat.
Our eyes meet.
Recognition flickers across hers, and my chest tightens.
She might have seen me somewhere before. My face. My presence. Maybe during one of her presentations. Maybe online. Maybe during one of the Rusnak gatherings she rarely attends.
She sees the blood on my hands.
Her eyes widen, shuddering with fear.
And it hurts.
Hurts more than it should.
I want to reach for her. Want to calm her. Want to tell her it’s okay.
But I don’t.
Because right now, I need her to be alive. And she is.
For the first time in months, I feel a fragile, flickering sense of…responsibility.
Protectiveness. Obsession. Something I can’t—or won’t—name.
I slide the car door fully open.
“Ellie,” I say, voice low, controlled. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She flinches slightly, recoiling, but she doesn’t move away.
Then a gunshot cracks through the night.
Ellie jumps, eyes wide.
I turn just in time to see Sergei dropping the third kidnapper who tried to run.
“We have to leave now,” I say.
I reach for Ellie, lifting her gently but firmly from the ground. She struggles weakly, disoriented, her body still trembling.
My eyes sweep over her quickly. No blood. No obvious injury. Just shock.
I check her carefully, each movement precise.
“She’s not wounded,” Sergei says, walking past me toward the SUV.
I ignore him.
My thumb brushes against Ellie’s cheek. Soft. Warm. Alive.
“You’re safe,” I murmur.
The words are quiet. Calm. But my expression—my stance—tells another story.
Possessive. Absolute.
