Page 38 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
The attackers slam into my car again. This time, I’m forced against the pavement, the airbag deploying with a violent puff that knocks the wind out of me. My hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Gunfire surrounds me. I don’t dare look up, don’t dare see the full scope, because seeing could mean panic.
Then a voice cuts through it all. It’s familiar, commanding, Russian shouted with authority. I glance up just in time to catch a glimpse of him before my survival instincts push me back into the seat.
Mike.
He’s there. Standing like a god of death. Two guns in his hands, eyes cold and precise. Timofey is at his side, moving in deadly sync, each action controlled, practiced, perfect.
My mouth goes slack. My heart hammers. They don’t hesitate. Men fall, one by one, bullets finding their marks with surgical precision. Every move is calculated, brutal, and flawless.The sheer efficiency of it. Mike’s calm lethality, Timofey’s unwavering force, it unsettles me as much as the attack itself. I watch through fractured glass, feeling fear and awe twist together inside me.
This isn’t just protection. This is a warning. And somehow, I know: if they weren’t here, I wouldn’t have a chance.
Suddenly, Mike turns toward my car, and I catch a flicker in his expression. It’s a mask of anger and…fear. Fear for me.
Without hesitation, he jerks the driver’s door open and lifts me into his arms. I don’t fight. There’s no point. The chaos, the attack, it’s too much. He folds his body over mine, careful but urgent, and carries me to the car parked across the road.
He sets me gently into the passenger seat, snaps my seatbelt, and moves around to the driver’s side. My body feels bruised, tiny cuts from splintered glass pricking my skin, but I barely notice. His temper—contained, lethal—radiates in waves I can feel even without touching.
Once we pull away, I finally speak. “Are you angry?”
“Yes,” he growls. I flinch, but he turns his gaze on me. “Not at you,Solntse. At the people who attacked you.”
I relax. “How did you find me?”
His answer is calm, matter-of-fact. “I have your location pinned at all times. I noticed a deviation in your route and immediately came after you.”
My chest tightens. I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never had anyone pay that much attention to me or my safety before.
By the time we reach home, a doctor is already waiting, prepped for minor injuries. But Mike doesn’t hand me over. Not fully. His hands move over my cuts and bruises, deliberate, steady, almost intimate in their attention. He treats even small abrasions like they’re catastrophic.
I feel the intensity of him in a way I haven’t before. There’s no calculation here. No distance. Only restrained fury, careful precision, and something disturbingly close to fear, fear that I might be hurt again. And in that fear, I feel a pulse of something I can’t name, something raw and human beneath the control, the power, the obsession.
It scares me, and yet it draws me in. I can’t look away, can’t move. For the first time, I see not just the predator, but the man who reacts before logic, who arrives before the law, who doesn’t hesitate.
After the doctor leaves, Mike brings me lunch. He sets it down gently on the tray and softly says, “Please, stay in bed.”
I obey without argument.
He sits beside me, takes my hand. I don’t pull away. I let him be closer than I intended, letting the adrenaline and relief weaken the walls I’ve built. He doesn’t exploit my vulnerability—not yet—but the proximity is electric. The tension coils tighter with every quiet second.
“I…can I get a phone?” I ask finally, my voice small. “At least then I can keep in touch with my friends.”
He nods, still holding my hand. “I’ve been preparing one for you. Encrypted. You’ll have it tomorrow.”
I let out a shaky sigh, shutting my eyes. The memory of him in the aftermath of the attack replays in my mind. His decisiveness, his brutality, his protective fire. He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
The certainty of his response terrifies me and, in some strange way, reassures me. And as I lay there, feeling the weight of it, a thought coils tighter in my chest: Whoever is orchestrating these attacks knows Mike’s attachment to me…maybe even better than I do.
Chapter 8 – Mike
I walk back to our suite that night, completely dejected. It’s been hours, and we still haven’t gotten a lead on who tried to kidnap Ellie again today. The uncertainty gnaws at me in a way I’m not used to. It introduces me to a kind of fear I’ve never felt before.
On one hand, I’m relieved she’s alive and unharmed. On the other hand, I blame myself. I let her convince me. I let her leave the house. I let her out of my sight.
That mistake could have cost her everything.
I stayed with her most of the afternoon after we got home. The doctor examined the cuts from the glass, cleaned them, and assured me none of them were serious. Ellie insisted she was fine. She even told me to return to work so she could watch television and rest.
She gave me a rare smile when she said it.
