Page 15 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

I know Mikhail thinks it’s protection, but it’s nothing but surveillance.

The penthouse is obscenely beautiful with its floor-to-ceiling windows turning the skyline into moving art. Every surface is expensive, marble catching morning light like frozen water.

Mikhail has laid out the rules: no leaving without security, no unvetted calls, and no unauthorized contact. “None of those investigative detours,” he had said drily.

Who would I be if I didn’t challenge every single one? If he asks me to adapt quietly, to surrender, he’s got another thing coming.

“You cannot seriously expect me to accept this.”

Mikhail doesn’t look up from the file in his hands.

His shirt sleeves are rolled to his forearms, revealing dark ink winding over muscle and scar tissue alike. His nose and jaw are chiseled, like a tyrannical Adonis sent to imprison me.

“Reality remains unchanged by your refusal to accept it.”

I narrow my eyes, mouth curling sourly.

“That was almost philosophical.”

“Wasn’t my intention.”

“I lied—it was insufferable.”

Charcoal eyes lift to me, unimpressed and flat, and they scan me from head to toe. He does that a lot, like I’m an item that’s supposed to be thoroughly scanned to be checked for any unauthorized items.

“You like this, don’t you?”

“I like nothing that is related to you.”

“You enjoy getting on my nerves, Zara.”

I cross my arms, snorting, “You enjoy controlling me.”

“Maybe.”

I hate how quickly heat rises in my chest around him. I can’t tell if it’s just anger anymore, though.

Every interaction between us takes this shade: push, counter, advance, contain.

I test his so-called boundaries constantly, opening locked office drawers but he changes the codes. Accessing one of the secured laptops, but passwords are changed before I finish my second attempt.

I even corner one of his guards and casually ask about vehicle schedules. It’s nearly comical how such a tall and broad man goes pale at such a small question.

Three hours later, Mikhail appears in the kitchen as I’m stirring my coffee.

“Stop interrogating my men.”

I bring up the cup to my lips with an exaggerated calm.

“I was just making conversation.”

His eyes bore holes into me.

“You call that making conversation?” He grunts exasperatedly. “You were extracting information.”

Whatever.I set the mug down without taking a sip.

“Maybe if you stopped treating me like a prisoner, I would stop acting like one.”