Page 31 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

“Let me see,” I say, glancing at the bandaged arm.

She doesn’t argue, which tells me the adrenaline has fully receded and what is left in its absence is exhaustion. She extends her arm, and I take it in both hands carefully.

I peel back the dressing edge enough to assess it properly.

The graze is lateral and clean, exactly how Greger’s report described. To someone else, this might look fortunate that thebullet didn’t go anywhere in the flesh. But to me, it’s the worst possible thing I can see.

I redress it properly, hands oddly gentle and stable. Her gaze stays on my hands working the whole time.

My hands linger over the edge of the dressing, unwilling to let go.

“Where were you?” I ask quietly.

“Meeting Elena Vasquez,” she manages, tone for once not defensive. At least she is not hiding from me.

“The financial compliance attorney.”

“She’s been working the financial threads, the shell designations and the routing codes that tied to the network my parents operated inside. She found cross-references that I couldn’t access.” Zara pauses. “She confirmed that what I’m chasing isn’t just a personal disappearance. What my parents built was important enough that others had interests in it, only that interest didn’t disappear when the network did.”

I repress the discomfort that races down my spine. Her eyes, finally looking deep into mine, sharpen slightly.

“You already knew some of that,” she guesses.

The answer she wants I am not prepared to deliver tonight, in this room, with her sitting three feet away from me with a fresh wound on her arm. The honest answer is a door I will open, but not now, and not like this.

“I know enough,” I deflect, which is both truthful and incomplete. Her mouth purses in displeasure but, thankfully, she doesn’t push it.

Something bubbles in my gut, climbing up to my throat and sitting on my tongue. It’s been bubbling ever since Greger’s transmission, since I saw her with a bandage on her arm that I’m responsible for.

Scratch that—it’s been looming over my head since the night she told me about being eight years old, about notebooks, and about searching for answers when no one else gives them to you.

“I’m going to help you find them,” I blurt out.

Her lips part, chocolate eyes full of skepticism and hope.

“Why?”

“Because the threat to you is connected to this network. Your investigation is going to continue regardless of what I do or don’t do, and it’s better if I have your back than not. And because—” I inhale sharply, closing my eyes momentarily. “You deserve the answer.”

Her eyes soften, thick eyelashes sweeping over her cheeks, empty of color.

“I’m going to need full access to everything you gather,” she says finally, in a neutral tone, which is neither an affirmative nor a negation. “No filtered versions.Everything.”

“You got it.”

Her glass of water is almost gone. She leans back against the couch cushion, mouth curling with discomfort as much as she tries to hide it.

There’s a knock on the door. At my answering grunt, one of the maids rolls in a tray laden with pasta and a whole grilled filet of fish.

“Not hungry,” Zara grumbles once the maid has left.

“Didn’t ask. Eat.”

She throws her little tantrum for some time before the growling of her stomach gives her away. My stare is flat as I look at her. She rolls her eyes, almost scoffing.

She leans forward as I put the tray on the table in front of her. I hand her the fork, and she takes her first bite.

I am intimately aware of how Zara Khan ignores hunger, exhaustion, all her human needs, thinking of herself as above it.