Page 3 of My Bratva Stalker

The line clicks dead.

I sag against the wall, my breath hitching, but the feeling doesn’t leave me. A heavy, choking feeling. Like someone is still here. Like someone is watching.

* * *

My father arrives fifteen minutes after our call. By then, I’ve locked everything. Windows. Doors. Closet. Even checked under the damn bed.

I don’t feel safe. Not even close.

I sit on the couch, hugging my arms around myself, breathing too fast, waiting for something to happen.

When his key scrapes in the lock, I jump, my heart nearlychoking me.

“Marie.” His voice is sharp, urgent.

I rush to the door, barely getting it open before he steps inside, locking it behind himself. His gaze cuts through the apartment, sharp and assessing.

His face is tense, his dark brown skin drawn tight over his cheekbones. I’ve never seen him look like this.

I tell him everything. The messages. The perfume bottle out of place. The door I know I locked that was suddenly open. How none of it was the first time.

I expect him to tell me I’m overreacting. But he doesn’t.

He moves past me, his hand already reaching into his coat. For his gun.

My stomach drops. I watch, my breath shallow, as he scans the living room. The kitchen. Then my bedroom.

And then—he freezes. His body locks up, his shoulders squared and rigid.

My pulse slams in my ears. “What?”

He doesn’t answer. Just slowly reaches out—and picks something up from my nightstand. It’s a single black rose. Tied with a satin ribbon.

“Did you leave this here?”

My stomach turns to ice as I shake my head. No, I didn’t put that there.

I take a step back, my knees nearly buckling. “What the—”

My father turns, his face like stone. “Go pack a bag. Now.”

“I—what? Where am I going?”

His jaw clenches. “To Viktor Maksimov.”

The name slams into me like a fist to the chest.

Viktor Maksimov.

Rich. Older. Powerful. Ruthless. And fucking beautiful.

A man who owns everything he touches.

And God help me, I’ve noticed him.

I’ve only met him once. But once was enough. Viktor Maksimov is the kind of man you don’t forget.

Tall—at least six feet, broad, thick muscle wrapped in crisp designer suit. Not the tailored kind that makes men look polished—but the kind that barely contains raw power.

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