Page 17 of Perfect Stalker

Ivan grabs Stephen by the collar, hauling him up and dragging him toward the door. Outside, I hear muffled voices speaking rapid Russian. Ivan’s tone is sharp, biting. Though I can’t understand the words, the anger is unmistakable.

Two male voices respond, sounding subdued, and speaking simultaneously. “Izvinite, boss.”

He says something else to them, and then his footsteps are approaching again. He appears a moment later, and his gray eyes are cold. His expression is blank and unreadable, but underneath that, he’s vibrating with what appears to be rage. Or fear. Maybe both. He crosses the room in three long strides, his shoulders rigid beneath his tailored suit jacket.

“Ivan, what—” The words die in my throat as he swoops down. In one fluid motion, he slides his arms beneath my knees and around my back, lifting me against his chest. The spicy notes of his cologne flood my senses, and this close, I recognize them. They were what I smelled in my apartment yesterday. “You’ve been in my place,” I say angrily.

“Da, to ensure your security was suitable. Cleary, it’s not.” He doesn’t even apologize for violating my space. “I straightened your book too. It was going to fall.”

“Put me down.” I push against his shoulders, but it’s like trying to move a mountain. His muscles don’t even flex under my hands. “Ivan, what are you doing?” My voice pitches higher with each word, but he might as well be carved from stone for all the reaction he gives.

His arms tighten, pressing me closer. “Be still,malyshka.”

“Ivan, this is ridiculous. Let me go right now and explain yourself!” I squirm in his arms as he strides down the hallway, but his grip remains unshakeable. The fluorescent lights overhead flash across his sharp features, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw.

Fortunately, we don’t encounter any of my neighbors before reaching the lift. The elevator chimes, and he steps inside, shifting me closer as he hits the button for the lobby. Myshoulder presses against the mirrored wall, and I catch our reflection—me, disheveled and fuming, him, radiating calm control.

“You can’t just kidnap people because you feel like it,” I mutter, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the descending floor numbers. When we exit the lobby, an elderly couple is waiting to get on the elevator. They stare, mouths agape, but he doesn’t pause, and he certainly doesn’t offer an explanation. He just strides past them, heading toward…where? Not knowing terrifies me.

A blast of November air slaps my cheeks as the glass doors whoosh open. The night wraps around us, carrying the scent of rain-washed asphalt, though it’s not actively raining right now. Ivan’s shoes click against the pavement as he crosses the street, dodging gaping pedestrians with ease. My weight seems like nothing to him.

He doesn’t stop except for the crosswalk. All the time, he remains silent. When I struggle to get down again, he glares at me, quelling my urge to rebel. He resumes walking and stops at a building that’s across the street from mine, but it might as well be across the world. It’s considerably nicer than the place I live, all glass and steel reaching toward the stars. The doorman nods as Ivan sweeps past, saying a casual, “Good evening, Ed,” and we enter a private elevator. Twenty floors up, the doors part to reveal a space that steals my breath.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Atlanta’s glittering skyline. Discreetly positioned lamps highlight Italian marble floors and sleek leather furniture. A crystal chandelier catches the city lights, scattering rainbow prisms across cream-colored walls.

Ivan finally sets me on my feet. His palm lingers at the base of my spine, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. Mylegs wobble, adjusting to standing, and his fingers press slightly firmer—steadying me without words. “Welcome home,” he says softly.

I whirl to face him, anger and confusion warring within me. “Home? What are you talking about? You live here?”

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Sometimes, though my home is technically on the thirtieth floor. I bought this apartment to keep a closer eye on you,kotik.”

The Russian endearment makes me tremble with fear. Just fear, I assure myself. I stare at him, breathless. “You’ve been watching me,” I whisper. “All this time... You were right across the street. I knew someone… And in my apartment…”

He doesn’t blink or look away. “I made a promise to protect you, Jenny. I intend to keep it.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. I have so many questions, but I’m not cogent enough to verbalize any of them intelligently. A garbled mess escapes my mouth that sounds almost like, “But why? Why go to all this trouble?”

He steps closer, cupping my cheek. “Because you’re mine,” he says simply, obviously understanding my verbal vomit.

“I don’t understand,” I say, sounding clear this time.

He traces my lower lip with his thumb. “You will,kotik. I’ll make sure of it.”

CHAPTER 8

IVAN

Jenny’s eyes flash with anger, raising her voice when she confronts me. “You’ve been spying on me? Watching my every move? Snooping through my things? What gives you the right?”

I stand motionless, absorbing her fury. Her words cut deeply, but I maintain my composure. “I have every right. Your safety is my priority.”

She scoffs, pacing the room like a caged tiger. “My safety? You’re delusional, Ivan. I quit my job to get away from your criminal enterprise. I’ll file a restraining order,” she says with an edge of wildness, betraying how off-kilter she is.

Her words sting, but I push aside the pain . “A piece of paper won’t protect you from real threats.”

She whirls to face me, cheeks flushed with anger. “Real threats? The only threat I see is you.”

“Not Stephen?” I ask with a hint of mockery. She flinches, and I take a step closer. “You have no idea of the dangers that surround you. The business, Jenny? It’s a front. TheBratva?—”

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