Page 22 of Perfect Stalker

I stare up at him, my pulse jolting. The promise in his words is clear, and a part of me—a dark, secret part I’ve tried to ignore—thrills at the idea of being free of Stephen forever. “What are you going to do?”

Ivan traces circles on the inside of my wrist, sending shivers up my arm. “The less you know, the better. Just trust that when I’m done, Stephen will never bother you again.”

I should be horrified. I should be running for the door, screaming for help. Instead, I find myself slowly nodding. “Okay.”

Relief flashes across his face, quickly masked by his usual stoic expression. He releases my wrist, trailing his fingers along my skin as he pulls away. “Good. Now, about the other arrangements?—”

“I still don’t like the idea of being watched all the time,” I interrupt, finding my voice again. “It feels invasive.”

“That’s because it is.” He quirks his lips in a humorless smile. “Would you prefer to be unprotected? Vulnerable to whatever Stephen might try next?”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “No, of course not.” I meet his gaze, struck by the intensity I see there. Despite everything, despite the danger and the uncertainty, I feel...safe. Protected. It’s a heady feeling I’m not entirely sure I can trust him. “Fine. I agree…for now.”

He gives me a satisfied smile but at least doesn’t gloat.

Later that day,I stand in the guest room, surrounded by boxes and bags filled with my belongings. Ivan’s men have been thorough. They’ve brought almost everything from my apartment, leaving behind only the furniture and kitchen items. It’s as if they’ve moved me in without my consent.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, sorting through a pile of clothes. “They might as well have packed up my entire life.”

As I organize my things, trying to make sense of this new reality, I catch my elbow on the edge of a box perched precariously on the side table. It tumbles to the floor, spilling its contents acrossthe hardwood. “Dammit.” I drop to my knees to gather the scattered items.

I freeze when I pick up a weathered photograph. It’s grainy and faded, but the image is clear enough—a group of young boys standing in front of a snow-covered building. I notice one face in particular, a boy with familiar gray eyes and a guarded expression.

Ivan.

He looks so young, and so vulnerable. It’s a marked difference to the imposing man I know. I trace my finger over his face, wondering about the life he lived before becoming the powerfulBratvaleader.

“What are you doing?” Ivan’s voice, sharp and cold, startles me. I look up to see him standing in the doorway, gaze fixed on the photo in my hands.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, scrambling to my feet. “The box fell, and I was just picking up things?—”

He crosses the room in three long strides, snatching the photo from my grasp. His jaw is tight as the muscles work beneath the skin. “This is private,” he says, his voice cold but controlled. “You shouldn’t be going through my things.”

“I wasn’t,” I protest. “It was an accident. I?—”

He cuts me off, shoving the photo back into the box. “The past is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter.”

I see the tension in his shoulders, and the way his hands linger on the box for a moment too long. It does matter, whether he admits it or not.

“Was that an orphanage?” I ask softly.

His head snaps up as he looks at me. For a moment, I see a flicker of something—pain, maybe, or vulnerability—before it’s replaced by his usual mask of indifference. “Yes,” he says shortly. “I spent some time there as a child.”

I take a tentative step closer. “How long?”

He scowls. “Eleven years. From age two to thirteen.”

Wincing, I try to imagine it—a young Ivan, alone in the world, growing up in a place like that. It explains so much about the man he’s become.

“What happened to your parents?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

“My mother died from cancer,” he says, his voice clipped. “I don’t remember her.” What he doesn’t say about his father is just as telling as what he reveals about his mother.

I reach out, my hand hovering over his arm. “Ivan, I’m so sorry. That must have been?—”

“It was a long time ago,” he interrupts, stepping back. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Despite his words, his gaze flicks to the box, and there’s a slight tremor in his hands. It does matter. It’s shaped everything about him.

---