Control Has a Cost

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• Married to My Stalker   To Cut Off the Head

  The fire snapped and hissed in the stone hearth, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn table. A weathered map lay pinned open beneath a dagger and a smooth river stone, both anchoring opposite corners like war relics. Scrawled ink marked supply routes, dead drops, and old estates turned strongholds. Blood red for Lazăr's confirmed safehouses. Gray for allies they weren't sure about. Blue for the Drăghici loyal to the old ways. Damian leaned over the table shirtless, bandages still wrapped around his side, a glass of plum brandy untouched by his elbow. Beside him, Lieras hunched forward, arms braced, lips tight. Tarian sat back with one boot kicked up on the bench edge, flipping a throwing knife between his fingers with restless precision. Nova sat curled in the oversized armchair just off-center, wrapped in a sweater that hung off one bruised shoulder. Her legs tucked beneath her, eyes sharp despite the wear on her body. A mug of broth steamed between her palms. They ta

• Married to My Stalker   Even Wolves Tremble

  Nova surfaced from darkness slowly, like rising through deep water. Warmth surrounded her, soft wool blankets, the low hiss of a fire. The air smelled like pine resin, smoke, and the faint tang of old stone. Her body ached in too many places to count. Every breath tugged at her ribs. Her lip throbbed. Her wrists felt raw but clean. The ceiling above her was timbered, curved in a vaulted arch. Not a hotel. Not a cell. Somewhere else entirely. Safe. A gentle hand brushed her forehead. Nova turned her head, wincing, and found a woman seated beside the bed. She was older, with hair twisted into a long gray braid and a face lined by weather and worry. Dressed all in black, she smelled of lavender and smoke. The woman didn't speak, only dipped a cloth in a basin and dabbed it against Nova's temple. Her touch was tender. Skilled. Nova's voice cracked out, no louder than a breath. "Damian?" The woman didn't answer. But she nodded toward the heavy curtains near the hearth. Nova's l

• Married to My Stalker   The Night He Became His Father’s Son

  The night air was razor-thin, the forest around the compound blanketed in a skin of frost. Damian crouched behind a felled log, a black blade slick in his palm. Beside him, Tarian gave a silent nod. Lieras flanked right. His oldest friends were blood brothers. Sons of the men who once served his father as right-hand and left-hand men. They had trained together in these woods. Bled on this soil. And now they returned to complete what their fathers had begun. Tarian, taller and broader than the rest, kept his rifle low but his eyes sharp. Lieras, leaner with twitchy fingers and a scar curling under his jaw, PSS pistol on him. They moved like shadows, no wasted steps, no words. Only breath, steel, and purpose. The first guard didn’t even get a scream out. Tarian’s knife slid beneath his chin, twisted once. Blood steamed as it hit the snow. A second guard rounded the path with a cigarette in hand. Lieras fired once, throat shot, clean, silent. They dragged the bodies out of sight.

• Married to My Stalker   The Prince Returns

  The jet sliced through a sky bruised with dawn. No words passed as Damian stepped aboard, just curt nods exchanged between men who already knew. The Drăghici heir had returned to Romania, and blood would follow. The interior of the plane was opulence forged in shadow: dark mahogany panels carved with the wolf crest, embossed leather seats stitched in burgundy thread, and gold accents dulled with age and legacy. Beneath one seat rested a locked weapons case; he didn't need the key. He broke the latch open with his boot and dragged it into the aisle. Damian pulled out a combat blade wrapped in an oilcloth, unsheathed it with care, and then pricked the edge into his palm until blood welled up. No hiss. No wince. Just an old rite: Drăghici steel drank from its master before it hunted. The red smeared along the spine of the blade like war paint as he whispered something low and guttural in Romanian, an oath of vengeance passed down from his grandfather's grandfather. One of thre

• Married to My Stalker   Taken

  The Atlanta skyline shimmered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, brushed in soft gold by the late-morning sun. The penthouse still smelled faintly of the previous night, spiced wine, lavender shampoo, and something darker that lingered beneath Damian's cologne. In the open kitchen, the last of their breakfast sat half-eaten: toast gone cold, a plate of strawberries forgotten, two mugs of coffee steeping in silence. Damian adjusted his cufflinks at the edge of the kitchen island, eyes on the mirrored backsplash. He looked like something out of another world again, sleek, composed, calculating. Armani blazer. Slate-gray slacks. That wolfish confidence settled in every angle of his frame, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Not today. Nova padded out from the bedroom barefoot, wearing a soft ribbed tank top and high-waisted knit pants. Her curls were still damp from her shower, her skin dewy. She carried a small travel watering can, the one she insisted on packing last-minute. In i

• Married to My Stalker   Calm Before The Storm

  The car rolled to a stop in front of the glass-paneled hotel, its polished curves reflecting the overcast sky like a secret waiting to break. Valets in black gloves moved with quiet precision, opening the doors as if the world outside couldn't touch what happened within. Nova stepped out first, heels clicking against the marble. The city buzzed just beyond the revolving doors, but inside the lobby, everything was muted, gold fixtures, soft jazz, and the scent of jasmine and money. Damian followed, his hand firm on the small of her back. In this light, in this place, he looked like he belonged. The staff didn't question him; they deferred to him. His tailored coat, the crisp fold of his collar, the way he scanned every corner before moving, all of it whispered one thing: predator in silk. Nova felt the shift in him. Not the man who brought her pancakes or kissed her bare shoulder in a sunlit kitchen. This Damian was composed, deliberate, and in control. It made her shiver slightly.