Lahat ng Kabanata ng Married to My Stalker: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 29

The kitchen was quiet, with dim morning light slipping through the open curtains, casting long, golden shadows across the tile. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon toast and coffee, but neither had been touched. Nova padded in barefoot, still wrapped in Damian's shirt, her curls mussed from sleep. She froze when she saw him. He was already seated at the kitchen table, elbows braced on the worn wood, the envelope from the gunbox lying untouched in front of him. His eyes lifted. Red-rimmed, but steady."I didn't want to read it alone," Damian said.Nova crossed to him without a word. She slipped into the chair beside him, knees brushing his, and reached for his hand. He didn't hesitate. Their fingers laced. Damian opened the envelope slowly, carefully, as if it might crumble under the weight of what was inside. The letter was written in plain English. No cipher. No code. Just the slanted, looping scrawl of a man who had run out of time.Damian,If this reaches you, I'm already gone.

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.

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

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