Page 89 of Stalk Me

Mymalishkahas changed. The discovery of her father’s deception has awakened something in her—something dangerous and beautiful. Where before she wore her emotions openly, now she moves with calculated precision, each gesture measured and controlled.

“Good evening, Papa,” she calls out, her voice honey-sweet. Too sweet.

I press my palm against the cool glass, tracking her progress. Without my usual network of cameras and surveillance, I’m forced to rely on these stolen moments of observation. It’s like watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis—fascinating and slightly unnerving.

She pauses by the fountain, trailing her fingers through the water. The gesture appears casual, but I recognize it for what it is—a moment to gather herself to perfect her mask before continuing her performance.

Antonio doesn’t notice. He’s too relieved to have his daughter back to see the predator emerging beneath her polished surface. But I see it. The careful way she positions herself, always maintaining optimal distance. The calculated timing of her responses. The slight pause before each laugh.

My Sofia is learning to hunt.

Pride and desire surge through me as I watch her expertly manipulate the conversation, leading Antonio exactly where she wants him to go. She’s magnificent in her evolution and entirely mine.

A ghost of a smile touches my lips as she glances up toward my window. Our eyes meet briefly, and in that moment, her mask slips. The raw emotion in her gaze sends heat through my veins. She may be playing a role, but she’s still my Sofia.

I descend the ornate staircase, adjusting my cuffs as the scent of fresh bread and herbs wafts up from the dining room. The Castellano’s chef rivals mine, though I’d never admit it.

Sofia sits at the long table, a vision in deep burgundy silk that makes my fingers itch to touch her. Her posture is perfect, shoulders back, chin lifted – every inch the aristocrat she was born to be.

“Your father’s treatment went well today?” I keep my tone casual as I take my seat beside her.

Her fingers drift to her throat, that unconscious tell I’ve watched countless times through my surveillance feeds. The gesture means she’s about to lie.

“Yes, the doctors are quite pleased with his progress.” Her voice is steady, her smile precise. “They’ve adjusted his medication schedule, which seems to be helping.”

I take a slow sip of wine, savoring its complexity and the masterful performance. Two weeks ago, she would have flushed under my scrutiny, her emotions bleeding through every word. Now, she meets my gaze with practiced ease.

“I’m glad to hear it.” I place my hand on her thigh under the table, feeling the slight muscle tensing beneath the silk. “You must be relieved.”

“Exhausted, actually.” She touches her napkin to her lips. “If you’ll excuse me, I must retire early tonight.”

As she stands, her eyes flick toward Mario—a fraction of a second, but enough. The old man doesn’t notice, too busy with his pasta to see the predator his granddaughter has become.

I watch her leave, remembering the medical reports Alexi obtained yesterday.

I watch Sofia disappear up the sweeping staircase, her burgundy silk dress whispering against marble. The knowledge sits heavy in my chest—Antonio’s pristine medical records, the staged hospital visits, the elaborate web of lies they’ve woven to bring her here.

But there’s something in the precise angle of her shoulders, the careful placement of each step. My Sofia has changed these past weeks. The gallery owner who wore her heart on her sleeve has evolved into something far more dangerous.

I finish my wine, letting Mario prattle on about some business venture. My thoughts remain upstairs with her. I’ve been planning how to reveal Antonio’s deception and how to soften this latest betrayal. But watching her tonight, noting each calculated gesture and measured response, I suspect she’s already pieced it together.

Later, as I slip into our bed, she molds herself against me with practiced grace. Her body fits perfectly against mine as always, but there’s a new tension thrumming beneath her skin. When she turns to kiss me, her movements have a deliberate quality that speaks of distraction rather than desire.

I pin her beneath me, claiming her mouth, and she responds with desperate intensity. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, demanding more contact, more pressure. She’s trying to drive usboth past the point of coherent thought, past any possibility of conversation.

Her kiss is hungry, her tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I open for her. She tastes like wine and simmering anger, which tightens my every muscle. I roll to pin her against the mattress, reveling in the press of her body against mine. Mymalishkais a symphony of need—each curve and plane of her body singing for me.

I rake my fingers through her hair, catching the silken strands at the nape of her neck. She shivers beneath me, her body arching into mine. Her head falls back, baring that exquisite column of her throat. I claim it with my teeth, marking her, tasting the salt of her skin as I suck hard enough to leave a bruise. She likes it a little rough, my wild girl.

“Nikolai,” she breathes, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “Daddy, please.”

That word spills from her lips, making my cock swell. I hesitate, my hands tightening on her hips. Her face is flushed, eyes half-lidded with desire, and she wants this. She wants me to be her daddy.

I lean down, my mouth against her ear. “Do you want me to fuck you,malishka? Is that what my good girl needs?”

She trembles. “Yes, Daddy. Please.”

I burn my possessive mark into her neck as I thrust my hips against her. She’s wet for me, eager, and I want to lose myself in her. But her eyes trap me—those green-gold depths holding such trust and raw need. Trust I’ve earned and need I’ve awakened.

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