Page 12 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
She disappears into the dining room, her shoulders tight, her pace quick. But I see the way her hand shifts against the stack of napkins, like she’s pressing her palm to the place where I touched her.
I stand in the corridor a moment longer, letting the scent she left behind settle into me.
This was only the first touch.
From here, it will be easier. She’s felt me now, not just the weight of my stare but the weight of my hands. No matter how lightly I held her, her skin will remember it.
She’ll try not to think about it tonight when she lies in bed, but she will. She’ll wonder why it didn’t feel the way she expected. Why it wasn’t like Thom. Why it wasn’t cruel.
That’s how it starts.
Soon, she’ll stop wonderingifI’m the one who’s been watching her. She’ll start wonderingwhenI’ll come for her again.
Sarah
I don’t know how I make it to the dining room without dropping everything again. My fingers ache from how tightly I’m holding the stack of napkins, and my heart still hasn’t slowed.
It wasn’t just that I bumped into him. It was the way he caught me, steady, unhurried, like he’d been expecting it. Like his hands belonged there.
And I let him.
I should have stepped back immediately, but my body stayed right where it was, as if I’d forgotten how to move. His hands were warm, firm, but not rough. Not like Thom’s. It was almost worse, because now my mind is turning over that feeling again and again, trying to decide if it was dangerous or… something else.
By the time I reach the long dining table, my breathing is under control, but my thoughts aren’t. I move to the end and start setting out the napkins. Fold, place, smooth. Fold, place, smooth. My hands are doing the work, but my head is still back in that hallway.
“You’re new.”
“How long?”
“You keep your door locked at night.”
The way he said it, not asking, just stating, makes my stomach twist. He knows where I sleep. He knows what I do before bed. And I don’t even know his name.
I glance toward the doorway, half-expecting him to be there, but it’s empty. The other staff move around me, talking quietly as they work, and I try to focus on them instead. It doesn’t work. The faint sound of Rachel’s laugh reaches me from somewhere beyond the open patio doors. She and Nikolai, one of the brothers, seem to like running through the woods.
Every so often, I feel that prickling awareness, like he’s somewhere nearby. Watching. Waiting.
By the time the table is set, my nerves are stretched so tight they buzz. I carry a tray of cutlery back toward the pantry, and when I set it down, I realise my hands are trembling. I tuck them into my apron and force myself to keep moving.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. Polishing glassware. Refilling water jugs. Laying out place cards. I manage not to see him again, but the memory of those ice blue eyes follows me everywhere.
When the dinner guests arrive, I stay in the background, refilling drinks and clearing plates without drawing attention. The brothers are all there, scattered around the table. I recognise Maksim at the head, his expression calm but unreadable, his wife beside him. The others are less familiar, a mixture of sharp suits, expensive watches, and the kind of presence that makes the air feel heavier.
One of them might be him.
I try not to look too closely. I don’t want to be caught staring. But every time someone speaks in a low voice or shifts in their seat, my head turns before I can stop it, desperate to see him again but not knowing why.
It’s a relief when the dinner is over and the guests leave. The house quiets again, the way it always does late at night. I help clear the table and wipe down the long expanse of polished wood until it gleams. My shoulders ache from the constant movement, and my eyes burn from the strain of staying alert.
Finally, I head back to my room. The corridor is empty, the sconces casting pools of soft light on the carpet. My door is just ahead.
The moment I open it, I know.
Someone has been here again.
The curtains are open now, and the moonlight spills across the narrow bed. My stomach tightens. I step inside slowly, scanning the room. Everything looks the same… except for the pillow.
Resting in the centre is a folded piece of paper.
