Page 13 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
I close the door behind me and lock it before I pick it up. The paper is thick, expensive, the kind I’ve only seen used for formal invitations. There’s no envelope. Just a single line written in dark ink.
You saw me today.
That’s it. No signature. No explanation.
My pulse is loud in my ears. I drop onto the edge of the bed, still holding the note, my mind running in circles. I know exactly who it’s from.
I can see his face as clearly as if he were standing in front of me now. Those eyes that didn’t waver from mine. The low, even voice that told me to keep my door locked. The way he stepped closer instead of moving aside.
I set the note on the nightstand, then quickly change into my nightclothes. My hands fumble with the buttons, clumsy from nerves. I keep glancing at the locked door, half-afraid and half-hoping I’ll hear those slow footsteps again.
When I slide into bed, the sheets feel cold. I lie on my side, staring at the note, my mind caught between wanting to hide it and wanting to keep it where I can see it.
In the end, I slip it into the drawer with the nightgown and the photograph. I tell myself I’m putting it away so I can stop thinking about it, but I know that’s a lie.
I want it close.
I turn off the lamp and pull the blanket up to my chin. The house is quiet again, but I can’t shake the sense that he’s somewhere nearby. Watching. Waiting. Heat pools low in my belly, a spasm of desire bolts through my core making my thighs tighten together. I want to touch myself. Press until the pressure fades away. But I don’t.
Mikhail
She looked at me.
Finally.
After weeks of silence and shadows and soft gifts she pretended not to keep, she lifted her eyes and met mine. That single glance has fed every violent, possessive instinct inside me. She collided with me like she’d forgotten how big the world was, and I held her like it had never belonged to anyone else but her.
I watched her shake from the contact. I watched her turn away.
And then I left her a message.
You looked at me today.
Just one sentence, nothing more. She doesn’t need more. Not yet. She needs to understand the weight of her attention. That in this house full of powerful men and deadly secrets, I am the one who watches her sleep. I am the one who moves things in her room. I am the one who sees her.
I wait until it’s well past midnight before I move. The house is sleeping. The staff quarters are quiet. She is in bed now. I’ve watched her turn off the lamp. Watched her shift beneath the blanket. Watched her fingers curl at her chest like she’s holding something precious even when they’re empty.
I use the master key.
Her door opens without a sound.
She doesn’t stir.
I step inside, closing the door behind me, and the scent of her wraps around me like smoke. Lavender and vanilla. Warm skin. Linen sheets. A faint trace of soap. My cock throbs in my pants, already half-hard from the anticipation. But I don’t move toward her.
Not yet.
I stand at the foot of the bed and watch.
She’s facing the door, hair loose over her shoulder, lips slightly parted in sleep. The blanket has slipped down her body, revealing the slope of her shoulder and the swell of her breasts beneath the old t-shirt she wears. She should be wearing the nightgown I gave her.
She will.
Soon.
I walk silently to the side of the bed. She shifts in her sleep, her legs brushing together beneath the blanket. She’s dreaming. I wonder if it’s about me. If she’s thinking about the way my hands felt on her shoulders. About the sound of my voice.
I kneel beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other curling into a fist so I don’t reach for her.
