Page 27 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
“Next time,” I say, leaning in close, “you won’t be allowed to stand. So it can take.”
She trembles.
But she doesn’t look away.
Sarah
The first thing I notice is the ache.
It lives low in my belly and deep in my thighs, a heavy, sweet soreness that pulses with every breath. My body feels boneless and used, but in the most dizzying, delicious way. Like I’ve been wrung out and remade.
The second thing I notice is that I’m alone.
The small bed is still warm beside me, the sheets tangled and damp, but he’s gone.
And for a moment, I feel it, that sharp, panicked pinch of emptiness.
I don’t want to wake up without him.
I don’t want to go back to pretending I’m invisible, small, safe in my silence.
Not after last night.
Not afterhim.
I shift beneath the blankets and wince. My thighs are sore, my core throbs, and my skin is still marked from where he held me down. Where he bit me.
God.
A flush spreads over me, heat prickling across my cheeks.
The memories hit in flashes. His voice in the dark. His hands on my hips. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing that had ever mattered. And I want him again already.
It’s embarrassing, how fast the ache turns into need. I press my thighs together and bite my lip.
But the moment I try to sit up, my muscles scream in protest.
I gasp, gripping the edge of the mattress. My legs feel like they belong to someone else, trembling, weak, barely able to hold my weight.
I swing them off the bed anyway, clutching the nightstand as I try to stand.
Bad idea.
My knees buckle instantly, and I catch myself on the post at the foot of the bed, heart hammering.
Jesus.
“Careful.”
The voice is low. Rough. Close. I jerk my head up, and there he is.
Mikhail.
In the doorway.
Shirtless. Holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a towel in the other like he’s been waiting for me to wake up.
His eyes rake over me, taking in my naked, trembling form. I should be embarrassed but I’m not.
