Page 37 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
Her breath stutters. “You’re insane.”
“For you,” I answer, bending to kiss her hard, swallowing her gasp as I push faster, deeper. Her nails scrape down my back, and I know she’s close.
I don’t stop when she comes, clenching around me, her legs tightening at my sides. I hold her there, keep moving, forcing another wave out of her until she’s shaking.
When I finally spill into her, I stay inside, grinding slow and deep like I can will it to take. My hand spreads over her stomach, warm and heavy. “Mine,” I say against her mouth. “From now until the day we die, you’re mine.”
She’s too wrecked to speak, just nods, her breathing uneven. I kiss her again, softer this time, and it’s almost worse than the roughness, it’s the promise in it.
When I pull back, I look at the ring again on her hand, still splayed over my chest. “You’ll get used to it,” I tell her. “Being mine in every way.”
She swallows hard but doesn’t argue. And that’s all I need.
Epilogue
Sarah
I’m convinced I’m going to die.
Not from the babies.
From rage. Or heat. Or the relentless, crushing pressure of carrying two Vasiliev-sized monsters inside my belly for thirty-six and a half weeks.
Every movement is agony. I can’t sit without squirming. I can’t lie down without grunting like some feral animal. Even breathing feels like a chore, my lungs pushed to the brink by the weight of them. My ankles are so puffy they barely look like ankles at all, and my nipples have started leaking through every bra I own.
If one more person tells me I’m glowing, I swear I’ll stab them with a fork.
Even the silk robe clinging to my shoulders feels like an insult. The satin sticks to my skin, damp with sweat, stretching taut over the enormous curve of my stomach. I’m restless, overheated, and bone-deep miserable.
Until the bedroom door opens.
Mikhail steps inside, barefoot and shirtless, a glass of something cold in his hand. The light catches the sharp cut of hisshoulders, the powerful lines of his chest. But it’s not his body that makes my pulse skip, it’s the way he looks at me.
His gaze drops to where I’m sprawled at the edge of the bed, flushed and swollen, my breasts straining against the thin fabric of my robe. His pupils blow wide. His breath catches.
And then I see it. The exact moment the hunger hits him. That dangerous, unrelenting wave of obsession I’ve come to recognise, the kind that drowns out reason.
The glass lands on the nightstand with a soft clink.
Two strides and he’s in front of me, so close I can feel his heat.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, though my voice betrays me, cracking on the last word.
His hand slides under the curve of my belly, palm spreading wide as if he’s trying to hold all of me at once. “Look at you,” he growls, low and reverent. “Perfect.”
“I’m miserable,” I grumble, though my thighs already press together in anticipation.
“You’re mine.” His answer is absolute, certain, and it makes my chest tighten.
Then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, a kiss that steals every argument from my head.
“Mikhail—”
“I need you,” he pants against my lips. “One more time. Before they get here. I need to feel you come apart for me again.”
I should say no. I should remind him I’m exhausted, that I’ve spent too long waddling around this house like a hormonal cow. But then his mouth closes over my breast, his tongue circling the nipple before he starts to suck, and my brain short-circuits completely.
“Please,” he whispers, the word ragged with need. His hand strokes between my thighs, gentle but insistent, parting me like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting his whole life to open. “Let me.”
