Page 4 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
She’s my girl.
My wife.
The mother of my children.
And she’ll never have to wonder who moved her perfume again, because when I’m finished, she’ll know exactly who’s been watching her.
Sarah
I barely sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the blue silk. I try to tell myself it was a mistake, that maybe the laundry staff mixed up deliveries, that there’s some perfectly reasonable explanation. But the longer I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the more impossible that feels.
It wasn’t folded the way the laundry folds things. It wasn’t in plastic like the new deliveries from the stores. It was placed. As if someone wanted me to find it exactly where I did.
By the time I finally drift off, the sky outside my window has turned from black to that deep, uncertain blue that means dawn is close. When the bell for morning duties rings, it feels like I’ve only been asleep for a minute.
I move through the motions on autopilot. Brush teeth. Tie hair back. Pull on my plain and simple uniform. Every step is neat, quiet, efficient. Thom trained me well in that much, at least. If you make no noise and you take up no space…That’s how you survive.
In the kitchen, the other maids are already bustling. I keep my head down and grab a rag and polish, heading for the west corridor where the portraits line the wall. I like starting here. It’s quiet. People don’t pass through often.
But today, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone.
It starts as a tingle in my spine, just like before. The same creeping awareness that makes me want to check over my shoulder. I tell myself not to look, that it’s just nerves from last night, but the urge claws at me until I finally risk it.
The corridor is empty.
Still, the air feels thicker somehow.
I wipe down the frame of a portrait, my rag catching on the carved edge, and the scent of cedarwood drifts faintly through the air. Not polish. Not cleaning supplies. Cedarwood and something darker. Leather, maybe. Male.
I swallow and turn back to the work. My hands are shaking. I focus on the cloth against the wood, the slow circle of my wrist, the way the gold leaf catches the light.
When I move to the next frame, I freeze.
There’s something on the floor.
A flower. Just one. A single white gardenia.
It’s fresh, the petals smooth and perfect, the scent delicate and sweet. I glance up and down the corridor, but no one is there. I bend to pick it up, the stem cool against my fingers, and my stomach twists into a knot so tight I can barely breathe.
I’ve never told anyone, but gardenias are my favourite.
I tuck the bloom into my pocket quickly, before anyone can see. The petals brush against the inside of the fabric as I walk, a tiny, secret weight against my hip.
By the time I finish the corridor, I’m rattled enough to slip away to the laundry room just to breathe. I lean against the counter, pressing my palms into the wood, and take slow gulps of air. My pulse hasn’t settled since I found it.
Two strange things in two days.
A nightgown. A flower.
This can’t be random and it’s not Thom. He wouldn’t bother with anything this subtle. He prefers cruelty you can’t miss. Whoever this is, they’re quieter. Patient. Watching.
And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’m more afraid or curious.
I straighten slowly, forcing my hands to unclench from the counter. If anyone walks in and sees me hiding here, they’ll think I’m avoiding work, and the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself.
I grab a stack of freshly folded towels from the shelf, holding them close to my chest, and push open the laundry room door. The corridor beyond is quiet, the air warmer here, smelling faintly of bread from the kitchen downstairs. My footsteps are soft on the runner carpet, the towels giving me an excuse to keep moving, to act like I belong exactly where I am.
