Page 6 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
I watch her slip into the guest room with the towels, watch her glance out the window like the daylight can save her. It can’t.
I’ll give her more time. Let her believe she’s safe a little longer. But soon, I’ll take another step closer. Soon, I’ll stand in that hallway again, and this time, I won’t turn away.
Because one way or another, she’s going to learn that the safest place she’ll ever be is in my hands.
Sarah
It’s been three days since I saw him in the hallway. Three days of pretending it didn’t happen, of convincing myself he was just a guest, a business associate, someone passing through. But the truth is, I’ve been listening for him ever since.
Every creak in the floorboards makes me tense. Every shadow across a doorway makes my pulse skip.
I tell myself I’m being stupid. This is a big house. People move around all the time. But I can’t shake the memory of how still he was. How deliberate it felt. Like he was waiting for me.
And then there are the gifts.
The nightgown is still tucked at the back of my drawer, hidden under old shirts. The flower dried quickly, its petals curling in on themselves, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It sits between the pages of my book now, pressed flat. I don’t know why I keep them. Maybe because I need proof this isn’t in my head.
This morning is busy. There’s a dinner planned tonight for some of the Bratva’s associates, which means fresh linens in the dining room, extra dusting, and polishing the silverware until my fingers ache. I’m grateful for the distraction.
It’s late afternoon by the time I head back to my room to change into clean clothes before dinner service. My legs are sore,my back tight, and all I want is five minutes of quiet before I’m on my feet again.
The door to my room is closed, just like I left it. But when I open it, I know instantly that someone’s been here.
It’s the smell I notice first. Not bleach. Not soap. Something darker. Muskier. The faint trace of the same cedarwood-and-leather scent I caught in the corridor the other day.
My skin prickles as my eyes sweep the room.
The perfume bottle is back in its original place now. But the curtains…the curtains are drawn shut. I never close them during the day.
And there’s something on my pillow.
I take a step closer, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
It’s a photograph.
Of me.
I’m in the garden in this picture, kneeling in the dirt with my hair loose down my back. The shot is close enough that I can see the smudge of soil on my cheek, the way my fingers are curled in the herbs I’d been picking. I didn’t know anyone was nearby when I was working that day.
There’s no note. No name. No explanation. Just the picture, printed on glossy paper and left where my head should rest.
My mouth has gone dry. I scan the corners of the room, half expecting someone to be there, but of course there isn’t. Whoever took this, whoever left it, they could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting.
I force myself to pick it up. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it. The idea that someone’s been close enough to take this without me noticing makes my stomach turn.
This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t harmless.
This is deliberate.
I shove the photograph into the drawer with the nightgown and slam it shut. My chest is tight, my breaths shallow. I press my back to the wall beside the door and listen, straining for the sound of footsteps in the hall.
But all I hear is silence, and somehow, that’s worse.
Mikhail
She was kneeling in the garden the day I took the photo.
The sun had barely cleared the east wall, spilling light across her hair so it gleamed like gold. She wasn’t wearing her braids that morning, just a loose tail down her back, strands falling forward when she bent to pull weeds from the herb bed. Her hands were dirty, nails rimmed with soil. She didn’t care. She never cares about the way she looks when she’s working.
