Page 17 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
Her scream fades to ragged sobs, her body trembling under mine like she’s run herself to collapse. The table beneath us is damp with sweat and slick. Her thighs are still shaking around my hips, every nerve raw, betrayed by how easily I dragged the truth out of her.
I release her wrists at last, but her hands don’t push me away. They clutch my shirt in trembling fists, like she doesn’t know what else to hold onto. Like letting go would drop her into a void.
I tip her chin up with a single finger, forcing her tearstained gaze to mine. “Look at me.”
Her lashes flutter, heavy, defeated, dazed. Her lips open on a whimper.
“You’re not broken,” I growl, words edged with the vow I’ve bled for. “You were only waiting for the man strong enough to take your body past the fear. And now you know—there willnever be anyone else. No boys. No men.” I lower until my forehead rests against hers, breath mingling with her gasps. “Only me.”
Her dark brown eyes glisten. Her lips tremble. No words come. Just a small, shivering exhale against my mouth, like even that truth is too heavy for her to carry yet.
I seal it with a kiss that’s raw and claiming, not asking, not giving her air to deny it. When I lift my head again, she collapses forward into my chest, her voice nothing but a weak sob tangled with my name.
That’s enough. For now. I won’t take more when her body’s already wrecked, when she trembles too hard to even stand. Her first fall is mine, and I’ll savor it before I demand the rest.
I gather her up off the ruined table, holding her damp and boneless in my arms while shards crunch under my boots. She curls instinctively against me, her head pressed to my throat, breath struggling but still there.
She doesn’t even realize what just happened. But I do.
The cage she thought was permanent? I’ve smashed it open. And by the time I’m finished with her, she’ll learn a darker truth—that the only ties she’ll ever have again are the ones I put on her.
Zara
Ican still feel him everywhere.
On my lips, in my thighs, inside the soaked places no one else has ever touched.
I’m trembling. Not just from what he did to me, but because I can’t decide if I should hate him or fall into his arms all over again.
My head rests against his chest, his heartbeat thunderous against my ear as he carries me out of the shattered dining room. I expect another demand. Expect him to throw me into his bed and finish what he started. But instead he veers into a wide hallway lined in oil paintings and chandeliers, his boots heavy against the marble.
He nudges a door open with his shoulder, and suddenly we’re in his bathroom. Light gray stone, a tub carved like it belongs to royalty. Steam fogs instantly as he twists the taps.
He doesn’t speak and I can’t. I’m limp in his arms, throat raw, and the ache between my legs won’t stop pulsing.
Nikolai crouches, lowering me onto a padded chair beside the bath. It’s absurd, how careful he is—like I might break if he setsme down too hard. Though he had no hesitation about breaking all my resistance minutes ago.
“Sit,” he murmurs. One command, but softer, with a weight I’ve never heard from him before.
My fingers knot against my knees. Steam curls through the air. He waits until the tub is full, shuts the water, and without meeting my eyes he drapes a towel across one rail. Then—just like that—he turns and leaves.
No demand. No order. Just silence, the door clicking shut.
For a moment, I don’t move. Then I strip out of the shredded dress and sink carefully into the tub. Warm water climbs my shoulders. My head tips back. And against all logic, it feels… comforting. My body still aches with the force of what he did, but the heat makes it softer, more bearable. My tears bead on the surface in little ripples. This time they’re not only from fear.
I soak until the tremors quiet. Until my pulse doesn’t feel like it will crack my ribs.
When I finally step out, I find fresh clothes waiting neatly folded on the counter. Not silk slips, not lingerie. Denim jeans and a soft pink concert tee.
I freeze.
It’s the shirt.Thatshirt. My favorite singer—the tour that sold out the day tickets dropped. The concert I never got to go to, only mentioned once in passing when I said to a friend that I’d kill for some of the merch.
My throat tightens. I smooth my palms over it like I can erase the impossibility. There’s no way he could have found one, not when they ran out before my friend even made it inside the venue.
But here it is. Folded. Waiting. Like he’d been listening the whole time.
My stomach knots as I slide the shirt on, tug the denim up my sore legs. It fits perfectly. Too perfect. He had this measured for me, didn’t he?
