Page 10 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

The moment in the hallway this morning was the last time I will let her walk away without feeling me.

For weeks I have let her keep her space, feeding her the smallest crumbs of my presence. A shadow in her periphery. The brush of my scent in an empty corridor. A gift where she sleeps. It has been enough to build the tension, to teach her mind to search for me.

Now her body needs to learn.

I wait in the upper gallery, leaning against the carved banister that overlooks the east corridor. She moves down there now, hands full of folded napkins, her steps quick and precise. She doesn’t look up. She never looks up. Not until she feels me.

Her pace falters. She glances around once, her brows drawing together like she’s just remembered she left something behind. She shakes her head and keeps going.

I move before she rounds the corner, taking the servant’s staircase down. It empties into the same hall she’s about to pass through. There’s no sound from my steps. Years of moving like a ghost in hostile spaces has trained me for this.

When she appears, she’s looking over her shoulder again, her attention fixed on something she thinks she heard. That’s why she doesn’t see me at first.

Until she collides with me.

The napkins slip from her hands, a few fluttering to the floor. Her breath catches as she stumbles, and my hands close over her shoulders to steady her.

Small. That’s my first thought. So much smaller than I imagined when I’ve been watching her from a distance. My fingers almost span the length from her collarbone to her shoulder blade. She’s tense under my touch, every muscle locked.

She looks up, and for the first time I see those eyes without glass, without shadow. Blue, but not the sapphire of the gown, lighter, softer, a shade that makes me want to see how wide they’ll go when I press her against a wall.

“I— I’m sorry,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I don’t let go. “Watch where you’re going,” I murmur. Not loud. Not sharp. Just enough for her to feel the weight in it.

Her gaze flicks to my hands, then back to my face. I feel her pulse against my fingertips, quick and uneven. She smells faintly of fresh linen and the perfume she wears, sweet and cloying but somehow perfect on her.

I drop my hands slowly, letting the movement drag a fraction longer than necessary. She swallows hard, her lips parting like she’s about to speak again, but nothing comes out.

“Pick them up,” I say, glancing at the napkins on the floor.

She bends to gather them, and I take my time watching her. Not just the curve of her spine or the way her hair slips forward over her shoulder, but the delicate way she handles each folded square, as if she can’t bear to leave a single corner crumpled.

When she straightens, she keeps her eyes down, holding the napkins tightly against her chest like a shield.

“You’re new,” I say. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” she murmurs.

“How long?”

“A month.”

I nod slowly, as if I didn’t already know the exact day and hour she arrived. As if I haven’t memorised every movement she’s made since.

Her knuckles are white where she grips the linens.

“You live in the servant’s wing,” I add. Still not a question.

She glances up then, something like surprise flickering in her expression. “Yes.”

I take a step closer, and she takes a half-step back without seeming to realise it. The air between us thickens. I can almost feel the static building in it, the way it does before a lightning strike.

“You keep your door locked at night,” I say.

Her lips part. She looks like she might deny it, then just presses her mouth into a line.

“Good,” I tell her. “Keep doing that.”

I let my gaze linger on her for another beat, long enough for her to feel pinned in place, before I step aside. She hesitates, as if she’s not sure she’s free to move, and I like that. I like the way her body listens to my movements before her mind does.

As she passes, the edge of her sleeve brushes my knuckles. A small thing, nothing more than fabric against skin, but it’s enough. Enough to feel the heat of her through the thin cotton. Enough to know she felt it too.

She disappears into the dining room, her shoulders tight, her pace quick. But I see the way her hand shifts against the stack of napkins, like she’s pressing her palm to the place where I touched her.

I stand in the corridor a moment longer, letting the scent she left behind settle into me.

This was only the first touch.

From here, it will be easier. She’s felt me now, not just the weight of my stare but the weight of my hands. No matter how lightly I held her, her skin will remember it.

She’ll try not to think about it tonight when she lies in bed, but she will. She’ll wonder why it didn’t feel the way she expected. Why it wasn’t like Thom. Why it wasn’t cruel.

That’s how it starts.

Soon, she’ll stop wondering if I’m the one who’s been watching her. She’ll start wondering when I’ll come for her again.