Page 11 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

I don’t know how I make it to the dining room without dropping everything again. My fingers ache from how tightly I’m holding the stack of napkins, and my heart still hasn’t slowed.

It wasn’t just that I bumped into him. It was the way he caught me, steady, unhurried, like he’d been expecting it. Like his hands belonged there.

And I let him.

I should have stepped back immediately, but my body stayed right where it was, as if I’d forgotten how to move.

His hands were warm, firm, but not rough.

Not like Thom’s. It was almost worse, because now my mind is turning over that feeling again and again, trying to decide if it was dangerous or… something else.

By the time I reach the long dining table, my breathing is under control, but my thoughts aren’t. I move to the end and start setting out the napkins. Fold, place, smooth. Fold, place, smooth. My hands are doing the work, but my head is still back in that hallway.

“You’re new.”

“How long?”

“You keep your door locked at night.”

The way he said it, not asking, just stating, makes my stomach twist. He knows where I sleep. He knows what I do before bed. And I don’t even know his name.

I glance toward the doorway, half-expecting him to be there, but it’s empty.

The other staff move around me, talking quietly as they work, and I try to focus on them instead.

It doesn’t work. The faint sound of Rachel’s laugh reaches me from somewhere beyond the open patio doors.

She and Nikolai, one of the brothers, seem to like running through the woods.

Every so often, I feel that prickling awareness, like he’s somewhere nearby. Watching. Waiting.

By the time the table is set, my nerves are stretched so tight they buzz. I carry a tray of cutlery back toward the pantry, and when I set it down, I realise my hands are trembling. I tuck them into my apron and force myself to keep moving.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. Polishing glassware. Refilling water jugs. Laying out place cards. I manage not to see him again, but the memory of those ice blue eyes follows me everywhere.

When the dinner guests arrive, I stay in the background, refilling drinks and clearing plates without drawing attention.

The brothers are all there, scattered around the table.

I recognise Maksim at the head, his expression calm but unreadable, his wife beside him.

The others are less familiar, a mixture of sharp suits, expensive watches, and the kind of presence that makes the air feel heavier.

One of them might be him.

I try not to look too closely. I don’t want to be caught staring. But every time someone speaks in a low voice or shifts in their seat, my head turns before I can stop it, desperate to see him again but not knowing why.

It’s a relief when the dinner is over and the guests leave.

The house quiets again, the way it always does late at night.

I help clear the table and wipe down the long expanse of polished wood until it gleams. My shoulders ache from the constant movement, and my eyes burn from the strain of staying alert.

Finally, I head back to my room. The corridor is empty, the sconces casting pools of soft light on the carpet. My door is just ahead.

The moment I open it, I know.

Someone has been here again.

The curtains are open now, and the moonlight spills across the narrow bed. My stomach tightens. I step inside slowly, scanning the room. Everything looks the same… except for the pillow.

Resting in the centre is a folded piece of paper.

I close the door behind me and lock it before I pick it up. The paper is thick, expensive, the kind I’ve only seen used for formal invitations. There’s no envelope. Just a single line written in dark ink.

You saw me today.

That’s it. No signature. No explanation.

My pulse is loud in my ears. I drop onto the edge of the bed, still holding the note, my mind running in circles. I know exactly who it’s from.

I can see his face as clearly as if he were standing in front of me now. Those eyes that didn’t waver from mine. The low, even voice that told me to keep my door locked. The way he stepped closer instead of moving aside.

I set the note on the nightstand, then quickly change into my nightclothes. My hands fumble with the buttons, clumsy from nerves. I keep glancing at the locked door, half-afraid and half-hoping I’ll hear those slow footsteps again.

When I slide into bed, the sheets feel cold. I lie on my side, staring at the note, my mind caught between wanting to hide it and wanting to keep it where I can see it.

In the end, I slip it into the drawer with the nightgown and the photograph. I tell myself I’m putting it away so I can stop thinking about it, but I know that’s a lie.

I want it close.

I turn off the lamp and pull the blanket up to my chin.

The house is quiet again, but I can’t shake the sense that he’s somewhere nearby.

Watching. Waiting. Heat pools low in my belly, a spasm of desire bolts through my core making my thighs tighten together.

I want to touch myself. Press until the pressure fades away. But I don’t.