Page 12 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)
She looked at me.
Finally.
After weeks of silence and shadows and soft gifts she pretended not to keep, she lifted her eyes and met mine.
That single glance has fed every violent, possessive instinct inside me.
She collided with me like she’d forgotten how big the world was, and I held her like it had never belonged to anyone else but her.
I watched her shake from the contact. I watched her turn away.
And then I left her a message.
You looked at me today.
Just one sentence, nothing more. She doesn’t need more. Not yet. She needs to understand the weight of her attention. That in this house full of powerful men and deadly secrets, I am the one who watches her sleep. I am the one who moves things in her room. I am the one who sees her.
I wait until it’s well past midnight before I move. The house is sleeping. The staff quarters are quiet. She is in bed now. I’ve watched her turn off the lamp. Watched her shift beneath the blanket. Watched her fingers curl at her chest like she’s holding something precious even when they’re empty.
I use the master key.
Her door opens without a sound.
She doesn’t stir.
I step inside, closing the door behind me, and the scent of her wraps around me like smoke. Lavender and vanilla. Warm skin. Linen sheets. A faint trace of soap. My cock throbs in my pants, already half-hard from the anticipation. But I don’t move toward her.
Not yet.
I stand at the foot of the bed and watch.
She’s facing the door, hair loose over her shoulder, lips slightly parted in sleep. The blanket has slipped down her body, revealing the slope of her shoulder and the swell of her breasts beneath the old t-shirt she wears. She should be wearing the nightgown I gave her.
She will.
Soon.
I walk silently to the side of the bed. She shifts in her sleep, her legs brushing together beneath the blanket. She’s dreaming. I wonder if it’s about me. If she’s thinking about the way my hands felt on her shoulders. About the sound of my voice.
I kneel beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other curling into a fist so I don’t reach for her.
“You looked at me today,” I whisper, even though she can’t hear me. “And you liked what you saw.”
She exhales softly, her brow twitching.
I lean in closer, letting my breath brush the shell of her ear.
“You want to know who I am. What I am. You’re going to find out soon.”
My hand lifts, moving on instinct. I don’t touch her. I stop an inch above the curve of her hip, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. My fingers ache to claim her. To stroke down her body and make her wake with a cry.
But this is not for me. Not yet. This is for her.
To smell me. To feel the weight of something in the room that wasn’t here before. To wake with the certainty that she’s not alone.
I rise slowly, not making a sound, and look down at her one last time.
She’s soft in sleep. Sweet. Vulnerable.
Mine.
I turn away and leave without a trace.
Tonight, she’ll dream of heat. Of breath against her neck. Of a hand hovering just above her skin.
And when she wakes, wet and flushed and aching…
She’ll know it wasn’t just a dream.