Page 13 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

I wake up wet.

My breath is coming in shallow gasps, my thighs clenched tight, and my skin feels flushed from the inside out.

The dream is still clinging to me. Hot, vivid, and so real I swear I can still feel his breath on my neck. His voice in my ear. His hand—

God.

I sit up fast, heart hammering, and stare into the dark. My sheets are damp with sweat. My skin is still tingling like I’ve been touched, like someone was here.

The lamp is off. The room is quiet.

But something’s different.

I look down.

The nightgown is no longer in the drawer.

It’s on the bed. Laid out carefully across the blanket. The sapphire silk gleams in the low light from the window, and my mouth goes dry.

I know I didn’t put it there.

I left it buried beneath my old t-shirts. Hidden.

My skin tightens all over.

He was here.

Someone was in this room while I was sleeping. Someone stood right here, watching me. Close enough to touch. Close enough to breathe me in.

And I didn’t wake up.

Or maybe… I did.

I glance down at myself. I’m still wearing the old cotton top I fell asleep in, but I feel exposed. Too hot. Too sensitive.

The air shifts.

I freeze.

There’s no sound. But I feel it.

Someone is still here.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My throat is tight. My chest is rising too fast.

Then—

“Put it on.”

The voice is deep, low, and right beside me.

I gasp, spinning toward it, but I can’t see anything in the dark. I scramble backward across the bed, hitting the headboard with a soft thud.

“I won’t ask twice,” the voice says again, closer now. “Put it on.”

I should scream. I should run. But my body won’t obey.

Instead, my fingers reach for the nightgown.

They’re shaking. I’m shaking. But I gather the silk in my hands and slide off the bed.

I don’t ask him to turn around. I don’t try to argue.

I step into the bathroom and close the door behind me, leaning against it like it might keep him out even though I know it won’t.

I peel off my shirt. My skin is flushed, my nipples tight, my thighs slick.

I’ve never felt like this and I don’t understand it.

I slip the gown over my head. The silk slides down my body like water, clinging to my hips, brushing my nipples with a whisper of friction that makes me bite down on a moan.

I grip the edge of the sink, breathing hard.

What is wrong with me? Why do I want to go back in there?

I don’t wait for him to call again. I open the door.

He’s standing near the window now, tall and still, and the moonlight cuts across half his face. I see sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. Eyes that burn like he’s already undressing me again with his stare.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches.

I take one step forward. Then another.

“You’ve been in my room,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“Yes.”

“You left the photo.”

“Yes.”

“The note.”

His head tilts slightly. “You kept them.”

I swallow. My hands are trembling again, but not from fear. From heat. From something I don’t have a name for.

“Why?” I ask. “Why are you doing this?”

He steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Because you’re mine.”

I inhale sharply.

His hand lifts, brushing lightly against my hip. Just a whisper of pressure, but it scorches me all the same. The silk barely separates his fingers from my skin.

“I’ve been patient,” he says. “But not much longer.”

His other hand comes up, fingertips grazing my cheek.

“You wake up wet,” he murmurs, “and you think it’s a dream.”

My knees nearly buckle.

“You think you’re just imagining me.”

His lips brush my jaw. Not a kiss. Not yet.

“You’re not.”

Then, just when I think he’s going to touch me—really touch me—he steps back.

Leaves me standing in the middle of the room, breathless and soaked, my thighs trembling, the nightgown sticking to every curve.

“I’ll be back when you’re ready to beg,” he says, voice low and cruel and devastating.

Then he’s gone.

The door never even creaks.