Page 17 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

I don’t eat. I don’t sleep.

I move through the day like I’m walking underwater, every breath slow and thick, every sound muffled except for the pounding in my chest. I see him once, in the corridor near the stairs.

His eyes find mine across the space and I feel it all over again.

That pull. That ache. That terrifying, delicious hunger.

He doesn’t stop.

He just looks at me. Long and deep, like he’s peeling back my skin and reading everything I’m too scared to say. I don’t look away. By the time I return to my room, my whole body is trembling with want.

I strip out of my uniform slowly, folding it neatly, placing it on the back of the chair even though my hands are shaking. I don’t know what I’m doing until I’m already doing it.

I open the drawer.

The nightgown is still there, warm from my body the night before, the faintest scent of him still clinging to it. But now there’s a note.

In the same writing as the one before, the word Tonight stares up at me, followed by a dash and his name.

Mikhail.

The brother no one talks about.

I slide the nightgown over my skin. It feels different now. He’s touched me in this. Held me in this. Watched me come apart in it. It’s not just a gift anymore. It’s a promise.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the door. The house is quiet. I can hear the occasional creak of the wood, the low hum of the heating system. I don’t lock it.

This time… I want him to come in. Not just because I’m wet again. Not just because I can still feel him between my legs. But because I want to see what happens when I stop pretending I’m scared. Because I’m not.

I’m ready.

I climb into bed, pull the covers up to my waist, and lie on my back. My nipples are already tight, brushing against the silk. My thighs are slick, and I swear I can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside me.

I close my eyes and wait. It doesn’t take long. The door opens slowly. Quietly. But not like before. Before, he crept. Now, he enters like he belongs .

I keep my eyes shut until I feel the air shift. The way it always does when he’s near.

Then I open them.

He’s standing at the end of the bed, chest rising slowly, hands curled at his sides. His eyes rake down my body, dark and hungry and possessive in a way that makes my breath catch.

“You’re wearing it again,” he says, voice like gravel and smoke.

“I wanted to.”

His eyes flash. “You left the door open.”

“I wanted to.”

He doesn’t move for a second. I can see the restraint in every line of his body.

Then he speaks again.

“Say it.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

“Say what?”

“That you want me.”

I swallow hard. “You already know.”

He comes closer. Not slow this time. Not cautious.

He climbs onto the bed like a man who’s been holding back for far too long. He doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to.

“Please,” I whisper, desperation strangling my voice.

His mouth crashes down on mine and I melt. There’s nothing careful about it. It’s wild. Possessive. Hot and open and consuming. His hands are everywhere, gripping my hips, sliding up my ribs, cupping my breasts through the silk until I moan into his mouth.

He pulls back, just enough to look down at me.

“You’re mine now,” he says, voice low and full of something sharp. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He tears the nightgown from my body. The sound of ripping silk fills the room and I gasp, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need it anymore.

I want him .

His mouth moves down my body, biting, licking, tasting. My back arches off the bed as he sucks one nipple into his mouth, his hand sliding between my thighs.

“You’re soaked again,” he growls. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

He slides two fingers inside me and I cry out, clinging to his shoulders.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I whisper. “I wanted you back.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time, like he’s devouring the words.

“I told you,” he breathes. “Next time you dream of me, don’t wake up.”

And I don’t. Because this isn’t a dream. This is real. This is us. And I’m never going back.

His body covers mine like a storm rolling in.

Heavy. Hot. Inescapable. My legs fall open without thinking, welcoming him like I’ve already decided this is where he belongs.

I feel him everywhere, his hands braced on either side of my head, his hips grinding down, his cock thick and hard against the inside of my thigh.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he growls.

I arch into him, breathless. “Then take me.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Not surprise, something darker. Like I’ve just given him permission to burn the whole world down. He shifts back onto his knees, dragging his hand down my body. Over my breasts. My stomach. Lower.

When his fingers spread me open again, I gasp.

“You’re so wet,” he says, more to himself than to me. “So fucking perfect.”

He strokes me slowly, deliberately, like he wants to feel every flutter, every twitch. My hips rise off the bed, chasing the pressure.

“I need you,” I whisper.

“You have me.”

He grips his cock, strokes it once, then presses the tip against me.

I tense with anticipation. My heart is racing so fast I feel it everywhere.

“Eyes on me,” he says.

I look up.

And he pushes in.

The stretch burns. He’s thick, and my body has never taken anything like this before. I whimper, grabbing at his shoulders.

He pauses, just the head inside me, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re mine now,” he says again, voice low and rough.

“Yours,” I breathe.

He sinks deeper.

It hurts, but I don’t want him to stop. I want the pain. I want the stretch. I want to feel full of him, ruined by him.

When he bottoms out, we both stop.

I’m panting. Clinging to him. His face is buried in my neck, his hands gripping my thighs so tight I think I’ll bruise.

Then he starts to move.

Slow. Controlled. Deep.

My body adjusts with every stroke. The pain fades, replaced by something hotter, wetter, needier. I gasp into his ear, my fingers digging into his back.

“Harder,” I whisper.

He growls and slams into me harder.

I cry out, but it’s not pain anymore. It’s relief. It’s need.

“Say it again,” he demands.

“Harder,” I moan. “Please, Mikhail—”

He fucks me like he owns me. Like my body was made for this. Like I’ve always been his and I just didn’t know it yet.

His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit.

I scream.

I don’t care who hears. I don’t care if the whole house knows.

He’s touching me like he wants to break me open and live inside the pieces.

“Touch yourself again,” he growls. “Show me what you did when you were thinking of me.”

I reach down. My fingers brush against his. My clit is soaked, swollen, so sensitive I can barely keep up.

The pleasure builds too fast. My body tightens, curls. My head drops back against the pillows.

“I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he snaps. “Now.”

I break.

My orgasm hits like a wave crashing through every inch of me. My vision whites out. My voice rips from my throat. I clamp down around him and he doesn’t stop, not even as I tremble and twitch and cry out again and again.

Then he follows.

His body jerks, his rhythm faltering. He growls my name against my neck, and I feel him spill inside me, hot and deep and claiming.

He stays there, buried to the hilt, holding me so tightly it hurts. I don’t want him to let go. I don’t want this to end. He pulls back just enough to look down at me. My face is damp with sweat. My thighs are shaking. But I’ve never felt more alive.

He touches my cheek. Just once.

“You’re mine now,” he says, softer this time.

I nod, because I was never anything else.