Page 20 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

I left her to breathe. To drink coffee. To rinse her skin. To rest. But I can’t stay away long.

I carried her to me bed, fucked her raw, until she was too sore to stand, and yet I want her again. I want to bury myself so deep inside her she forgets anyone else ever existed.

The mug burns in my hand as I walk back toward the kitchen. The sun’s just starting to rise, pink light brushing the tops of the trees beyond the frosted glass.

My phone buzzes.

I pull it from my pocket, already knowing who it’s from.

Aleksei.

I asked him to dig.

He always digs well.

Thom Dryden

Age 29

Known affiliations with low-level street crews

Domestic abuse reports x3 (sealed)

Disciplinary history at two jobs

Neighbours filed noise complaints and suspected violence toward sister

Last known location: Southbridge Motel, Room 207

Owes 124K in gambling debts

Currently on probation for assault

I stare at the screen, my jaw clenched so tightly it cracks. Blood roars in my ears.

Gambling debts. Probation. Assault.

He sent her here to suffer. He thought she’d be punished. He thought we’d hurt her. Use her. Break her down like he never managed to do completely.

Instead, I’ve given her silk sheets. Hot coffee. The best food. A locked door and the kind of orgasm she’ll never forget.

I’m the one who gets to have her.

And now I know what he’s done, what he will do if I ever let her leave, I’m not just taking her.

I’m keeping her.

I shove the phone in my pocket and head back down the hall. The bedroom door creaks open and I pause in the doorway. She’s sleeping again. The sheet’s slipped off her hips, her bare back arched delicately as she breathes.

She looks wrecked.

Delicate.

Claimed.

But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

I walk to the side of the bed slowly. My cock is already hard. I slide my sweatpants down, wrapping my fist around my cock.

I look at her the whole time.

Her soft skin and long hair. Her flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. The curve of her ass beneath the sheet.

She’s mine.

I stroke myself slow, deliberate. My palm tight. I don’t close my eyes. I don’t need to.

She’s all I see, all I want. No one else will ever touch her again. Not even look at her. Not unless they want their fucking eyes carved out. I move closer to the bed, gritting my teeth as the pressure builds.

“You belong to me,” I murmur, voice low and rough. “No one else lays a hand on you. You’re mine.”

I stroke harder. Faster.

“You’ll never flinch again. Never cry because of someone else.”

My hand tightens. My abs tense.

“When I mark you, it’s not just for me. It’s for them . So they know what happens when someone thinks about taking what’s mine.”

I come with a groan, thick white streaks landing across the small of her back, her hips, the sheet beneath her.

My mark. My brand. My vow.

She stirs faintly in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She is safe, but the heat in my chest doesn’t go away. I won’t sleep. Not until I know Thom Dryden is dealt with . Not until Sarah is safe. And that means one thing: She never leaves this house again.