Page 25 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

Sarah

I’m convinced I’m going to die.

Not from the babies.

From rage. Or heat. Or the relentless, crushing pressure of carrying two Vasiliev-sized monsters inside my belly for thirty-six and a half weeks.

Every movement is agony. I can’t sit without squirming.

I can’t lie down without grunting like some feral animal.

Even breathing feels like a chore, my lungs pushed to the brink by the weight of them.

My ankles are so puffy they barely look like ankles at all, and my nipples have started leaking through every bra I own.

If one more person tells me I’m glowing, I swear I’ll stab them with a fork.

Even the silk robe clinging to my shoulders feels like an insult. The satin sticks to my skin, damp with sweat, stretching taut over the enormous curve of my stomach. I’m restless, overheated, and bone-deep miserable.

Until the bedroom door opens.

Mikhail steps inside, barefoot and shirtless, a glass of something cold in his hand. The light catches the sharp cut of his shoulders, the powerful lines of his chest. But it’s not his body that makes my pulse skip, it’s the way he looks at me.

His gaze drops to where I’m sprawled at the edge of the bed, flushed and swollen, my breasts straining against the thin fabric of my robe. His pupils blow wide. His breath catches.

And then I see it. The exact moment the hunger hits him. That dangerous, unrelenting wave of obsession I’ve come to recognise, the kind that drowns out reason.

The glass lands on the nightstand with a soft clink.

Two strides and he’s in front of me, so close I can feel his heat.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn, though my voice betrays me, cracking on the last word.

His hand slides under the curve of my belly, palm spreading wide as if he’s trying to hold all of me at once. “Look at you,” he growls, low and reverent. “Perfect.”

“I’m miserable,” I grumble, though my thighs already press together in anticipation.

“You’re mine.” His answer is absolute, certain, and it makes my chest tighten.

Then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, a kiss that steals every argument from my head.

“Mikhail—”

“I need you,” he pants against my lips. “One more time. Before they get here. I need to feel you come apart for me again.”

I should say no. I should remind him I’m exhausted, that I’ve spent too long waddling around this house like a hormonal cow. But then his mouth closes over my breast, his tongue circling the nipple before he starts to suck, and my brain short-circuits completely.

“Please,” he whispers, the word ragged with need. His hand strokes between my thighs, gentle but insistent, parting me like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting his whole life to open. “Let me.”

And I do.

Because I want to remember I’m not just a vessel for his children. I want to remember I’m his woman. His obsession. His everything.

He eases me back against the pillows, pushing the robe aside, baring my milk-swollen breasts and the proud mound of my belly. His lips press reverent kisses to the curve, lingering there like he’s worshipping the proof of what we’ve made together.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he murmurs, and I believe him because his voice trembles when he says it. “So full of me.”

When he finally slides into me, it’s slow and deep, his forehead pressed to mine. He doesn’t move like I’m fragile, he moves like I’m divine. Every thrust is deliberate, a prayer carved into my skin, every groan a vow he’s making to me and to the life we’ve created.

I cling to his shoulders, sobbing his name as the pleasure crests. My whole body shudders as I come, and he follows me into it, pushing as deep as he can, holding me there while his breathing turns rough and uneven.

Then, just as the pleasure fades, I feel it.

Not him.

Wetness. Warm and sudden.

A tightening low in my belly, sharp enough to make my eyes fly open.

“Mikhail…”

He freezes instantly. “What is it?”

“My water just broke.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence before his mouth curves into a slow, wicked grin. “You just fucked yourself into labour?”

I swat his arm weakly. “You fucked me into labour.”

He kisses me hard, quick and possessive, then reaches for the go-bag by the door without missing a beat.

“Come on, moya printsessa,” he says, his grin still wicked. “Time to meet our twins.”

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Where we see just how far Mikhail will go to prove his adoration of Sarah six months after having twins.