Page 7 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

I can’t bring myself to take the photograph back out of the drawer.

It sits there now, hidden under the nightgown, as if burying them together will cancel out the strangeness of both. But it doesn’t. I can still feel it in the room with me, the way I used to feel Thom in the house even when he wasn’t in sight. Like a pressure in the air.

The thought hits me hard enough to make my stomach turn.

Thom.

Could it be him?

It sounds ridiculous at first, he’s not here, and I doubt the Vasilievs would let him anywhere near the property, but that never stopped him before.

He’s always found ways to make sure I knew he could reach me, no matter where I was.

A text from a stranger with a message only he would write.

A photograph slipped into my locker at school, taken through my bedroom window.

He liked to remind me I could be watched without even realising it.

That was his game. Not just hurting me, but keeping me off balance. Making me question what was safe and who I could trust. I’ve never understood if it was about control, or if he just enjoyed knowing I’d be lying awake at night wondering when he was next going to hurt me.

And I’m lying awake now.

I keep telling myself I should take the photograph straight to the house manager, say I found it and have no idea who put it there. But that means admitting someone was in my room. That means people asking questions. That means being noticed.

I don’t want to be noticed.

Except…

Except some small, shameful part of me does.

I’ve never been given a gift just for me. Not one that wasn’t attached to strings or punishment or both. I’ve never been looked at like I mattered enough for someone to capture me in a moment they thought was worth keeping.

It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. But when I picture someone, him , watching me in the garden that morning, the memory doesn’t feel like the other kinds of watching I’ve lived through. The ugly, dangerous kinds.

This feels different, but not less dangerous.

I lie in bed with the lamp off, my knees drawn up under the blanket, listening. The curtains are still closed. I thought about opening them earlier, but what if I looked out and saw someone standing there? The thought was enough to keep me away from the window entirely.

The house is quiet now, the dinner party long over. I can hear the faint hum of the central heating, the occasional creak of old wood as the building settles. And then, somewhere in the hallway beyond my door, the soft tread of footsteps.

My breath catches.

They’re slow. Unhurried. Coming closer.

I grip the blanket tighter, my mind splitting in two. Is it Thom? Did he bribe someone in the house to keep an eye on me? Or is it someone else entirely? Someone who doesn’t need paying to watch me? Or is it the shadowy man from the hallway?

The steps stop just outside my door.

Silence.

It stretches on until the air feels too thick to breathe.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, my lungs aching from holding so much tension.

I strain to hear anything, a shift of fabric, the creak of the floorboards under shifting weight, but there’s nothing.

Just the heavy quiet of someone standing still.

And then, finally, the sound of retreat. Whoever it is walks away, their footsteps fading until I can’t hear them anymore.

I keep staring at the door long after the sound is gone. Waiting. Listening. Wondering if they’ll come back.

Eventually, I roll onto my side, facing away from the door.

It feels safer that way, even though it isn’t.

My eyes land on the nightstand drawer, the one hiding both the gown and the photograph.

My fingers itch to open it again, to study the image until I find something in it that explains everything.

But I don’t move.

If I open it, I’ll start thinking about who took it. Where they were standing. How long they’d been watching me before they lifted the camera. I’ll start asking myself if they’ve taken more. If they have a whole collection somewhere.

And I’m not ready for those answers.

I shut my eyes and tell myself I’ll sleep. That tomorrow I’ll hand the photograph to someone in charge and let them deal with it. But even as I make that promise, I know I won’t.

I’ll keep it.

Because fear and curiosity feel almost the same when they’re tangled together.

When I finally drift into sleep, the dream comes quickly.

I’m in the hallway again, holding those towels to my chest. He’s there, standing at the far end, his face still hidden by shadow.

Only this time, he doesn’t turn away. He walks toward me, slow and certain, until there’s nowhere left for me to go.