Page 1 of My Bratva Stalker

Viktor

She has no fucking clue that she’s already mine. That I’ve already had her in every way but one. That I’ve touched her things, breathed in her scent, wrapped her stolen panties around my cock while groaning her name like a fucking lunatic.

I grip the arms of my chair, trembling with the effort to keep still, staring at the screen in front of me. The security feed from her apartment flickers, grainy and gray, but it doesn’t fucking matter—I could watch her through a keyhole in the dark and still see every perfect inch of her in my mind. Her full tits, barely held up by the flimsy silk robe she’s wearing, bouncing when she moves. Her ass, round and soft, made for my hands. Her cunt, untouched and aching to be stretched open by my cock.

She doesn’t even know what she’s fucking in for. But she will. Soon.

I bring my drink to my lips, take a slow sip, my cock already thick and pulsing against my zipper.

She’s pacing, dragging her hands through her hair, rubbing her arms like she’s cold.

No, printsessa. You’re not cold. You’re feeling me.

She Knows Something’s Wrong

I watch her from my screen as she freezes mid-step, staring at her phone, then scrolling through it frantically. Her brows pinch. Her full lips part. She’s searching for something. She doesn’t understand why some of her messages are gone. Whysome men never called her back. Why the guy she went on a date with last week suddenly stopped showing up to work.

She doesn’t know that I erased them all. That I was waiting outside the restaurant that night, watching her laugh at another man’s jokes. She doesn’t know that the second she smiled at him, I decided he was fucking dead.

She shifts again, reaching for her perfume bottle, pauses. She stares at it for a long time. It’s not in the same place she left it.

She doesn’t know I was there last night, standing in her bedroom while she slept, pressing the bottle to my nose, inhaling deeply as my cock leaked into my fist.

She feels it now.

The first whispers of true fear.

And fuck, it’s beautiful.

I Can’t Take It Anymore. My cock throbs, stiff and unbearably heavy, the tip slick and aching.

I should be inside her. She should be here, in my bed, my hand gripping her throat as I bury myself inside her sweet, virgin cunt.

My breath is ragged, my free hand shoving my slacks down, my cock springing free. Thick, red, fucking furious.

I groan, wrapping my stolen prize around my cock—the lace panties I took from her underwear drawer last week. They’re soft, delicate. Fucking perfect. Just like her.

I grip myself tight, my hand rough, my body on fire as I watch her.

Watch my little prey tremble, unaware of how fucking ruined she already is.

I stroke faster, my fist working the length of my cock, my teeth gritting as I picture it. Her in my lap, on my cock, on my fucking leash. Her panting against my chest, tears in her eyes, stretched open, too full, too fucked out to think of running ever again.

She takes another step toward her bedroom. The robe slips down her shoulder. And I fucking lose it. I grunt her name, my body locking up, a strangled groan breaking free from my throat as I spill thick ropes of cum into her stolen panties, my jaw clenched, my cock twitching violently as I empty myself for her, because of her, because I fucking can’t help it.

I slump back in my chair, panting, sweat slicking my skin, but my cock is still hard, still fucking starving for her.

I need her now. No more waiting. No more watching from the dark. It’s time.

I am Viktor Maksimov—Bratva king, feared, ruthless, merciless. I take what I want and destroy whatever stands in my way. No one dares to defy me.

But nothing—not power, not money, not my entire empire has ever consumed me the way this woman does.

Marie

I’m just a normal woman. An accountant, a daughter, a sister, a person who minds her own business. But now, I know—normal doesn’t mean safe.

My hands are shaking.

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