Page 34 of My Bratva Stalker

The bed is huge, covered in thick, heavy blankets.

I’ve never been in a place like this.

Never felt… kept. Like a princess in a castle. Like a queen meant to be worshiped.

But Viktor is gone. A sting of disappointment tugs at my chest, but I shake it off. He’ll be back.

For now, I need to get dressed, explore the house, maybe find breakfast.

I scan the room, spotting a large door I’m thinking might be to his closet.

I slide out of bed, wincing at the soreness between my legs. My thighs tremble, my core is aching. I bite my lip, heat crawling up my neck. Because I know he’d fucking love knowing it. That I’m still feeling him, still marked by him, still ruined for anyone else. Not that there will ever be anyone else. My body, heart and soul recognized this man. He’s mine and I’m his. Gangster or not, my dad’s boss or not, older or not. What happened between us wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t just attraction or kink. It was everything. I gave him all my firsts, my entire self. And he bared his deepest layers to me. Wild, dark, fucking ravenous.

I push the door open, stepping inside. I expect rows of suits, neatly organized dress shirts, maybe a display of expensive watches.

But it’s not a closet.

It’s a room.

A dark, windowless room.

And on the walls—

Screens.

Dozens of them.

Flashing images of… my place. My building, my parking garage.

I freeze.

My breath catches, my stomach dropping.

The monitors flicker, switching between different angles.

My apartment.

My car.

My favorite café.

Everywhere I’ve been.

Everywhere I’ve existed.

I stumble forward, my hands shaking.

And it doesn’t stop there.

On the desk— Printed photos. Some stolen from my social media.

And worse— Some of my stuff. A lipstick I lost weeks ago. A scarf I thought I left at a bar. A pair of lace panties—mylace panties—next to the keyboard.

My lungs squeeze. My vision blurs.

This isn’t real.

This can’t.

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