Page 5 of My Bratva Stalker

I breathe through my nose, gripping my desk, my cock alreadythick, already aching.

I should have had her already. Should have taken her from that apartment, thrown her on my bed, bruised her fucking perfect skin with my teeth, my hand gripping her thighs apart as I shoved inside her.

I should have already fucking bred her.

But she’s here now. Walking up the steps. Straight into my fucking hands.

I rise from my chair, stalking toward the entrance.

I don’t care what her father says. Don’t care what she thinks this is. Because the second she walks through that door— She’s not leaving.

Marie

The drive is quiet. My father doesn’t say much, but his grip on the wheel is tight, his jaw locked like he’s fighting off words. He glances at me a few times, his expression unreadable, but I don’t press him. I don’t think I want to know what’s going through his head. I’m too distracted by what’s ahead. By who’s ahead. Viktor Maksimov.

I don’t know what to expect.

I’ve only met him once, at one of my father’s business dinners, and even then, it was brief. A handshake, a polite nod. He barely looked at me, barely spoke.

But that didn’t stop me from looking at him. And God, I looked. He was impossible not to stare at—towering over every other man in the room, broad and thick where most of them were thin and polished. His suit fit him like it had to fight to contain him, stretched over the kind of solid muscle that comes from power, not vanity.

His hair, dark and threaded with silver, was combed back, neat, but there was something rugged about him. A man too focused on bigger things to worry about perfection.

And his eyes. They were blue, but not the bright kind. Not the kind that sparkles or softens. No, Viktor Maksimov’s eyes aredeep, sharp, a shade so dark they swallow the light around them. I remember catching a glimpse of them that night and feeling them like a weight on my chest.

I never imagined I’d be here now, pulling up to his mansion, walking straight into his world.

* * *

My father parks, but he doesn’t move right away. He turns to me, his expression serious, and I suddenly feel like a child again, about to get a lecture before my first school dance.

“Viktor is…” He exhales, rubbing the back of his head. “He’s not like other men, Marie.”

I almost laugh. That’s an understatement.

“He’s done a lot for me. For our family,” he continues, his voice quieter. “And I trust him. But I need you to listen to me, okay?”

I nod, a small pit forming in my stomach.

“Whatever he says, just do it. Don’t argue with him. Don’t push.” His hand squeezes mine.

Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle.

Then, the front doors of the mansion swing open.

And Viktor Maksimov steps outside.

Seeing him in passing at a dinner was one thing. But seeing him now, standing at the top of his stone steps, waiting for me, is something else entirely. I feel his presence before I even look athim, a shift in the air, a crackle of something heavy and thick settling over the night. And when I finally lift my gaze to him, my breath catches in my throat.

He’s massive. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, the black fabric stretched over his impossibly broad shoulders. His dress shirt is undone at the collar, his sleeves pushed up to reveal strong, veined forearms, the edge of a tattoo barely visible under his cuff. I don’t know why that detail makes my stomach flip, but it does.

His stance is wide, firm, like the earth itself wouldn’t dare move under him.

And then there are his eyes. Dark blue. Fixed on me. Unblinking. Unshakable.

A shiver rolls down my spine.

I don’t know what I expected. A polite greeting? Some acknowledgment of my father before we were let inside? But Viktor doesn’t even look at my father. He looks at me. And he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

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