Page 16 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

"You've been watching me?" My voice rises with each word. "For how long?"

"Since the day you smiled at me."

The casual admission of stalking should terrify me more than it does. Instead, I feel a confusing mix of violation and... something else. Something dark and possessive that mirrors the look in his eyes. "You watched him attack me," I say slowly. "You saw everything."

"Every second." His voice drops to a growl. "Watched him put his hands on what's mine. Watched you fight him off like the fierce little warrior you are. Do you have any idea what that did to me?" I shake my head, but he doesn't wait for my answer. It fucking killed me. Took my insides and shredded them. I couldn't get there fast enough. Couldn't fucking save you. You had to save yourself. That's fucking unacceptable. That damn near broke me. That asshole is lucky to be alive. Lucky to escape with a warning." Dimitri takes a deep breath and brushes imaginary dust from his desk. "So yes, when I was sure you were okay, I paid him a visit."

"You tortured him."

"I taught him a lesson." Dimitri rises from his chair, moving around the desk with predatory grace. "About consent. About consequences. About what happens when someone touches what belongs to me."

"I don't belong to you." The protest sounds weak even to my ears. "You can't just—"

"I could have killed him," he interrupts, stopping inches from me. "Could have made him disappear, and no one would ever have found his body. But I didn't want that stain on you. So I made him suffer a bit instead. Now he'll never touch you again. Consider it a compromise."

"A compromise?" I laugh, but it's borderline hysterical. "You cut off his fingers!"

"And left him breathing." His hand cups my face with surprising gentleness. "That's my version of mercy, angel. For you."

"I'm scared," I whisper, the admission torn from somewhere deep. "Scared of staying with you."

His thumb brushes over my cheekbone. "No. Don't be." He gives me a baby-soft kiss. "You never have to be afraid to stay." He deepens the kiss before whispering, "Be afraid to leave."

The words should send me running. Should have me screaming for help, calling the police, doing something other than standing here, letting him touch me like I'm something precious.

But I don't run.

I don't scream.

Instead, I whisper, "What have you done to me?"

"Nothing you didn't want," he murmurs, lowering his head until his lips brush mine. "Nothing your body hasn't been begging for since that first smile."

"This is insane."

"Yes," he agrees. "Beautifully, perfectly insane."

Then he's kissing me, and I'm kissing him back, and everything I should be feeling—horror, disgust, fear—gets swallowed by the dark hunger he's awakened in me.

When we finally break apart, I'm clinging to his shirt, and my knees are weak. "I should run," I tell him. "Any sane person would run."

"But you won't." It's not a question. "Because you know the truth, even if you're not ready to admit it."

"What truth?"

His smile is dark and sweetly cruel. "That you're exactly where you belong."

I want to deny it. Want to rage and storm and declare my independence. Instead, I turn and walk toward the door, needing space to think, to process, to figure out how my life became this. I make it three steps before his voice stops me. "Don't forget, Amani. You closed the door that first night. You had your one chance to escape. Youronlychance—because now there's nowhere you can run, or hide. You're mine—which is exactly what you wanted."

My hand freezes on the doorknob. He's right. I could leave right now. Call the police, report everything, try to reclaim my old life. But that life feels like a costume that no longer fits. Like trying to squeeze back into clothes I've outgrown.

"I need time," I say without turning around. "To think."

"Take all the time you need," he says. "I'll be right here."

I leave, but only to the gardens visible from his office windows. I sit on a stone bench, surrounded by roses I can't smell through my turmoil, and try to make sense of what I'm feeling.

He's been watching me for weeks.

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