Page 20 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

She grows bolder, finding her rhythm. My hand trails down her body. She's already getting wet again, her body responding to the act of pleasuring me. When my fingers find her slick heat, she moans around my cock, and the vibration nearly ends me.

"Don't stop," I command when my finger trails lower, exploring uncharted territory. She tenses at the unfamiliar touch, but I hold her steady with my other hand. "Keep that pretty mouth working while I play with you."

She whimpers but obeys, taking me deeper as I force her head down. I drag her juice from one entry to the other, my fingers teasing both. She winces as I teach her body new sensations. Widening her back passage for the day I take her. My cock hits the back of her throat and I forget my play. "Breathe, angel. Breathe through it. Don't stop. You feel so fucking perfect." She gags and I pull back but she chases me, sliding down my poleto deep throat me. "So good for me," I rasp. "Such a good girl, taking what I give you. Learning what I like."

When I can't stand it anymore, I pull her up, flipping her onto her stomach before she can protest. "Hands and knees," I order, and she complies with a soft whimper that goes straight to my cock. I slam inside. This time when I enter her, it's with the knowledge that she's mine completely. No more doubts, no more thoughts of leaving. My angel, taking everything I have to give.

"Perfect," I growl, setting a rhythm that has her crying out into the pillows. "Made for me. Only me." I slap against her ass, my sack hitting her entrance like a fighter hitting a speed bag. I use her waist to push her forward and back, in and out. Ruthlessly using her. Taking everything she has, her resistance, her will. The claiming is thorough, possessive, leaving no doubt about who she belongs to. By the time we both shatter, she's sobbing my name like a mantra, like the only word she knows.

Afterward, I gather her trembling form against me, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead, her temples, her tear-stained cheeks. "My good girl," I repeat, stroking her back as she comes down from the high. "My perfect, beautiful girl. You did so well." She burrows closer, seeking comfort after the intensity of what we shared. I give it freely, wrapping her in my arms like I can keep the world at bay through sheer will alone.

"Sleep now," I whisper against her hair. "I've got you."

And I do. Now and always.

Whether she fully understands that yet or not.

Amani

Thecampusquadbuzzeswith its usual chaos—students rushing between classes, the coffee cart doing steady business, someone's speaker playing music that competes with the construction noise from the new library wing. Normal Tuesday afternoon energy that used to feel like home. Now it feels foreign. Like I'm visiting a life that belonged to someone else.

I adjust my Hermès bag, because Dimitri insists his woman carries only the best, and check my phone. Marcus will pick me up in twenty minutes. Just enough time to grab notes from Zara before my afternoon disappears into whatever Dimitri has planned.

"Amani."

The voice behind me makes my blood freeze. I turn slowly, already knowing what I'll find. Josh Brennan stands ten feet away, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He looks smaller than I remember. Thinner. The confident swagger that used to announce his presence is gone, replaced by something bitter andbroken. But it's his hands that make my stomach clench. Even buried in his pockets, I can see something's wrong with the way he holds them. Stiff. Careful. Like they hurt.

"Josh." I keep my voice steady. "You shouldn't be here."

"Shouldn't I?" He steps closer, and I catch Marcus moving in my peripheral vision. Three other men in expensive suits appear at strategic points around the quad, all watching Josh with the kind of attention that ends badly for the person being watched. "This is my school too. My campus. Just because you're fucking a monster doesn't mean you own everything."

The word—monster—pierces the shields I've learned to raise against stares and whispers. Not because it hurts, but because of how automatically my spine straightens in defense. How the protective fury rises in my chest before I can stop it.

"Watch your mouth," I warn softly.

Josh laughs, but there's no humor in it. Only pain and bitterness. I almost pity him.Almost. "You have no idea what kind of man you're with, do you? What he's capable of."

He pulls his hands from his pockets, and my breath catches. The fingertips are gone—ten perfect amputations, healed but never forgotten. The surgical scars gleam pale against his skin.

"He did this to me," Josh continues, holding up his mutilated hands for everyone to see. Students nearby notice, and chatter stops as the drama unfolds. "Cut them off one by one, while he warned me about touching you. Your boyfriend is a fucking psychopath."

Marcus moves closer, hand inside his jacket, but I raise my palm to stop him. This is mine to handle.

"He warned you aboutrapingme. Huge difference," I snarl at his audacity. "And he's not my boyfriend," I say, stepping toward Josh instead of away. "He's the man I love. The man who protects me from rich little boys who think they can buy whoever they want."

Josh's face twists into something uglier than the scars on his hands. "Love? You think that sick fuck loves you? He's obsessed with you, Amani. There's a difference. He's probably got cameras watching you right now. Probably knows every move you make, every breath you take. That's not love—that's insanity."

The crowd around us is growing, phones recording, voices murmuring. In a few hours, this will be all over social media. By tomorrow, everyone will know exactly who I am and who I belong to. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with a strange sense of peace.

"You're right," I tell Josh, loud enough for the cameras to catch. "He is obsessed with me. He does watch my every move. He is possessive and dangerous and probably a little psychotic." Josh's eyes widen with something like victory, thinking he's getting through to me. "But here's what you don't understand," I continue, stepping even closer. "He's MY monster. MY obsession. MY dangerous, possessive, psychotic man. And I'm not going anywhere." The words ring across the quad with absolute finality. I can see the moment they hit Josh—the way his face crumbles, and his shoulders slump.

"You're sick," he whispers. "Both of you. You deserve each other."

"Yes," I agree simply. "We do."

Marcus appears at my elbow, professional and polite. "Miss Greene? Mr. Ismailov is expecting you."

I nod, then look back at Josh one last time. "Stay away from me, Josh. Not because I'm afraid of you, but because I'm afraid for you."

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