Page 16 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

He nods. That’s all.

No apology. No gratitude. Just quiet, cowardly retreat.

I turn and walk out without looking back, the fury still burning under my skin like coals. My hands twitch with the urge to go back in and finish what I started.

But I don’t.

I slide into the back seat of the car and pull out my phone. I scroll to the last image I took, the one of Clara, curled in my bed, her hair splayed over the pillow, skin flushed and marked and perfect. My throat tightens.

I open a message to the estate staff and type without hesitation: No one enters the west wing until I return. Not unless they want to lose a hand.

I hit send.

Then I tell Roman to drive faster.

Clara

I wake to the weight of silence. It’s not the kind of silence I knew in my father’s house, the sterile, suffocating quiet of being kept too still, too small, but something else entirely. There’s warmth here, the lingering echo of heat and skin, the whisper of breath on my neck that’s already gone. My hand stretches across the sheets instinctively, but the space beside me is empty. Still faintly warm, but undeniably vacant.

Maksim is gone.

I sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness blooming between my thighs. My whole body feels used. Taken. Possessed. There’s a dull ache deep inside me, a stretch that hasn’t gone away, like he’s still inside me somehow. My fingers graze the place where his hand rested last night, low across my stomach, his voice thick and reverent as he whispered about planting his seed. I thought those were just words. I still don’t know if they were. All I know is that my body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. It feels like it’s been claimed.

His scent lingers on the pillow, on my skin, on the shirt I tug from the floor and pull over my head. It swamps me, and I close my eyes for a moment, breathing him in, trying to slow the frantic flutter in my chest. I don’t know why I feel so unsettled. He didn’t leave a note. No kiss on my shoulder. No whisper before slipping away. After everything we did, after how he touched me, what I gave him, I should feel grounded. Secure.But instead, I feel suspended. Like the floor beneath me has cracked, and I don’t know which way I’ll fall.

I leave the bedroom barefoot, unsure where I’m going or whether I’m even allowed to go anywhere. The house feels too quiet, too big, a maze of rich textures and shadowed corners. I pass closed doors and oil paintings and forgettable luxury, everything too grand to be real. When I reach the staircase, I hesitate, listening for footsteps or voices, but there’s nothing. Just the soft thud of my own pulse echoing through my ribs.

The kitchen is bathed in morning light, spilling through tall windows that overlook a private garden. On the counter sits a tray elegantly arranged with toast, eggs, and fresh fruit. There’s a folded note beside it. My breath catches as I recognize the handwriting. Bold. Slanted. Commanding.

Eat. Rest. I’ll be back soon.

—M

I read the words three times, absorbing their simplicity. It’s not affectionate. It’s not sentimental. But itishim. A command disguised as care. Or maybe the other way around. Either way, it settles something in me. He didn’t vanish. He’s coming back.

I eat slowly, seated on the edge of a stool like I might be scolded for making myself too comfortable. But no one comes. No staff. No guards. No Maksim. The stillness of the house becomes louder the longer I sit in it. By the time I finish the toast, I’m too restless to stay seated. I rinse my hands under cool water and wipe them dry, unsure what to do with myself.

The west wing is quiet. The corridor stretches long and shadowed, doors lining either side. I wander past the library, then stop at the door where everything changed last night. The study.

The door is ajar.

I push it open slowly.

Inside, the air feels heavier. Masculine. Commanding. The walls are lined with books, most of them old and expensive, leather-bound. A decanter sits untouched on a sideboard. The desk is perfectly organized. Precise. Like the man himself.

I cross to it slowly, my bare feet silent against the polished floor. I don’t open any drawers, don’t touch anything. But I feel the power here. This is where he makes decisions. Where he signs the kinds of papers that make men disappear. The air feels almost reverent. As if it knows that what happens in this room carries consequences far beyond its walls.

I trail my fingertips along the edge of the desk. My hand looks small against the dark wood. I imagine him here, sleeves rolled, jaw tight, eyes colder than I’ve seen them with me. This is the other side of him. The part that terrifies my father. The part that made a grown man hand over his only daughter like a bargaining chip.

I should hate him. I should feel used. But I don’t.

I feel something worse.

I feelseen.

The room creaks behind me, and I turn quickly, heart leaping into my throat. But no one’s there. Just a shift in the air, the faint groan of a settling house. My nerves buzz, and for a moment I think of fleeing back to the safety of the bed. Of pulling the sheets up over my head and pretending I’m still tucked beneath the weight of him.

Instead, I stay where I am. I draw in a breath, let it out slowly, and press my hand to the center of my chest. My heartbeat flutters beneath my palm. Fast. Uneven.

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