Page 20 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
“Yes.”
“It feels… empty.”
“Not anymore.” I close the door behind us.
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t argue. She sets her bag down by the window and turns to me, her eyes bright, searching. “Do you ever regret it?”
“What?”
“The masquerade. The world it represents.” She bites her lip, nervous. “It was beautiful, but underneath… it felt dangerous. Scary. Do you ever wish you could step out of it?”
I study her. Honest questions, from an honest woman. No games. No posturing.
“No,” I answer finally. “Because men like me don’t get to step out. But I can choose what I keep safe inside it.”
My hand cups her jaw, tilting her face up. “And that’s you now.”
Her lips part on a trembling inhale. I kiss her before she can argue, hard and claiming, lifting her against me until her legs lock around my waist. She gasps into my mouth, her hands clutching my shoulders.
The kiss is fire and promise, a reminder of last night and a warning of what’s to come. I carry her to the bed, laying her down gently, though my hunger roars.
“Sebastian…” Her voice is soft, uncertain.
“Yes, little botanist?”
“Last night—” She swallows, cheeks flushing. “I don’t usually… I mean, I’ve never—”
“I know.” My thumb strokes her lip. “That’s why it matters. Because it wasn’t just last night. It’s every night from now on.”
Her eyes widen, but her body arches into mine, betraying her logic again. I smirk, pressing a kiss to her throat, biting gently until she gasps.
“You’re mine,” I growl against her skin. “And the men who saw you at the masquerade? They’ll all learn that soon enough.”
She shivers, her breath catching. “What if they don’t accept it?”
“Then they die.”
The blunt truth makes her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. She searches my face, as though weighing whether I mean it.
I do.
I kiss her again, slow this time, pouring every ounce of possession into the press of my mouth. She melts beneath me, and I know. She may not understand my world, but she understands me.
And she won’t leave it again.
Caitlyn
The house feels too quiet.
I walk barefoot across polished floors, my steps echoing faintly in the cavernous hall. Everything gleams. Glass, steel, marble. No dust, no clutter, no softness. It’s beautiful, yes, but in the way of a museum. Not a home.
I can’t help cataloguing it. My brain does that automatically. Clean lines. Minimalist décor. Abstract art in stark colors. It reminds me of a controlled experiment, variables stripped away until nothing remains but the essentials. No distractions. No mess.
And then there’s me.
I catch sight of myself in one of the glass panes. Hair wild, Sebastian’s shirt falling halfway down my thighs, bare legs exposed. I look like a trespasser. Or worse, a possession displayed where everyone can see.
The thought makes me shiver.
