Page 4 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
I stalk through the ballroom with slow, deliberate steps. I don’t rush. Rushing is for men who doubt the outcome. I already know how this ends, with her beneath me, trembling, begging, mine.
She moves toward the orchids like she’s searching for shelter, her hands fluttering nervously at the flowers. It’s almost endearing. She doesn’t understand that she’s walked into the lion’s den by choosing the quietest corner in the room.
I stop behind her, close enough to breathe in her scent. Clean. Fresh. Not the cloying perfumes of the women who threw themselves at me earlier. She smells like something alive. Something I want to devour.
“Fascinating specimens,” I say, letting my voice drop low, gravel with the edge of steel.
She startles, spinning so fast she nearly loses her balance. Her ice-blue eyes widen behind the mask, and the sight goes straight to my cock. Startlement, innocence, curiosity. A lethal combination.
“Yes,” she stammers, voice trembling just enough to betray her nerves. “They are.”
I take her in fully now. Her lips are soft and parted, her chest rising too quickly, her hands clutching at the silk of her dress like she needs to remind herself she’s clothed. I’ve spent twentyyears surrounded by women who are too sure, too polished, too eager to use their bodies as weapons. This one doesn’t know what to do with hers.
It makes me want to teach her.
“I’m Sebastian.” I step closer, invading her space deliberately. I want to feel her try to hold her ground, to watch her body betray her when she can’t.
Her breathing hitches as my presence crowds her. “Caitlyn,” she says, her name a confession. “Caitlyn Murphy.”
The moment the words leave her mouth, she seems to gather a flicker of courage. “I’m a botanist. I study plants.”
She has no idea how much she’s just revealed. Not the profession itself, but the way she says it, with sudden passion, as if the subject could anchor her in a room that feels like it might swallow her whole. Her eyes light when she talks about it. Her spine straightens. Confidence replaces nerves for the first time.
And that confidence is more intoxicating than any display of cleavage or coy laughter I’ve endured tonight.
“Botanist,” I repeat, tasting the word. “Tell me what you love about it.”
Her lips part again. Surprise. Maybe even suspicion. Men don’t ask questions like that. They don’t care about answers. They care about what your body can do for them, not what makes your blood run hot.
But I do care. Because her passion is what separates her from the rest. It’s the real thing, the raw nerve under the practiced mask.
She begins to explain, hesitantly at first, then with growing fervor. Her hands move as she talks about rare blooms, about research, about soil and sun and growth. I hear half the words. The other half are lost in the way her voice gains strength, theway her face transforms, the way she becomes radiant when she forgets to be nervous.
And I know, without a shadow of doubt, that I want that passion turned on me.
“You’re passionate,” I interrupt, not because I don’t want to hear more, but because I want her to feel the weight of my attention.
She flushes, the color blooming across her cheeks and down her throat. A genuine blush, unperformed.
“I suppose I am,” she admits softly.
Good girl.
I let my gaze drop deliberately to the rise and fall of her breasts, then back to her lips. She notices, of course she does, and her breath quickens.
“Passion is rare,” I murmur. “Most people settle for going through the motions.”
Her pupils dilate. She’s affected, no matter how she tries to hide it.
“I’ve never been good at settling,” she says, and there’s more to the words than she realizes.
I step closer, until there are only inches between us, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. She tilts her head back to keep eye contact, and the small show of bravery sends a bolt of lust through me.
Brave little thing.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell her, my voice low, intimate, meant only for her ears.
Her lips part. “Why not?”
