Page 18 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

He spins me around and bends me over the mahogany. The wood is cold against my cheek, a sharp contrast against the wall of heat behind me, his chest pressing down along my spine, his breath hot at my ear.

“You want this?” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “Tell me.Say it.”

“Yes.” I can barely form the word. “God, yes! Mikhail—”

His hand cracks across my ass. Through the denim, the sting radiates outward, blooming into heat that pools low in my belly. I moan—loud, unguarded, nothing like the careful composure I practice in every other room of this building.

“Good girl.”

His fingers work my jeans open to drag the fabric down my hips, my thighs, just far enough. The cool air hits my wetness and I shudder. A tinge of embarrassment colors my cheeks—my pussy is slick, drenched, and he can see it, can feel it when his fingers slide between my thighs.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, awe in his voice. “All this time. All those arguments. You were this wet for me the whole time.”

I bite my tongue as his belt clinks. The sound of the buckle opening, the zipper descending—it’s obscenely loud in the quiet office. I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance.

“No more games.” He brackets my body with his arms, one hand braced on the desk, the other wrapping around my throat, not squeezing yet, reminding me who’s in control. “No more pretending. You’re mine now, Zara. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I whimper.

He thrusts in without hesitation, without warning. The full, devastating length of his cock fills me in one stroke that borders on too much. The cry that leaves my throat breaks against the wood. My nails scrabble for purchase on the polished surface as he withdraws and slams back in, harder, deeper.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “So tight. So goddamn perfect.”

The tempo is punishing. Each thrust drives a sound from my throat—short, broken moans that match the rhythm of his hips. The desk creaks beneath us and papers flutter to the floor. The world narrows to the all-encompassing feeling of him, the stretch, the exquisite pressure building at the base of my spine.

His fingers leave my throat and slide lower, between my legs to find my clit.

“Come for me.” It’s an order, rough and desperate. “I can feel you close. Come on my cock, Zara.Right now.”

The heat coils tighter in my gut. I’m going to shatter, to splinter into a thousand pieces across this desk, and Mikhail is everywhere—inside me, around me, his groan vibrating against my ear as my pussy spasms around his cock.

Stars burst behind my eyes as my spine locks into place, my orgasm sipping through my body. A scream erupts, echoing off the walls and it doesn’t even register that it’s mine.

As I tremble around him, while he chases his release, I am no longer sure which possibility frightens me more—

Losing myself to him, or discovering that some part of me wants to.

Chapter 6 - Mikhail

Most people see wreckage and register only the loss, but violence leaves prints behind if you know where to look.

The angle of broken wood, the force behind fractures, the order in which barriers were removed—every act of intrusion is a puzzle piece, and these pieces tend to tell more honest stories than people do.

Zara’s apartment tells a very clear story.

I stand in the center of what used to be her living room. Glass crunches beneath my shoes with each shift of weight, small crystalline fractures catching pale afternoon light like frozen blood.

The apartment still carries traces of her, even in the destruction. Her books are scattered across the floor, several with folded corners and handwritten annotations in tight script. A blazer hangs half-torn from the back of a chair. Coffee stains mark the edge of a legal pad filled with notes and arrows and circled names.

Obsession and pursuit—the two things that make Zara who she is.

Drawers have been removed entirely and dumped onto the floor. Cabinet hinges are broken inward, drywall near the kitchen smashed through in locations where hidden storage could plausibly exist. The underside of the furniture has been cut open, floorboards near the bedroom pried loose.

This was not fueled by rage at all. This was a search for information.

For her.

That realization settles inside me unpleasantly, not because it surprises me, but because what I only guessed vaguely is now the truth.