Page 22 of Bratva Daddy
18. No violence against yourself or others.
19. Reading is permitted but only from approved books.
20. Television and music privileges must be earned.
21. Good behavior will be rewarded.
22. Defiance will have consequences.
23. Consequences will be swift and memorable.
That last line made my breath catch. Swift and memorable. My fingers traced the words without conscious thought, feeling the slight indentation where his pen had pressed into paper. What kind of consequences? Spanking? Something worse? Something better?
"Fuck," I whispered, then immediately thought about rule number six. No profanity. I'd already broken one rule and it wasn't even—I checked the bedside clock—seven in the morning.
The memory of last night crashed over me, how I'd called him Daddy with sarcastic venom, how his eyes had darkened to storm-gray, how he'd left the table rather than respond.But I'd seen it—that flash of heat, that moment where control had slipped. What would he be like if that control shattered completely? Would he grab my wrists, pin them above my head, teach me exactly what happened to bratty girls who pushed too hard?
Would he make me call him Daddy again, but mean it this time?
My thighs clenched at the thought, wetness gathering with shameful insistence. This was wrong. So wrong. I was his prisoner, leverage against my father, a business transaction with a heartbeat. I shouldn't be imagining his hands on me, shouldn't be wondering if his control in everyday life translated to the bedroom. Would he tell me exactly how to please him? Position me how he wanted? Take what he needed while making sure I got exactly what I deserved?
The folder flew across the room before I consciously decided to throw it, pages fluttering like broken wings before it hit the wall with a satisfying thwack. But even airborne, those rules seemed to follow me, each one a bar in a cage I was beginning to suspect I'd been looking for my entire life.
One rule for each year of my life.
Twenty-three years of being ignored. No structure, no boundaries, no consequences that mattered. Just endless days of being invisible, of mattering so little that my own father discussed his crimes over dinner like I was furniture.
But Alexei had written twenty-three rules just for me. Had thought about my days, my needs, my behavior. Had cared enough to establish boundaries, even if that care came wrapped in control and motivated by revenge.
"I'm not some submissive little girl," I said to the empty room, but the words felt hollow. Because last night I'd touched myself imagining exactly that—being his little girl, being controlled, being owned in ways that had nothing to do with leverage andeverything to do with the heat in his eyes when I'd challenged him.
The wetness between my thighs had become impossible to ignore. My hand drifted down, then stopped. Rule number nine. No touching without permission. He'd know somehow. Maybe not cameras, but he'd know. The thought should have killed my arousal. Instead, it doubled it.
What kind of person got wet thinking about asking their kidnapper for permission to masturbate? What kind of woman wanted to follow rules set by a man who'd stolen her freedom?
The kind who'd been free her whole life and done nothing with it. The kind who'd been waiting, without knowing it, for someone strong enough to contain her.
"This is insane," I whispered, staring at the folder splayed against the far wall. But insane or not, I was already thinking about breakfast at 8:30 sharp, about what would happen if I was late, about consequences that would be swift and memorable.
About calling him Daddy again, and meaning it.
Thekitchenclockread8:47 when I finally made myself leave the bedroom, and every one of those seventeen minutes had been deliberate. I'd spent the morning pacing, arguing with myself about rules and boundaries and the traitorous heat that hadn't left my body since reading his list. I'd changed clothes three times, finally settling on the outfit most likely to crack his perfect control—a black skirt that barely covered my thighs and a cropped cashmere sweater that showed a strip of skin whenever I moved.
Alexei sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone with the same focused intensity he brought to everything. A plate of untouched food waited at the empty place beside him—oatmeal, fresh pineapple, walnuts. He'd been waiting. Of course he had.
"You're late." He didn't look up from his phone, voice carrying that particular calm that made my nerves spark like live wires.
"The rules said 8:30," I said, injecting false innocence into my tone. "Maybe I can't read a clock. Maybe I'm just a stupid girl who doesn't understand numbers."
His thumb paused mid-scroll. Such a small movement, but I felt it like a shift in atmospheric pressure. Still, he didn't look up, didn't give me the satisfaction of seeing how my outfit affected him.
"You understand perfectly. You chose to be seventeen minutes late. That's very specific defiance, Clara."
The way he said my name—soft, controlled, with just a hint of something darker underneath—made heat pool in my stomach. I wanted him to yell, to rage, to be like my father with his wine-fueled tantrums and casual cruelty. That I could handle. That I could hate properly, without this confusion, without my body betraying me every time he spoke.
"Maybe I was doing something important," I said, moving closer but staying just out of reach. The cropped sweater rose with the movement, exposing more skin, and I saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. Good. Let him feel something. Let him lose that iron control.
"More important than eating?" He finally looked up, and the full force of those gray eyes hit me like a physical touch. They traveled over me slowly—the short skirt, the exposed midriff, the way I'd left my hair down in deliberate waves. "Interesting outfit choice."
