Page 25 of Bratva Daddy
Myjawachedwiththat specific soreness that came from muscles held too long in an unnatural position. I lay on the bed where I'd collapsed after the longest hour of my life, the pacifier finally removed and hidden in my nightstand drawer like evidence of a crime. Or maybe evidence of something else—submission, need, the mortifying discovery that being controlled like that had left my panties soaked through.
The soft knock barely registered at first. I'd grown used to Alexei moving through the penthouse like he owned it—which he did—without announcing himself. But this was different. Polite. Like he was asking permission to enter the room he'd trapped me in.
"Come in," I said, voice rough from disuse and the slight soreness in my throat.
He entered carrying a tray that looked absurdly domestic in his hands. This man who'd just spent an hour enforcing the most humiliating punishment I could imagine was now playing nurse, and the contradiction made my head spin.
Chamomile tea with honey—I could smell it from across the room. Ice water with a thin slice of lemon. And strangest of all, a small cup of what looked like vanilla ice cream, the expensive kind from the Italian place on Madison.
"For your jaw," he said, setting the tray on my nightstand with careful precision. "The first time is always uncomfortable."
First time.
First implied second, third, however many times it took until I learned to follow his rules without testing them. Or maybe—and this thought sent heat through me—until we both admitted I was testing them because I wanted the consequences.
He sat on the edge of my bed, and I didn't pull away. Should have. Should have kicked him, screamed, maintained some kind of boundary between us. Instead, I lay there as his fingers found my jaw, gentle as butterfly wings, testing for damage his punishment might have caused.
"Does this hurt?" He pressed slightly at the hinge of my jaw, watching my face for signs of pain.
"It's sore," I admitted, hating how small my voice sounded.
His fingers began to massage in small circles, working out the tension with surprising expertise. Had he done this before? To other women he'd punished with pacifiers and rules and consequences that left them wet and confused? The thought made jealousy flare in my chest, which was insane. I didn't want his attention. Didn't want his hands on me. Didn't want—
"Relax," he murmured, fingers continuing their gentle work. "Fighting it makes it worse."
I wanted to tell him I was fighting everything—his touch, his kindness, the way my body melted under his hands like ice in summer. But his fingers were magic, finding knots of tension I didn't know existed, working them out with patience that didn't match the man who'd forced a pacifier between my lips.
"Why?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
His hands stilled. "Why what?"
"Why not just hit me like my father would?" The words came out in a rush, like water through a broken dam. "Why the rules and the . . . the pacifier and now this? Why not just beat me until I comply? It would be simpler."
His hands remained on my face, but the massage had stopped. I could feel him looking at me, those gray eyes probably cataloguing every emotion that flickered across my features. When he spoke, his voice was softer than I'd heard it, almost gentle.
"Because you're not here to be damaged, little one." The endearment made my chest tight. "You're here to learn that actions have consequences, and that someone cares enough to enforce them."
"This isn't caring," I protested, but the words came out weak, uncertain. "This is control."
"Sometimes," he said, fingers resuming their gentle massage, "they're the same thing."
The words hung between us like a confession. Was he admitting he cared about me? Or just explaining his philosophy of ownership? His fingers worked the other side of my jaw now, and I couldn't help the small sound of relief that escaped as the tension released.
"It sounds like your father never set boundaries for you," he continued, voice thoughtful. "Never cared enough to correct you, guide you, teach you that your actions matter. You've been screaming into a void your whole life, haven't you? Acting out, hoping someone would notice, would care enough to stop you."
Tears pricked at my eyes because he was right. Every rebellion, every small defiance against my father's indifference had been a cry for attention, for proof that I mattered enough to discipline. And now here was Alexei Volkov, a criminal who'd kidnapped me, giving me exactly what I'd always craved.
"I hate you," I whispered, but we both heard the lie in it.
"No," he said simply. "You hate that you don't hate this."
His fingers left my jaw, and I almost whimpered at the loss. He stood, adjusting his suit jacket with that particular precision that meant he was rebuilding his walls, becoming the pakhan again instead of whoever he'd been for the last few minutes.
"Drink the tea," he instructed, back to his commanding voice. "It will help with the soreness. The ice cream is there if you want it. Small spoonfuls—your jaw needs rest."
He moved toward the door, and panic flared in my chest. I didn't want him to leave. Didn't want to be alone with my confusion and the wetness between my thighs and the memory of his gentle fingers on my face.
"Alexei," I called, his name feeling foreign on my tongue.
