Page 36 of Bratva Daddy
Clara pulled her knees up, making herself comfortable on the bench in that way she had, like she could create her own space anywhere. "Tell me about her."
So I did. Told her about the woman who'd taught me to make borscht while explaining that feeding people was another form of power. Who'd shown me how to grow things when all I'd wanted to do was destroy. Who'd made me memorize poetry alongside gun specifications because "a man who only knows violence is not a man but a weapon."
"She would have liked you," I said suddenly, the truth of it hitting me with surprising force. "A fighter who speaks her mind."
"Even though I'm your prisoner?" Clara asked, but there was something soft in her voice.
"Especially because you refuse to act like one," I replied, and for a moment, our hands rested on the bench between us, close enough that our pinkies almost touched.
The sun was starting its descent, painting everything golden—the plants, the city, Clara's hair where it had escaped from her ponytail. She looked like she belonged here, in this space I'd built to remember home, among Russian plants and memories of a woman who'd taught me that strength meant protecting what mattered.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For showing me this."
"It's not—" I started to say it wasn't a big deal, but that was a lie. This garden was everything—my past, my pain, the soft parts I'd learned to hide. Showing it to Clara was like handing her a weapon she could destroy me with.
"I know what it is," she said, and her pinky finger moved just enough to brush mine. The contact was barely anything—the smallest possible touch—but it shot through me like lightning. "I know what it means that you brought me here."
We sat in silence as the sun sank lower, the city lights beginning to twinkle below us. The garden held us in its green embrace, separate from the world where I was a criminal and she was leverage. Here, we were just two people sharing a bench, watching the day end, pretending that the barely-there touch of our fingers wasn't the most intimate thing we'd done.
The garden lights came on automatically as dusk deepened, hidden LEDs that made the plants glow like something from a fairy tale. Clara hadn't moved from the bench, hadn't let go of where our pinkies touched, and I found myself unable to breakthe contact either. The city noise felt distant up here, muffled by glass and green and the weight of everything unsaid between us.
She pulled her knees up again, that self-soothing gesture I'd catalogued along with a dozen others—the way she touched her collar when nervous, bit her lower lip when thinking, tucked hair behind her ear when she wanted to say something difficult.
She was doing that now, fingers fidgeting with an escaped strand of honey-colored hair.
"Can I ask you something?" she said finally. "About what you said about . . . dynamics and trust."
My body went rigid. I'd known this was coming, had seen her processing our conversation all day, those clever eyes working through implications and possibilities. Part of me had brought her to the garden specifically for this—to have this conversation in a space that felt separate from the penthouse, from the rules and power structures we'd built there.
"You can ask," I said carefully.
"Have you . . ." She paused, gathering courage like armor. "Done that before? Been someone's . . ." The word Daddy hung unspoken between us, too heavy to voice in this moment. "Had that kind of relationship?"
The question unearthed memories I'd buried deep—Natasha with her wild red hair and wilder needs, the way she'd submitted beautifully until she hadn't, until the submission became manipulation and the trust became a weapon.
"Once," I admitted, the word scraping my throat. "Years ago. It didn't end well."
Clara turned slightly on the bench, studying my profile in the garden lights. "What happened?"
"She confused submission with weakness, thought that because she called me—" I paused, still unable to say the word in this context, "—what she called me, that she could manipulate me through it. She'd threaten to hurt herself if I didn't give herwhat she wanted. Made scenes in public to force my hand. Used the dynamic as a tool for control rather than trust."
"That's horrible," Clara said softly. "That's not what it's supposed to be at all."
"No," I agreed, surprised by her understanding. "It's not."
Silence settled between us while the city lights grew brighter against the darkening sky. Clara's pinky pressed more firmly against mine.
"Tell me," she said quietly. "Tell me what it's really supposed to be. When it's right."
I closed my eyes, searching for words that could explain something that lived in my bones rather than my brain. "When it works, when that trust exists, it should be the most beautiful thing in the world. To be someone's safe place. To be trusted with someone's complete surrender."
My voice dropped without my meaning it to, coming out rough with want and memory and the desperate wish that I could have that with her. "The submissive gives their power to someone they trust to use it wisely. The dominant takes that power and uses it to create safety, structure, care. It's not about taking—it's about receiving what's offered and treasuring it."
"Is that what you want?" she asked, voice barely audible. "With someone?"
The question hung between us like a loaded gun. With someone implied future, theoretical, safe. But we both knew she meant with her. Did I want that dynamic with Clara, who'd already called me Daddy in desperation and sarcasm and need?
"What I want is irrelevant when the person I—" I caught myself before I could finish that sentence, before I could admit that she was the person I wanted it with. "You should understand what you're asking for when you call me that name. It's not just about punishment or control."
