Page 39 of Bratva Daddy
"My needs?" I managed.
"If you're sick, recovering from punishment, or deep in little space, you might need more rest." The casual way he said 'recovering from punishment' made my thighs clench. "I'll choose your clothes unless you've earned the privilege to select your own. You'll eat every meal, no exceptions. No more pushing food around your plate or claiming you're not hungry."
"What if I'm really not—"
"Then you'll eat anyway," he cut me off. "Your body belongs to me, which means maintaining it properly is non-negotiable.Three meals, two snacks if needed, plenty of water. I've watched you forget to eat for entire days when you're stressed. That stops now."
The commanding tone should have made me angry. Should have triggered every feminist instinct I'd cultivated in college. Instead, it made me feel . . . safe. Like finally someone cared enough to notice when I was hurting myself through neglect.
"But," he continued, and his voice softened slightly, "you'll also have dedicated little space time. At least an hour a day where you can just... be small. Color, watch cartoons, play with toys—whatever helps you decompress from the world."
"Toys?" The word squeaked out.
"I'll provide comfort items," he said, and there was something almost tender in his expression. "Stuffed animals, soft blankets, things that smell like me for when I'm not there. When you need to not think, to just be held and safe, that's what I'm for."
The tenderness mixed with control made my stomach clench with want. This wasn't just about dominance—it was about care. About someone strong enough to hold all my pieces, even the ones I'd hidden for years.
"What about my life outside?" I asked, needing to know if this was a prettier cage or something more. "My charity work? The literacy foundation?"
"Encouraged," he said immediately, and the relief that flooded through me was embarrassing in its intensity. "A little needs purpose, needs to feel useful. Your charity work is important to you, therefore it's important to me. You'll continue it, expand it if you want. After we get the money from your father, when you belong to me, you will be free to live your life. But—"
"But?"
"But I'll know where you are, who you're with, always." His eyes held mine, unflinching. "Not because I don't trust you, but because your safety becomes my responsibility. Every meeting,every event, every coffee date with friends—I'll know about it. Security when needed, tracking always."
"That's . . . invasive."
"That's protective," he corrected. "You'll be mine, Clara. Mine to care for, mine to protect, mine to cherish. That means I need to know you're safe at all times."
I looked back at the contract, at the careful subsections about daily routines. Wake-up procedures that included him bringing me coffee, checking if I'd slept well, choosing my clothes while I showered. Meal protocols that involved sitting with him, eating what he provided, thanking him for taking care of me. Bedtime rituals with skincare routines, story time if I'd been good, being tucked in with specific phrases of ownership and care.
"This is incredibly detailed," I observed.
"Structure helps littles feel safe," he said simply. "Knowing what to expect, what's required, what will happen—it removes the chaos that makes you anxious. You'll never have to guess what I want or need from you. It will all be explicit."
"And if I break the rules?"
His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile but close. "Then you'll face consequences. But that's section two."
The promise in his voice made me squirm in my chair. We both knew I'd break rules—it was in my nature to test boundaries, to push until I found the edges. But now those edges would be clearly defined, the consequences predetermined. No more screaming into the void of indifference. Every action would matter because someone would be watching, caring, correcting.
"Turn the page," he commanded softly.
Heat flooded my face as I read the header for the second time, as if the words might change. "Physical Discipline and Punishments" stayed exactly the same, written in Alexei's precise hand like a promise.
His voice remained clinical, but his eyes burned into mine with intensity that made my breath shallow. "Punishments fit the infraction. Small defiances—not finishing your meal, talking back, minor sass—might earn corner time or writing lines."
"Writing lines?" I couldn't hide my disbelief. "Like in elementary school?"
"Exactly like that. 'I will not skip lunch' written one hundred times has a way of making the lesson stick." He paused. "Though knowing you, you'd probably find a way to make even that defiant. Dotting your i's with little hearts or something equally bratty."
The fact that he already knew me that well made something warm bloom in my chest.
"Moderate infractions," he continued, "like deliberately disobeying a direct order or throwing things—yes, I'm anticipating that—means spanking. Something you already know about. Hand only at first. We'll discuss implements like paddles or belts only after trust is fully established."
My thighs clenched involuntarily at the memory of being over his lap, his hand connecting with my ass while I called him Daddy. That had been almost gentle compared to what he was describing now.
"Dangerous behavior is different," his voice darkened. "Putting yourself at risk, ignoring safety protocols, anything that could result in actual harm—that earns serious punishment. The kind that leaves marks for days, that makes you remember every time you sit down why following safety rules matters."
