Page 40 of Bratva Daddy
"And lying?" I asked, though the answer was already there in the contract.
"Lying to me earns the worst punishments." Each word came out sharp as glass. "I need absolute honesty or this doesn't work. You lie about where you are, who you're with, how you're feeling, what you need—that breaks the foundation of trust this is builton. The punishment for that would be severe enough that you'd never consider lying again."
The promise in his voice should have been terrifying. Instead, it made me wet enough that I worried about leaving marks on his expensive chairs.
"What about rewards?" I asked, voice smaller than intended. "You mentioned good girls get treats."
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but made my stomach flip anyway. "Good girls get everything they need and most of what they want. Extra story time before bed. Special outings—museums, bookstores, that little tea shop you mentioned loving. Choosing dinner, picking the movie we watch, sleeping in on weekends."
He paused, eyes tracking over my face with an intensity that made me squirm.
"And orgasms," he added, voice dropping to that dark velvet that made my core clench. "Good girls get to come. Bad girls get edged until they're crying, begging, promising anything for release."
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Turn to section three," he commanded.
My hands shook as I flipped the page. "Sexual Boundaries and Expectations" was somehow worse than the punishment section. The frank list of acts made my face burn: "The submissive agrees to: oral service on demand, sexual availability unless safeword is used, orgasm control and denial, light bondage, sensory play, anal training at Dominant's discretion."
I couldn't read it out loud. My panties were already soaked through, and speaking these words might make me combust entirely.
"You don't come without permission," Alexei stated, taking over when my voice failed. "Ever. Your orgasms belong to me togive or withhold. You touch yourself only when I allow it. You come only when I command it."
"That's . . ." I swallowed hard. "That seems extreme."
"It is," he agreed. "Your pleasure becomes my responsibility. I'll learn your body better than you know it yourself. Every spot that makes you gasp, every touch that makes you wet, every combination that makes you fall apart. Your needs will be met, even ones you can't articulate, because I'll know them before you do."
"How?"
"Because you'll be mine to study." The possessiveness in his voice made my nipples harden visibly through my sweater. His eyes tracked the change, darkening further. "I'll catalog every reaction, every sound, every tell. Within a month, I'll be able to make you come with just my voice. Within two, you'll be so conditioned to my touch that just my hand on your throat will have you dripping."
I pressed my thighs together, trying to relieve the ache his words created. "And you? What are your boundaries?"
The question seemed to surprise him. "Mine?"
"You're human too," I pointed out. "You must have limits, things you won't do."
He considered this, and something softened in his expression. "No permanent marks—nothing that scars or damages permanently. No sharing—you're mine alone. No one else touches you, watches you, participates in any way. No public humiliation beyond mild correction—I won't embarrass you in front of others, won't make you feel small in the bad way."
"The bad way?"
"There's feeling little and cherished, and there's feeling worthless and demeaned. I'll never make you feel the second." He paused. "And absolutely no mixing bratva business with our dynamic. When I'm handling family business, you're safe athome, separate from that world. What we have exists apart from the violence."
The distinction mattered more than I expected. He was offering to keep me separate from the blood and danger, to create a space where I could be soft and vulnerable without worrying about his other life intruding.
"Your safeword," he said suddenly. "Choose carefully. It needs to be something you'll remember even when you're deep in subspace, something that will immediately stop everything."
I thought about it, sorting through words that might work. Nothing sexual, nothing that might come up naturally in play. Something meaningful but not traumatic.
"Matryoshka," I said finally.
"Russian nesting dolls?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Because this feels like finding myself inside layers I didn't know existed," I explained, face heating at the vulnerability of the admission. "Each smaller doll hidden inside, protected, held. And because it's Russian, like your grandmother's garden. Something beautiful despite being hidden."
Something flickered across his face—surprise maybe, or approval. "Matryoshka," he repeated, accent making the word musical. "Good choice. Memorable, meaningful, impossible to mistake for anything else."
He made a note in the margin of the contract, and I watched his hands move with the same focus I'd started bringing to everything about him. Those hands that had killed seventeen men, that had brought me tea and comfort, that would soon own every inch of my body if I signed this contract.
