Page 41 of Bratva Daddy
"Section four—hard limits," Alexei said, and his voice softened in a way I hadn't expected. "Tell me what you absolutely won't do. This part isn't negotiable—these are boundaries I'll never cross."
The shift from commanding to careful made my chest tight. He was giving me power here, real power, in a dynamic where he'd hold most of the control. These would be my walls, my absolute nos, and he was promising to respect them completely.
I thought about it, really considered what would break me versus what would just push me. The distinction mattered. I wanted to be pushed, wanted to find my edges, but there were some lines that couldn't be crossed without destroying something fundamental in me.
"No bathroom control," I said finally. "I've read about that in some dynamics, but it's not for me. That level of control would make me feel less than human."
He nodded, making notes in the margin. "Understood. What else?"
"No food restriction as punishment." The words came out faster now, more certain. "I already have a complicated relationship with eating. Using food as a weapon would be . . ." I paused, searching for the right word. "Damaging."
"You'll eat properly because I require it, but never as punishment or reward," he confirmed. "Continue."
"No isolation." This one was harder to articulate. "Being sent to my room is fine, having corner time or whatever is fine. But not locked away from you for days. Not abandoned in silence as punishment."
Something flickered across his face—understanding maybe. He knew about abandonment, about being left alone with your thoughts until they turned poisonous.
"And . . ." I hesitated, this last one feeling too vulnerable to voice.
"Tell me," he commanded gently. "This is important, Clara. I need to know all of them."
"No calling me stupid." The words came out in a rush. "My father did that. Every time I had an opinion, every time I tried tocontribute to a conversation, every time I existed as more than decoration. 'Don't be stupid, Clara.' 'That's a stupid question, Clara.' I won't hear it from you."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Alexei's expression went from attentive to murderous in the span of a heartbeat.
"Never," he said, the word coming out as a growl. "You're brilliant. Defiant and maddening, but fucking brilliant. You understand people in ways that take others decades to learn. You see through bullshit immediately. You retained everything from listening to your father's criminal conversations and drew connections he was too arrogant to notice you making."
He leaned forward, eyes intense on mine. "You are anything but stupid, and anyone who made you feel otherwise was threatened by your intelligence."
Tears pricked at my eyes. Twenty-three years of being dismissed, and here was a man who'd known me for less than two weeks telling me I was brilliant with such conviction I almost believed it.
He made more notes, then looked up. "My hard limits."
I blinked, surprised he was sharing them without my asking. This felt like equality, like building something together rather than him just dictating terms.
"You never interact with bratva business," he stated firmly. "If I have people here for meetings, you stay in your room. If danger comes—and in my life, it might—you hide where I tell you without question. No heroics, no trying to help. You disappear until I come for you."
The thought of danger finding us here made my stomach clench, but I nodded. This was reasonable, protective rather than controlling.
"You never lie to me about your health or safety," he continued. "If you're sick, hurt, scared, struggling—you tell meimmediately. Pride doesn't matter more than your wellbeing. I can't take care of you if I don't know what you need."
"Okay," I agreed softly.
"And if you're in little space, truly small and vulnerable, punishment waits until you're big again." His voice gentled on this one. "I won't discipline a vulnerable little. Only a bratty sub who knows exactly what she's doing. The distinction matters."
The fact that he saw those as different states, that he recognized when I might be genuinely vulnerable versus deliberately defiant, made something warm bloom in my chest. He really had been studying me, learning my patterns and needs.
"Section five," he said, turning the page for me when my hands stayed frozen. "Aftercare."
This section was shorter but somehow more intimate than the sexual boundaries. It detailed what would happen after—after punishment, after sex, after any intense scene between us.
"After punishment, after rough sex, after any intense scene," he read aloud when I stayed silent, "I'll hold you. Clean you up with warm cloths. Put lotion on any marks. Tell you you're good, that you're mine, that I'm proud of you."
His voice had dropped to that dangerous velvet again, and I could picture it so clearly—being held against his chest, feeling his hands gentle on skin he'd just marked, hearing his voice telling me I'd done well.
"You don't go to sleep hurt or alone," he continued. "Ever. If punishment happens before bed, we don't sleep until you're settled, until you know you're forgiven and cherished. If you're dropping after an intense scene, I stay with you until you level out."
"Dropping?"
