Page 48 of Bratva Daddy
"Maybe I'll keep you barefoot and pregnant," I continued, the fantasy spilling out as I fucked her harder. "Round with my child, dependent on me for everything. Wouldn't that be perfect? My little girl swollen with my baby?"
"Yes," she sobbed, and I could feel her getting close again, walls fluttering around my cock. "Yes, Daddy, please—"
"You'd be such a good mother," I growled, one hand moving to her throat, not squeezing but owning, feeling her pulse race under my palm. "So careful, so protective. And I'd take care of you both. Provide everything. Protect you from the world."
She was right on the edge now, holding back only because I hadn't given permission. Such a good girl, learning so quickly that her orgasms belonged to me.
"You're going to come now," I ordered, thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight circles. "And you're going to scream Daddy when you do. Let everyone in this building know who owns this pussy."
The orgasm hit her like a freight train. Her back arched completely off the bed, pulling so hard against the restraints thatthe headboard creaked. And she screamed—not just my title but a sound that was pure release, pure submission, pure belonging.
"DADDY!"
The scream probably did reach the lobby, might have shattered windows. Her pussy clamped down on my cock like a vice, pulsing, pulling me deeper, and I couldn't hold back anymore.
"Mine," I growled, more animal than human, as I came harder than I ever had in my life. "Fucking mine."
I filled her completely, marking her inside as thoroughly as I planned to mark her outside. My orgasm seemed to go on forever, pulse after pulse, claiming her at the most basic level.
We stayed locked together, both breathing hard, bodies still shaking with aftershocks. I could feel her tears on my chest—not sad, just overwhelmed by the intensity of what had just happened. What we'd just become to each other.
"That's it, baby," I soothed, carefully pulling out of her, watching my cum leak from her well-used pussy with dark satisfaction. "Daddy's got you. You did so perfect."
My fingers went to the silk rope, working the knots free with practiced ease. The moment her wrists were released, she curled into me, seeking skin contact like she'd die without it. I massaged her wrists gently, checking for damage, finding only light marks that would fade within hours.
"Was I good?" she whispered against my chest, voice small and vulnerable.
"Perfect," I assured her, pressing kisses to her hair. "My perfect little girl."
Chapter 10
Clara
Theleathersqueakedunderme as I shifted, trying to find the perfect position where I could see both the TV and Alexei through his office door. Three days since I'd signed the contract, and my body had already learned his rhythms—the way he paced during calls, how his shoulders tensed before difficult conversations, the particular shade of gray his eyes turned when he was pleased with me.
NY1 droned in the background, something about construction permits in Queens. Alexei had started letting me watch the morning news while he worked, a privilege that shouldn't have felt as significant as it did. "A little should know what's happening in the world," he'd said yesterday, adjusting the volume to exactly where he wanted it. Not too loud to disturb his calls, not so quiet I had to strain. Everything with Alexei was deliberate, measured, perfect in its control.
I pulled my legs up under me, the cashmere throw he'd draped over me earlier pooling around my waist. The morning had beengood—better than good. He'd woken me with coffee exactly how I liked it, chosen a soft blue dress that made me feel pretty rather than displayed, and given me a kiss on the forehead that lingered just long enough to make my stomach flutter. These small intimacies had become my new currency.
Through the doorway, I watched him lean back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid Russian to someone who was clearly disappointing him. His free hand moved through the air, conducting an orchestra of irritation only I could see. The thought of making lunch for him later made me warm—not the elaborate dinners he usually prepared, but something simple. Maybe that soup his grandmother used to make, the recipe he'd mentioned two nights ago while tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.
I was already imagining his surprised pleasure, the way he'd taste it thoughtfully before pronouncing it "almost right, but missing something," when my own face filled the television screen.
The remote slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, bouncing off the coffee table with a crack that should have brought Alexei running. But I couldn't process anything beyond the photograph—me at the charity auction six weeks ago, wearing the burgundy dress my father had chosen, smiling like I hadn't been dying inside.
"Socialite Clara Petrov's mysterious disappearance has led to complications for the Home & Hope charity," the reporter's voice cut through the static in my head. Professional concern layered over barely concealed excitement at having actual news to report. "Sources confirm the $180,000 raised at her recent auction has been frozen pending investigation into her whereabouts."
One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Hearing it now made my chest constrict. Every dollar had been fought for,charm deployed like a weapon against New York's elite who'd rather spend that money on another vacation home. I'd smiled until my face ached, laughed at terrible jokes, let Harold Morrison rest his liver-spotted hand on my lower back for an uncomfortably long time because his check had five zeros.
"Board member David Maguire states they cannot access funds without Clara's signature and verification of her safety." David's face appeared on screen, and I wanted to vomit. He looked exhausted, stressed in a way that had nothing to do with cameras and everything to do with promises he couldn't keep.
The reporter continued, but her words became white noise against the roaring in my ears. Marcus Chen's art installation—sold for forty thousand to fund after-school programs. The emergency shelter renovations scheduled for October, before the real cold hit. The soup kitchen expansion that would double their capacity. All of it frozen, suspended, destroyed because I'd let myself be kidnapped by a beautiful monster who made me feel alive.
My chest started heaving, but no air seemed to reach my lungs. The room tilted sideways, or maybe I did, the coffee table rushing up to meet my knees as I slid off the couch.
"My fault, my fault, my fault," I heard myself saying, but the voice was all wrong. Higher, smaller, like when I was seven and learned Mommy wasn't coming home from the hospital, that the cancer had won, that I'd never hear her read me another story. The memory hit fresh as a new wound, and more tears came, endless tears, like my body had been saving them up for sixteen years.
My hands felt clumsy and too big as I reached for the throw pillow that had fallen with me. Needed something to hold, needed it so bad my chest hurt worse. The pillow smelled like Alexei's cologne, that sandalwood and bergamot that meant safe, and I crushed it against my chest hard enough that myarms ached. If I didn't hold something, I might float away, might disappear, might stop existing altogether.
