Page 52 of Bratva Daddy
"Promise," he said, and because he was Daddy and Daddies didn't lie, I believed him completely.
LittleAlexwasstillin my arms when I woke, fur pressed against my cheek, and for a moment I couldn't remember why I was holding a stuffed animal in Alexei's bed.
Then everything crashed back—the news report, the breakdown, sucking my thumb while calling him Daddy in a voice that belonged to someone much younger than twenty-three. The coloring books. The juice box. Being carried to bed for a nap like an actual child.
Heat flooded my face so fast it made me dizzy. I'd completely regressed, turned into some little version of myself that needed stuffies and Disney movies and peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And Alexei had seen all of it, had taken care of me through it, had tucked me into bed with a kiss on the forehead.
"You're back," his voice came from the chair by the window, and I realized he'd been sitting there the whole time. Not working on his laptop or making calls, just reading a book and watching over me while I slept.
"I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I don't know what happened. I've never—that's never happened before. Not like that."
He set his book aside with careful movements, like everything needed to be precise. "Don't," he said firmly, standing and moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "Never apologize for needing care. This is exactly what I signed up for—all of you, including the little girl who needs juice boxes and stuffies when the world gets too big."
The words should have made me feel better, but shame still burned in my chest. "It's just—God, I actually sucked my thumb. And asked for chocolate milk. And named a stuffed wolf after you."
"Little Alex is an excellent name," he said, completely serious. "I’m honored to share it."
A surprised laugh escaped me. "You can't be okay with this. I turned into a child. Like, an actual child. That's not what you signed up for."
"Clara." His hand found mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles. "It's called age regression. It happens when stress breaks through your adult walls, when you need care sodesperately that your mind provides it by returning to a simpler state. And it's beautiful."
"Beautiful?" I stared at him. "I was on the floor crying about frozen money with my thumb in my mouth."
"You trusted me enough to be that vulnerable," he corrected. "Do you understand how rare that is? You let me see you completely defenseless, let me take care of you when you couldn't take care of yourself. That's not shameful—that's the ultimate submission. The ultimate trust."
Something in my chest unclenched at his words. He really wasn't disgusted or disturbed. If anything, he looked proud, like I'd done something special instead of having a complete breakdown.
"It's never happened like that before," I admitted, fingers finding Alexei Junior's soft fur. "I mean, I've imagined it, wanted it, but actually going that small, that young . . ."
"How often have you imagined it?" he asked, and there was no judgment in the question, just curiosity.
"Since I went to college maybe? When things got bad, I'd imagine having someone who'd take care of me. Let me be small and not have to make decisions or handle problems. Someone who'd just . . ." I paused, searching for words. "Someone who'd let me color and watch cartoons and not think about anything important."
"Not just a Dom, but a Daddy Dom," he supplied simply.
"Yeah," I whispered. "But I never thought it would actually happen. Never thought I'd actually slip that far into little space."
"The stress of seeing the news report triggered it," he said, analytical but gentle. "Your mind needed escape from the guilt and fear, so it provided one. Took you somewhere safe."
"The charity money though . . ." The worry tried to resurface, but he squeezed my hand.
"Is already handled. Ivan's creating documentation showing you're safe but traveling for personal reasons. The funds will be released within forty-eight hours. David Maguire will receive confirmation tomorrow morning."
I stared at him. "You actually fixed it?"
"I told you I would. When you're little, when you need care, Daddies handle the big problems so little girls don't have to worry."
The casual way he said it, like this was just our dynamic now, made something warm bloom in my chest. "We should probably talk about boundaries. About what happens next time."
"Next time?" He raised an eyebrow. "You're already planning to regress again?"
"I don't think I can control it," I admitted. "Now that it's happened once, now that my brain knows it's safe to be little with you . . . it might happen again."
"Good," he said simply. "We should set up a proper littlespace room. Somewhere that's just for you when you need to be small."
"A whole room?" The idea seemed excessive and perfect simultaneously.
"You'll need somewhere to keep your supplies. Coloring books, toys, comfort items. Somewhere decorated just for little you, where big girl problems can't intrude."
