Page 90 of Bratva Daddy
But he wanted me to focus on the tie. Only the tie.
The knot was complex—a full Windsor, tied with the same precision he brought to everything. My cold fingers fumbled with the silk, trying to find the right angle to loosen it. He could have helped, could have tilted his chin to give me better access, could have at least guided my hands. Instead, he stood perfectly still, a statue of patient dominance, forcing me to navigate the intimacy myself.
"That's it," he murmured when I finally found the right loop to pull. "Such careful fingers. So good for Daddy."
The praise made my hands shake harder. I had to stop, take a breath, steady myself before continuing. The silk whispered as I worked it loose, each tug revealing more of his throat. My knuckles brushed against his skin—just the barest contact, but enough to feel his pulse, steady and strong where mine was racing.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I lifted my eyes to meet his, hands still working the tie by feel alone. His gaze was molten silver, desire and control warring in those depths. But he held himself still, held himself back, making this moment stretch like taffy between us.
"Good girl," he said, and I nearly moaned at how those two words could undo me so completely. "My perfect little one, undressing Daddy so sweetly."
The tie was almost free now, the knot completely undone, just the length of silk around his collar keeping it in place. I had to slide my hands up, fingers grazing the sides of his neck as I lifted the fabric over and around. He tilted his head just enough to allow it, the first movement he'd made since giving the command, and somehow that tiny concession felt like a gift.
The silk slithered free all at once, pooling in my hands. Without it, his collar hung open, revealing the strong column of his throat, the hint of tattoos that started at his collarbone and disappeared beneath white cotton.
"You did so well," Alexei said, his voice dropping even lower, rumbling through his chest in a way I could almost feel across the space between us. "Such a good girl, following Daddy's instructions perfectly."
The room seemed to shift around us, the soft pink walls darkening in my peripheral vision, the gentle lighting taking on a more intimate glow. Even the air felt different—thicker, charged, alive with possibility. The sounds of the city forty floors below faded to nothing. There was only this room, this moment, this man who could command my body with four simple words.
"What do you do with Daddy's tie, little one?" he asked, and I realized I'd been standing there, frozen, just holding it like some kind of talisman.
"I . . . I don't know," I admitted, honesty being the only option when he looked at me like that.
"Put it on the vanity," he instructed. "Fold it properly. Show Daddy you know how to take care of his things."
I moved to the vanity on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his eyes following me. The tie wanted to slip and slide, but I managed to fold it into a neat rectangle, placing it precisely on the white-painted wood. When I turned back, he'd finally stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded like a promise.
"Come here," he said, and I went, drawn by invisible threads he'd been weaving around me since the moment he'd carried me out of my father's penthouse. "We're just getting started."
When I stood before him, close enough to feel his breath on my face, he gave the next command.
"Undress me." Simple words that carried the weight of ritual. "Piece by piece. Take your time."
He stood perfectly still as my hands went to his shirt buttons, a statue of controlled power that I had to navigate like a supplicant before an altar. My fingers shook as I worked the first button free, then the second, each small disc of mother-of-pearl slipping through its hole with a whisper of fabric that seemed impossibly loud in the charged silence.
With each button, more of him was revealed. First the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong. Then the beginning of the bratva tattoos—Orthodox crosses and Cyrillic script. The ink was beautiful and terrible.
Lower buttons revealed scars. A puckered mark near his ribs that had to be from a bullet. A thin white line across his abdomen that spoke of knives and close calls. Another scar, jagged and angry, disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
No matter how many times I saw his body, it was still a thrill.
I was his. Had chosen to be his. Was choosing it again with every button I freed.
The shirt hung open now, revealing the full canvas of his chest. Muscle corded and defined from years of controlled violence, skin marked by both ink and injury, the kind of dangerous beauty that should have sent me running. Instead, I pushed the fabric off his shoulders, letting the expensive shirt fall to the floor in a whisper of white cotton that neither of us moved to retrieve.
"Good girl," he murmured, but stayed still, making me acknowledge what I'd unveiled.
Then he did something that shocked the breath from my lungs. He dropped to his knees before me.
The Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva, the man who'd never knelt to anyone, was on his knees on the plush rug of the room I'd designed. His hands went to my feet with a gentleness that seemed impossible from fingers that had dealt so much death.
"These pretty feet," he said, lifting one to cradle in his palm, "have been hurting all night."
He removed my heel with the same careful precision he brought to everything, then began massaging my arch with strong thumbs that found every ache, every pain from hours in those torture devices. I had to grab his shoulder for balance, my fingers finding warm skin and solid muscle, grounding myself in his physical presence while my world tilted on its axis.
He worked my foot with methodical attention, pressing into the spots that made me gasp, smoothing away the tension until I was practically purring. Then he switched to the other foot, giving it the same treatment, the same reverence. The man who could have anyone, who commanded an empire, was on his knees massaging my feet like I was something precious.
