Page 23 of Bratva Daddy
"You said wear the clothes provided." I crossed my arms under my breasts, pushing them up, noting how his gaze flickered down for just a moment before returning to my face. "This was in the closet."
"It was. Though I believe there were less . . . strategic options available."
Strategic. Like he knew exactly what I was doing, why I'd chosen these particular pieces. The knowing in his voice made me want to scream. Or maybe it made me want something else entirely, something I couldn't let myself think about.
"Sit," he commanded, the single word carrying more authority than my father had managed in twenty-three years of speeches.
I stayed standing, weight shifted to one hip in a pose I'd learned from watching other girls challenge boys who thought they were in charge. Except those boys had always backed down, had always softened, had always let the girls win. Looking at Alexei's face, I knew with absolute certainty he'd never backed down from anything in his life.
"Make me."
The words came out breathier than I'd intended, more invitation than challenge. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise maybe, or approval, or that dangerous heat I'd seen last night when I'd called him Daddy.
He set down his phone with deliberate precision, each movement controlled, measured. When he stood, I realized again how big he was—not just tall but broad, taking up space in a way that made the kitchen feel smaller. He moved around the island slowly, giving me time to retreat, to apologize, to sit like he'd commanded.
I held my ground even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Little girls who can't follow simple rules," he said, voice dropping to that dark velvet that made my knees weak, "need help remembering them."
Little girls.
The way he said those words, the way he looked at me like he could see through my defiance to the desperate need underneath, made wetness gather between my thighs.
He stopped just inches away, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made me want to lean into him, to bury my face in his chest and breathe him in. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, the height difference making me feel small, protected, owned.
"Sit down, Clara," he said, each word precise as a surgical cut, "or I'll put you in that chair myself."
The threat—no, the promise—sent electricity through every nerve. I could see it so clearly: his hands on my waist, lifting me, placing me exactly where he wanted me. Would he be gentle? Rough? Would his hands linger, making sure I understood who was in control?
"You wouldn't," I whispered, but we both heard the hope in it.
"Try me."
Two words. That's all it took to make my walls crumble. The defiance I'd worn like armor all morning dissolved under the weight of his will. He would absolutely put me in that chair. Would probably enjoy it. And the worst part—the part that made me hate myself—was that I'd enjoy it too.
I moved to the stool, trying to make it look like my choice, like I was sitting because I wanted to and not because his presence had turned my legs to water. The skirt rode up as I sat, exposing most of my thighs, and I saw his hands clench slightly at his sides.
"Good girl," he murmured, and those two words hit me like a drug, warmth flooding through my chest and settling between my legs.
I hated him for knowing exactly what to say. Hated myself more for responding to it. This wasn't who I was—some submissive girl who got wet from being told what to do. Except apparently it was, because my panties were soaked and all he'd done was tell me to sit.
I wanted more of this. Wanted more of his sternness, his discipline.
He returned to his own seat, picking up his phone like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just dismantled my defiance with two words and a promise. The plate in front of me steamed gently, still warm despite my lateness. He'd kept it warm. Had probably reheated it at exactly 8:30, knowing I'd be late, knowing I'd test him.
"Eat," he said without looking at me.
For a moment, I considered it.
Then I decided to see what would happen if I did something bad. Somethingreallybad.
The plate hit the wall with a satisfying crash that should have felt like victory. Porcelain shattered, oatmeal and fruit creating an abstract painting against his pristine white wall. The sound echoed through the penthouse, sharp and definitive—the sound of Clara Albright finally doing something that couldn't be controlled, couldn't be managed, couldn't be fixed with calm words and steady hands.
Alexei didn't even flinch. He set down his spoon with the same precision he brought to everything, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and stood. No anger in his movements, no rage in those gray eyes. Just that terrible calm that made me want to throw something else, anything to crack that perfect control.
"Wait here," he said, like I was a dog who'd pissed on the carpet.
He disappeared down the hallway toward his office, leaving me standing among the destruction I'd created. My chest heaved with adrenaline and something else—disappointment maybe, that he hadn't grabbed me, hadn't yelled, hadn't given me the violent response that would have justified my hatred.
