Page 68 of Bratva Daddy
"Good intelligence," he said simply, then to me: "She's an asset, Pakhan. Unexpected, but valuable."
When the room emptied except for my brothers and Clara, she sagged slightly, adrenaline wearing off. I pulled her against me, felt her trembling finely like a wire under too much tension.
"You were perfect," I murmured into her hair. "Absolutely perfect."
"They listened," she said, wonder in her voice. "They actually listened."
"You made them listen," Dmitry corrected, gathering his things. "That's a rare skill. Pakhan, with your permission, I'll coordinate the ground teams."
I nodded dismissal, and my brothers left us alone. Clara turned in my arms, looking up at me with eyes bright with accomplishment.
"Did I make you proud, Daddy?" she asked, voice dropping to that softer register she used when we were alone.
"So proud," I confirmed, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. "My brilliant girl, commanding a room of killers like you were born to it."
TheQueenssafehousehad belonged to a paranoid accountant who'd skimmed from the wrong people—reinforced walls, multiple exits, and a bedroom that felt more like a bunker than a sanctuary. I'd bought it through untraceable channels after arranging his disappearance, seeing potential in his paranoia. Now, watching Clara unpack the few things we'd grabbed from the penthouse, I appreciated the previous owner's attention to security even as I planned something that required absolute privacy.
She'd been quiet during the drive here, processing everything—the attack, the move, presenting to my lieutenants. Her hands moved efficiently, folding clothes into drawers, but I caught the slight tremor in her fingers. Not fear. Adrenaline finally burning off, leaving her raw and ready for something I'd been planning since I'd first seen her kneel.
I spent an hour walking the perimeter, checking sight lines, testing locks, confirming Ivan's surveillance setup was operational. When I returned to the bedroom, Clara had finished unpacking and sat on the edge of the mattress, wearing one of my shirts again—she'd claimed half my wardrobe as hers, and I let her because she looked perfect drowning in fabric that smelled like me.
The closet held what I needed. The previous owner had installed a full-length mirror, probably to check for intruders behind him. I wheeled it out, angling it at the foot of the bed with precise care. Clara watched with those intelligent eyes, cataloging every movement.
"I want to try something new. A reward for your bravery," I said, voice deliberately even. Not commanding yet, but preparing her for what was coming. "It's about control and trust. We agree the rules out loud, and your safeword ends everything."
She shifted on the mattress, knees drawing up slightly. "What kind of something?"
"Positions," I said simply. "Formal ones. They give structure to submission, create a framework you can rest in when thinking becomes too much."
Her breath caught—not fear but interest. She'd responded so perfectly to structure since arriving, craved boundaries like some people craved freedom.
"On your knees on the mattress," I instructed, and watched her comply immediately, my shirt riding up her thighs. "There are two positions tonight. You'll learn them perfectly."
I moved behind her, hands gentle but firm as I adjusted her posture. "This is Present," I said, guiding her knees apart to shoulder width. "Hands behind your lower back, fingers laced." I positioned her arms, feeling her pulse accelerate under my touch. "Shoulders back, open. Chest out. Chin up, eyes on yourself in the mirror."
She found her reflection and inhaled sharply. The position displayed her completely—vulnerable, offered, but also powerful in her deliberate submission.
"Present is for inspection, for admiration, for when I want to see all of you," I explained, circling to observe from every angle. "It's not punishment. It's appreciation."
A slim riding crop materialized in my hand—not for pain but for precision. I tapped once behind her knee, the lightest touch. "Wider." She adjusted immediately. Another tap at her outer thigh. "Angle your hips forward slightly."
Each correction was a whisper of leather against skin, and she responded like she'd been trained for years instead of minutes.
"Now Nest," I said, guiding her down onto her side. "One knee drawn up, comfortable. Hands tucked under your cheek like you're sleeping. Eyes soft, unfocused."
This position was gentler, recovery rather than display. She settled into it naturally, and I saw her recognize its purpose—safety, rest, coming down from intensity.
"Nest is for after," I explained, stroking her hair. "For when you need to be small and protected. Both positions give you something firm to lean on when everything else feels liquid."
She nodded against her hands, understanding deeper than words.
"Back to Present," I commanded, and watched her shift smoothly into position, knees spread, hands behind her back, chin up toward the mirror. Already, the position was becoming natural.
"Corrections are taps," I explained, crop resting against my palm. "Light ones for adjustment. If you break posture, you wait for five breaths without my touch. No punishment, just pause. Your body needs to learn patience as much as position."
I started with touch that was almost nothing—fingertips grazing her throat, the barest brush of breath against her ear. Her body responded immediately, leaning into the contact, seeking more. The moment she moved, I stepped back.
"Five breaths," I said calmly. "Count them."
