Page 89 of Bratva Daddy
"That's not what I asked."
His hand found my throat, gentle but unmistakably possessive, thumb pressing against my pulse. "The violence is still there," he said quietly. "It hasn't gone anywhere. I've just . . . refined its application."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning it's for private now," he said, and his voice dropped to that register that made my knees weak. "For you. For us. For our particular needs."
Heat flooded through me despite the cold air. "Speaking of private," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "want to see what I did with the spare bedroom?"
His eyes sharpened with interest. "The one you wouldn't let me enter during renovation?"
"That one."
I led him back inside, down the hallway past our bedroom to the door I'd kept locked for two weeks while contractors worked. My hand shook slightly as I turned the key—not from fear but from anticipation of his reaction.
The room was everything the word "littlespace" conjured and more. Soft pink walls, but sophisticated rose gold, not childish bubble gum. A reading nook with built-in bookshelves filled with my favorites. A vanity with a mirror bordered by soft lights.The closet I'd filled with specific outfits—some innocent, some decidedly not.
But the centerpiece was the bed—wrought iron painted white, with restraint points disguised as decorative scrollwork. Piles of pillows, and a toy chest that contained items definitely not meant for children.
"Clara," Alexei breathed, and I heard awe in his voice.
"You gave me control over decorating," I reminded him. "This is what I chose. A space where I can be little when I need it. Where you can be Daddy without the weight of the bratva."
He moved into the room slowly, taking in every detail. His fingers trailed over the bedframe, testing the hidden restraint points with professional interest.
"The construction workers—" he started.
"Thought I was a rich girl with questionable taste in vintage furniture," I finished. "The contractor was very discrete. Cash payment, no questions."
"You continue to surprise me," he said, turning to face me with heat in his eyes.
"Good," I said. "I'd hate to become predictable."
"Never," he assured me, then pulled me against him with sudden intensity. "Is this why you wanted to come home? To show me this?"
"Partially," I admitted. "Also because my feet hurt and I wanted champagne and I knew if we stayed longer, you'd end up having to handle the Morozov situation publicly."
"Always thinking three steps ahead," he murmured against my hair.
“Tonight I want to be your good girl," I finished. "Or your bad one. Dealer's choice."
His control visibly cracked, eyes going dark with the particular hunger I'd learned to recognize and crave.
"Both," he decided. "Always both with you."
Chapter 19
Clara
"Takeoffmytie,little one." His voice came out guttural, rougher than the cultured tones he'd used at the gala. This was the Pakhan's voice, the one that had commanded rooms full of killers, now focused entirely on me.
My body responded before my mind caught up, arousal flooding through me so fast it made me lightheaded. He looked devastating standing there—controlled violence wrapped in Italian wool, watching me with the focused intensity of a predator who'd already caught his prey but wanted to play with it first.
He didn't move from the doorway. Didn't step forward to meet me halfway. Just stood there, waiting, making me come to him. Making me choose this, every step of it.
My bare feet whispered across the plush rug, each step measured and deliberate. I could feel his gaze tracking my movement, cataloging every breath, every tremor, every sign of how badly I wanted this. The champagne had left my fingerscold, and they trembled slightly as I reached for his tie—deep burgundy silk that probably cost more than most people's rent.
The fabric was warm from his body heat, soft between my fingers. I had to rise up on my toes to reach the knot properly, bringing me close enough to smell his cologne mixed with the faint trace of champagne on his breath. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. Close enough that if I leaned forward just an inch, I'd be pressed against him.
