Page 52 of Enforcer Daddy
The doors opened to familiar luxury—marble floors that reflected the chandelier's light, that particular scent of Clara's lavender candles mixed with expensive leather and something indefinably Alexei. Home, but not mine. A place where I was always the younger brother, the enforcer, the one who solved problems with fists rather than words.
Today I needed words. Today I needed my brother's experience with something I'd never thought I'd have.
The leather journal pressed against my ribs where I'd tucked it inside my jacket—months of research, carefully transcribed articles, notes from forums where men like me tried to understand how to be what someone needed. Every page evidence that Dmitry Volkov, who'd broken bones without blinking, was terrified of breaking something far more fragile.
I found them in Alexei's study, a tableau of domestic dominance that made my chest tight. My brother sat behind his massive oak desk, reviewing construction permits with the same focus he brought to everything—absolute, unwavering, successful. But it was Clara who drew my attention, curled in the window seat with a book, legs tucked under her, looking younger than her twenty-three years.
The burgundy collar around her throat caught the light when she turned a page. Not hidden, not displayed, just present. Like breathing. Like belonging.
This was what I wanted with Eva. This casual intimacy, this unquestioned dynamic, this peace that came from established roles and absolute trust. The thought of her made my hands clench.
"Dmitry." Alexei's voice pulled me from my thoughts, his eyebrow rising slightly. My brother had cataloged every tell I'd ever had, could read my nervousness like a neon sign. "You're exactly on time."
"Traffic was light," I said.
Clara looked up from her book, those pale eyes that missed nothing taking in my rigid posture, the way I held my left arm slightly pressed to my side to keep the journal in place. She uncurled from the window seat with fluid grace, book marking her place with a finger.
"Dmitry," she said warmly, moving to stand beside Alexei's chair. Her hand found his shoulder automatically, his hand covering hers without thought—practiced, natural, theirs. "Coffee? You look like you could use it."
"No." The word came out too sharp, and I forced myself to soften. "Thank you, but no."
Alexei closed the permits folder with deliberate precision, giving me his complete attention in that way that had terrified bigger men than me. But this was my brother, not the pakhan. This was the man who'd held our family together when our father died, who'd built an empire from blood and discipline, who'd somehow found a way to have this—Clara, collars, contracts, and contentment.
"This isn't bratva business," he observed, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked, familiar as our father's voice had once been.
"No," I agreed, pulling out the journal finally, letting its weight settle in my hands. "It's personal."
Clara's eyes tracked to the worn leather cover. Her hand squeezed Alexei's shoulder slightly—support, encouragement, that silent communication established couples had.
"How personal?" Alexei asked, though his eyes on the journal suggested he already suspected.
I'd rehearsed this conversation driving over. But standing here, watching my brother and his Little exist in such easy harmony, every prepared speech crumbled.
"I need help structuring a DDlg relationship," I said, the words falling into the study's silence like stones into still water. Each word felt like stripping armor, leaving me exposed in ways that had nothing to do with physical vulnerability.
Clara shifted closer to Alexei, her hand finding his automatically—not seeking comfort but offering it, that unconscious intimacy that made my chest ache. They touchedconstantly, I'd noticed. Small gestures that spoke of established trust, negotiated boundaries, the kind of safety I wanted to build with Eva.
If she'd let me. If she'd stop fighting long enough to see what I was offering.
"You've found someone," Alexei said, not a question but that older brother certainty that had always irritated and comforted in equal measure. "Someone specific."
I nodded, fingers tracing the journal's worn edges. "She's—" How did I describe Eva? Feral and fragile? Defiant and desperate? Mine, even though I had no right to claim her? "Complicated."
"They always are," Clara said, and her smile held memories of her own complications, her own journey from kidnapped leverage to cherished Little. "The ones worth having are never simple."
"Tell me about her," Alexei commanded, slipping into pakhan mode without meaning to—that tone that demanded truth and accepted no deflection.
"I can't." The refusal came out harder than intended, protective instinct flaring. "I'm protecting someone who needs protection," I said, deliberately vague. "Someone who's never had structure, never had safety, never had anyone give enough of a damn to set boundaries that make sense."
Clara made a soft sound of understanding. "A survivor."
The word fit Eva perfectly—not a victim, never that, but someone who'd survived things that would have broken others. Who'd survived them alone, with nothing but street smarts and stubbornness.
"How long has she been with you?" Clara asked, gentle but probing.
"Two weeks. But obviously, I've been preparing longer."
I opened the journal to a middle section, pages covered in notes about contracts, about negotiation, about the difference between domination and dominance. Clara leaned forward to read, making small approving sounds at certain passages.
