Bratva Daddy, page 13
"Why are you telling me this?" My voice came out steadier than expected.
"Because you need to know exactly what you're choosing." He leaned forward, and I could smell his cologne mixed with something darker—gun oil maybe?. "Three months ago, I personally broke a man's fingers, one by one, because he sold information about our shipments. He screamed after the third one, begged after the fifth, passed out at the seventh. I finished the job anyway."
The image should have disgusted me. Should have made me see him as a monster. But all I could think about was how those same hands had been so gentle with me, how they'd brought me ice cream and massaged my sore jaw and tucked me into bed with a tenderness that didn't match these confessions.
"Last year," he continued, relentless now, "I watched a traitor drown in concrete. Held him down while it hardened around his legs, then his waist, then his chest. It took three hours. My only regret was the mess—we had to tear down the entire warehouse floor to hide the evidence."
"Jesus," I whispered.
"No," he said sharply. "No God here. No absolution. I'm not confessing to seek forgiveness, Clara. I'm telling you who I am so you can make an informed choice."
He stood abruptly, pacing to the window with movements that reminded me of a caged predator. The city sprawled below us, lights twinkling like stars that had fallen to earth, and I wondered how many of those buildings he controlled, how many bodies were buried in their foundations.
"This is who you think you want," he said, back still to me. "A man who would choose the bratva over you every time. Who could order a murder, then come home and kiss you with the same mouth."
He turned then, and the look on his face made my breath catch—not because it was frightening, but because it was so carefully blank. Like he'd already accepted my rejection, already knew I'd run.
"I'm not a good man, Clara. I'm not even trying to be. I take what I want, I keep what's mine, and I destroy anything that threatens my family."
He moved back to the table but didn't sit, looming over me with all that barely contained violence radiating from every line of his body.
"I've done things that would make you sick," he said softly. "Things that would give you nightmares."
My hands shook slightly where they rested on the table, but I didn't pull them back. Didn't flinch when he leaned down, putting us at eye level.
"So I'll ask once more," he said, voice deadly soft. "Knowing this, knowing exactly what kind of monster I am, do you still want to see what's in that folder?"
The question hung between us like a blade waiting to drop. This was my exit, my last chance to walk away from whatever dark promise that folder contained. I could go back to my room, pack my things if he'd let me, try to return to a normal life where men didn't casually discuss murder over dinner.
But normal had never been enough. Normal was my father's indifference, society's empty smiles, a life of being decorative and meaningless. This man, this monster who was offering me something in that folder—he saw me. The real me. The girl who needed structure and consequences and someone strong enough to contain all my chaos.
He was offering me something real, even if it came soaked in blood.
I looked up at him, at those gray eyes that had gone dark with expectation of rejection, and made my choice.
"Yes," I said.
Alexei's expression shifted—surprise flickering across his features before he schooled them back to neutral. Like he'd been so prepared for rejection that acceptance caught him off-guard.
"I know who you are, Alexei." My voice stayed steady despite my racing heart. "You're also the man who didn't hurt me when you could have. Who makes sure I eat. Who built a Russian garden in the sky because you miss your grandmother."
"That doesn't erase the blood on my hands."
"No," I agreed. "But it means you're more than just violence. You're someone who creates as well as destroys. Who protects what matters to him." I reached for the folder, fingers trembling slightly. "And for some insane reason, I think I might matter to you."
"You have no idea," he said, so quietly I almost missed it.
My hands shook as I opened the folder. The first page made my breath catch—not because of what it said, but because of how carefully it had been crafted. This wasn't some downloaded template or hasty arrangement. Every word was handwritten in Alexei's precise script, the kind of penmanship that belonged to someone who'd learned to write with rulers and sharp consequences for sloppy letters.
"Relationship Agreement - Dominant/submissive Dynamic with DDlg Elements" stretched across the top in letters that managed to be both beautiful and imposing.
"This isn't a game," Alexei said, settling back into his chair with predatory grace. "If we do this, I own you completely. Not like now, where you're here because of your father. This would be you choosing to belong to me."
The weight of that—choosing—made my chest tight. For twenty-three years, I'd never chosen anything real. College had been selected for me, my social circle predetermined, even my rebellion carefully contained within acceptable limits. But this? This was a choice that would remake me completely.
I read the first section, voice catching slightly: "The submissive (hereafter 'little one' or 'baby girl') agrees to submit wholly to the Dominant (hereafter 'Daddy' or 'Sir') within the boundaries set by this contract."
The words on paper made everything real in a way our interactions hadn't. Seeing "Daddy" written in his careful handwriting, seeing myself referred to as "little one"—it was like reading my own deepest needs reflected back at me in ink.
"The terminology is important," Alexei said, business-like despite the heat I could see in his eyes. "When you're feeling small, vulnerable, in need of care, you're my little one. When you're feeling bratty, testing boundaries, you're my baby girl. The distinctions matter."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Between my legs, heat gathered with embarrassing intensity. Just reading about being his, having it formalized like this, was making me wet.
"Section one," he continued, voice dropping to that instructor tone that made me automatically pay attention. "Daily structure. You'll wake when I say, sleep when I say. Usually that means up by eight, asleep by eleven, but I'll adjust based on your needs."
"My needs?" I managed.
"If you're sick, recovering from punishment, or deep in little space, you might need more rest." The casual way he said 'recovering from punishment' made my thighs clench. "I'll choose your clothes unless you've earned the privilege to select your own. You'll eat every meal, no exceptions. No more pushing food around your plate or claiming you're not hungry."
"What if I'm really not—"
"Then you'll eat anyway," he cut me off. "Your body belongs to me, which means maintaining it properly is non-negotiable. Three meals, two snacks if needed, plenty of water. I've watched you forget to eat for entire days when you're stressed. That stops now."
The commanding tone should have made me angry. Should have triggered every feminist instinct I'd cultivated in college. Instead, it made me feel . . . safe. Like finally someone cared enough to notice when I was hurting myself through neglect.
"But," he continued, and his voice softened slightly, "you'll also have dedicated little space time. At least an hour a day where you can just... be small. Color, watch cartoons, play with toys—whatever helps you decompress from the world."
"Toys?" The word squeaked out.
"I'll provide comfort items," he said, and there was something almost tender in his expression. "Stuffed animals, soft blankets, things that smell like me for when I'm not there. When you need to not think, to just be held and safe, that's what I'm for."
The tenderness mixed with control made my stomach clench with want. This wasn't just about dominance—it was about care. About someone strong enough to hold all my pieces, even the ones I'd hidden for years.
"What about my life outside?" I asked, needing to know if this was a prettier cage or something more. "My charity work? The literacy foundation?"
"Encouraged," he said immediately, and the relief that flooded through me was embarrassing in its intensity. "A little needs purpose, needs to feel useful. Your charity work is important to you, therefore it's important to me. You'll continue it, expand it if you want. After we get the money from your father, when you belong to me, you will be free to live your life. But—"
"But?"
"But I'll know where you are, who you're with, always." His eyes held mine, unflinching. "Not because I don't trust you, but because your safety becomes my responsibility. Every meeting, every event, every coffee date with friends—I'll know about it. Security when needed, tracking always."
"That's . . . invasive."
"That's protective," he corrected. "You'll be mine, Clara. Mine to care for, mine to protect, mine to cherish. That means I need to know you're safe at all times."
I looked back at the contract, at the careful subsections about daily routines. Wake-up procedures that included him bringing me coffee, checking if I'd slept well, choosing my clothes while I showered. Meal protocols that involved sitting with him, eating what he provided, thanking him for taking care of me. Bedtime rituals with skincare routines, story time if I'd been good, being tucked in with specific phrases of ownership and care.
"This is incredibly detailed," I observed.
"Structure helps littles feel safe," he said simply. "Knowing what to expect, what's required, what will happen—it removes the chaos that makes you anxious. You'll never have to guess what I want or need from you. It will all be explicit."
"And if I break the rules?"
His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile but close. "Then you'll face consequences. But that's section two."
The promise in his voice made me squirm in my chair. We both knew I'd break rules—it was in my nature to test boundaries, to push until I found the edges. But now those edges would be clearly defined, the consequences predetermined. No more screaming into the void of indifference. Every action would matter because someone would be watching, caring, correcting.
"Turn the page," he commanded softly.
Heat flooded my face as I read the header for the second time, as if the words might change. "Physical Discipline and Punishments" stayed exactly the same, written in Alexei's precise hand like a promise.
His voice remained clinical, but his eyes burned into mine with intensity that made my breath shallow. "Punishments fit the infraction. Small defiances—not finishing your meal, talking back, minor sass—might earn corner time or writing lines."
"Writing lines?" I couldn't hide my disbelief. "Like in elementary school?"
"Exactly like that. 'I will not skip lunch' written one hundred times has a way of making the lesson stick." He paused. "Though knowing you, you'd probably find a way to make even that defiant. Dotting your i's with little hearts or something equally bratty."
The fact that he already knew me that well made something warm bloom in my chest.
"Moderate infractions," he continued, "like deliberately disobeying a direct order or throwing things—yes, I'm anticipating that—means spanking. Something you already know about. Hand only at first. We'll discuss implements like paddles or belts only after trust is fully established."
My thighs clenched involuntarily at the memory of being over his lap, his hand connecting with my ass while I called him Daddy. That had been almost gentle compared to what he was describing now.
"Dangerous behavior is different," his voice darkened. "Putting yourself at risk, ignoring safety protocols, anything that could result in actual harm—that earns serious punishment. The kind that leaves marks for days, that makes you remember every time you sit down why following safety rules matters."
"And lying?" I asked, though the answer was already there in the contract.
"Lying to me earns the worst punishments." Each word came out sharp as glass. "I need absolute honesty or this doesn't work. You lie about where you are, who you're with, how you're feeling, what you need—that breaks the foundation of trust this is built on. The punishment for that would be severe enough that you'd never consider lying again."
The promise in his voice should have been terrifying. Instead, it made me wet enough that I worried about leaving marks on his expensive chairs.
"What about rewards?" I asked, voice smaller than intended. "You mentioned good girls get treats."
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but made my stomach flip anyway. "Good girls get everything they need and most of what they want. Extra story time before bed. Special outings—museums, bookstores, that little tea shop you mentioned loving. Choosing dinner, picking the movie we watch, sleeping in on weekends."
He paused, eyes tracking over my face with an intensity that made me squirm.
"And orgasms," he added, voice dropping to that dark velvet that made my core clench. "Good girls get to come. Bad girls get edged until they're crying, begging, promising anything for release."
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Turn to section three," he commanded.
My hands shook as I flipped the page. "Sexual Boundaries and Expectations" was somehow worse than the punishment section. The frank list of acts made my face burn: "The submissive agrees to: oral service on demand, sexual availability unless safeword is used, orgasm control and denial, light bondage, sensory play, anal training at Dominant's discretion."
I couldn't read it out loud. My panties were already soaked through, and speaking these words might make me combust entirely.
"You don't come without permission," Alexei stated, taking over when my voice failed. "Ever. Your orgasms belong to me to give or withhold. You touch yourself only when I allow it. You come only when I command it."
"That's . . ." I swallowed hard. "That seems extreme."
"It is," he agreed. "Your pleasure becomes my responsibility. I'll learn your body better than you know it yourself. Every spot that makes you gasp, every touch that makes you wet, every combination that makes you fall apart. Your needs will be met, even ones you can't articulate, because I'll know them before you do."
"How?"
"Because you'll be mine to study." The possessiveness in his voice made my nipples harden visibly through my sweater. His eyes tracked the change, darkening further. "I'll catalog every reaction, every sound, every tell. Within a month, I'll be able to make you come with just my voice. Within two, you'll be so conditioned to my touch that just my hand on your throat will have you dripping."
I pressed my thighs together, trying to relieve the ache his words created. "And you? What are your boundaries?"
The question seemed to surprise him. "Mine?"
"You're human too," I pointed out. "You must have limits, things you won't do."
He considered this, and something softened in his expression. "No permanent marks—nothing that scars or damages permanently. No sharing—you're mine alone. No one else touches you, watches you, participates in any way. No public humiliation beyond mild correction—I won't embarrass you in front of others, won't make you feel small in the bad way."
"The bad way?"
"There's feeling little and cherished, and there's feeling worthless and demeaned. I'll never make you feel the second." He paused. "And absolutely no mixing bratva business with our dynamic. When I'm handling family business, you're safe at home, separate from that world. What we have exists apart from the violence."
The distinction mattered more than I expected. He was offering to keep me separate from the blood and danger, to create a space where I could be soft and vulnerable without worrying about his other life intruding.
"Your safeword," he said suddenly. "Choose carefully. It needs to be something you'll remember even when you're deep in subspace, something that will immediately stop everything."
I thought about it, sorting through words that might work. Nothing sexual, nothing that might come up naturally in play. Something meaningful but not traumatic.
"Matryoshka," I said finally.
"Russian nesting dolls?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Because this feels like finding myself inside layers I didn't know existed," I explained, face heating at the vulnerability of the admission. "Each smaller doll hidden inside, protected, held. And because it's Russian, like your grandmother's garden. Something beautiful despite being hidden."
Something flickered across his face—surprise maybe, or approval. "Matryoshka," he repeated, accent making the word musical. "Good choice. Memorable, meaningful, impossible to mistake for anything else."
He made a note in the margin of the contract, and I watched his hands move with the same focus I'd started bringing to everything about him. Those hands that had killed seventeen men, that had brought me tea and comfort, that would soon own every inch of my body if I signed this contract.
"Section four—hard limits," Alexei said, and his voice softened in a way I hadn't expected. "Tell me what you absolutely won't do. This part isn't negotiable—these are boundaries I'll never cross."
The shift from commanding to careful made my chest tight. He was giving me power here, real power, in a dynamic where he'd hold most of the control. These would be my walls, my absolute nos, and he was promising to respect them completely.
I thought about it, really considered what would break me versus what would just push me. The distinction mattered. I wanted to be pushed, wanted to find my edges, but there were some lines that couldn't be crossed without destroying something fundamental in me.
"No bathroom control," I said finally. "I've read about that in some dynamics, but it's not for me. That level of control would make me feel less than human."
He nodded, making notes in the margin. "Understood. What else?"
"No food restriction as punishment." The words came out faster now, more certain. "I already have a complicated relationship with eating. Using food as a weapon would be . . ." I paused, searching for the right word. "Damaging."
"You'll eat properly because I require it, but never as punishment or reward," he confirmed. "Continue."
