Page 21 of Bratva Daddy

Chapter 5

Clara

Morninglightfilteredthroughthose bulletproof windows, painting rectangular patterns across the Egyptian cotton sheets I'd twisted into knots during another sleepless night. My body ached from tension, from fighting sleep, from the constant awareness that Alexei Volkov was somewhere in this penthouse, probably already awake, probably already planning new ways to establish his dominance.

There was something new in the room. A dark binder that hadn’t been there when I’d gone to sleep, lying on my bedside table.

Had someone been in here while I slept? Alexei? The housekeeper? Either way, it was a reminder that I didn’t have any privacy at all. I picked it up the folder—my name was embossed in gold across wine-dark leather.

Itsmelledgood. Like crazy good. Clara Albright, it read, not Petrov. My fingers found the edge, lifted the cover with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.

I noticed his handwriting hit me first—controlled, precise, every letter formed with the same deliberate intention he brought to everything. No doctor's scrawl or hurried notes. This had been crafted, considered, each word chosen to establish exactly what he expected from me.

Rules for Clara Albright

My stomach clenched at the formality of it. Not "Rules" alone, but specifically for me, personalized tyranny in expensive ink.

1. Breakfast will be served at 8:30 AM sharp. You will be dressed and present.

2. Lunch will be served at 1:00 PM.

3. Dinner will be served at 7:00 PM.

4. Bedtime is 10:00 PM. Lights out means lights out.

A schedule. He'd given me a fucking schedule like I was a child at summer camp. My fingers tightened on the leather, anger flooding through me at the presumption of it. But underneath the anger, something else stirred. Structure. Boundaries. The exact opposite of my father's indifference.

5. You will address me as Sir or Mr. Volkov at all times.

6. No profanity.

7. No destruction of property.

8. No refusing meals.

I kept reading, each rule tightening something in my chest that felt dangerously like anticipation.

9. No touching yourself without permission.

The words seemed to pulse on the page. Heat flooded my face, my chest, pooled low in my belly with mortifying intensity. How would he even know? Were there cameras in the bathroom? Had he watched me last night when I'd—no. I couldn't think about that. Couldn't acknowledge that I'd already broken this rule, that I'd come with his name on my lips, imagining scenarios I should be horrified by.

But my body didn't care what I should feel. My nipples had hardened against the silk nightgown, and I pressed my thighs together against the ache that had started the moment I'd read those words. Without permission. Meaning permission might be granted. Meaning he'd want to know, want to control even that most private act.

10. No attempting to contact anyone outside this penthouse.

11. No lying. I will know.

12. No skipping meals.

13. Three meals must be consumed daily, completely.

14. You will wear the clothes provided.

15. You will maintain appropriate hygiene.

16. You will speak when spoken to.

17. No raised voices.