Page 15 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

I stayed standing, weight shifted to one hip in a pose I'd learned from watching other girls challenge boys who thought they were in charge.

Except those boys had always backed down, had always softened, had always let the girls win.

Looking at Alexei's face, I knew with absolute certainty he'd never backed down from anything in his life.

"Make me."

The words came out breathier than I'd intended, more invitation than challenge. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise maybe, or approval, or that dangerous heat I'd seen last night when I'd called him Daddy.

He set down his phone with deliberate precision, each movement controlled, measured.

When he stood, I realized again how big he was—not just tall but broad, taking up space in a way that made the kitchen feel smaller.

He moved around the island slowly, giving me time to retreat, to apologize, to sit like he'd commanded.

I held my ground even as my heart hammered against my ribs.

"Little girls who can't follow simple rules," he said, voice dropping to that dark velvet that made my knees weak, "need help remembering them."

Little girls.

The way he said those words, the way he looked at me like he could see through my defiance to the desperate need underneath, made wetness gather between my thighs.

He stopped just inches away, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made me want to lean into him, to bury my face in his chest and breathe him in.

Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, the height difference making me feel small, protected, owned.

"Sit down, Clara," he said, each word precise as a surgical cut, "or I'll put you in that chair myself."

The threat—no, the promise—sent electricity through every nerve. I could see it so clearly: his hands on my waist, lifting me, placing me exactly where he wanted me. Would he be gentle? Rough? Would his hands linger, making sure I understood who was in control?

"You wouldn't," I whispered, but we both heard the hope in it.

"Try me."

Two words. That's all it took to make my walls crumble. The defiance I'd worn like armor all morning dissolved under the weight of his will. He would absolutely put me in that chair. Would probably enjoy it. And the worst part—the part that made me hate myself—was that I'd enjoy it too.

I moved to the stool, trying to make it look like my choice, like I was sitting because I wanted to and not because his presence had turned my legs to water. The skirt rode up as I sat, exposing most of my thighs, and I saw his hands clench slightly at his sides.

"Good girl," he murmured, and those two words hit me like a drug, warmth flooding through my chest and settling between my legs.

I hated him for knowing exactly what to say. Hated myself more for responding to it. This wasn't who I was—some submissive girl who got wet from being told what to do. Except apparently it was, because my panties were soaked and all he'd done was tell me to sit.

I wanted more of this. Wanted more of his sternness, his discipline.

He returned to his own seat, picking up his phone like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just dismantled my defiance with two words and a promise.

The plate in front of me steamed gently, still warm despite my lateness.

He'd kept it warm. Had probably reheated it at exactly 8:30, knowing I'd be late, knowing I'd test him.

"Eat," he said without looking at me.

For a moment, I considered it.

Then I decided to see what would happen if I did something bad. Something really bad.

The plate hit the wall with a satisfying crash that should have felt like victory.

Porcelain shattered, oatmeal and fruit creating an abstract painting against his pristine white wall.

The sound echoed through the penthouse, sharp and definitive—the sound of Clara Albright finally doing something that couldn't be controlled, couldn't be managed, couldn't be fixed with calm words and steady hands.

Alexei didn't even flinch. He set down his spoon with the same precision he brought to everything, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and stood.

No anger in his movements, no rage in those gray eyes.

Just that terrible calm that made me want to throw something else, anything to crack that perfect control.

"Wait here," he said, like I was a dog who'd pissed on the carpet.

He disappeared down the hallway toward his office, leaving me standing among the destruction I'd created. My chest heaved with adrenaline and something else—disappointment maybe, that he hadn't grabbed me, hadn't yelled, hadn't given me the violent response that would have justified my hatred.

When he returned, my stomach dropped to my feet.

He carried something small, pink, made of what looked like silicone. It took my brain several seconds to process what I was seeing, and when understanding hit, heat flooded my face with such intensity I thought I might faint.

A pacifier. An adult pacifier, because of course it was adult-sized, designed for exactly this purpose.

Not cheap either—this had been purchased deliberately, probably custom-ordered, definitely expensive.

He'd planned for this. Had anticipated my tantrums and prepared the most humiliating response possible.

"You’re going to act like a toddler having tantrums?" His accented voice was terrifyingly calm, each word measured and deliberate. "Then you'll be treated like one."

"This is insane." I backed away but he followed, matching each of my retreating steps with an advancing one. "That's—you can't actually think—"

My back hit the bookshelf, leather spines digging into my shoulder blades. Trapped. He stood close enough that I could see the faint scar through his eyebrow, close enough that his body heat made my skin prickle with awareness.

“I can.”

"That's... you can't be serious," I managed, but my voice wavered, betraying me. Between my legs, heat gathered with shameful insistence. This was humiliating. Degrading. Everything I should hate. So why was my body responding like this was exactly what it had been waiting for?

"Open wide," he commanded.

The word hung between us, simple and impossible. I pressed my lips together, shaking my head, though we both knew how this would end. He had all the power here—physical, situational, psychological.

"Clara." My name on his lips was a warning. "Open your mouth."

I kept my lips pressed tight, staring at him with all the defiance I could muster. Let him force it. Let him show his true colors. Let him be the monster I needed him to be.

Instead, he simply pinched my nose closed.

The gesture was almost gentle, thumb and forefinger applying just enough pressure to seal my nostrils. No violence, no rage, just practical efficiency. He waited with inhuman patience while my lungs began to burn, while my body betrayed me with its need for oxygen.

I lasted maybe thirty seconds before I had to gasp for air.

The pacifier slipped between my lips with ease, large enough to fill my mouth, the shield pressing against my lips. It tasted like nothing, clean and sterile, but the weight of it on my tongue made my whole body flush with humiliation.

"There we go," he murmured, thumb brushing my cheek as tears pricked at my eyes. Not from pain—there was no pain—but from the sheer mortification of standing there with a pink pacifier in my mouth while my panties soaked through with arousal I couldn't explain.

"You'll keep this in for one hour," he said, voice steady as if he was explaining a business contract. "If you remove it, it becomes two hours. If you remove it again, three. I can do this all day, little girl. Can you?"

I made a sound around the pacifier—protest, fury, something—but it came out muffled and infantile, exactly as he'd intended.

The humiliation burned through me like fire, but underneath it, something else blazed just as hot.

I was helpless. Silenced. Completely under his control. And my traitorous body loved it.

"Nod if you understand."

I wanted to spit it out. Wanted to scratch his face, throw things, scream until the neighbors called the police.

But more than that—and this was the truly sick part—I wanted his approval.

Wanted to be someone’s good girl, the one who followed rules and accepted consequences and earned praise in that dark velvet voice.

I nodded.

"Good girl," he said, and those two words sent warmth flooding through me like expensive whiskey. My nipples hardened against the cropped sweater, visible through the thin fabric, and his eyes flicked down for just a moment before returning to my face.

He stepped back, leaving me pressed against the bookshelf with a pacifier in my mouth and wetness running down my thighs. The loss of his proximity felt like punishment all on its own.

"One hour," he reminded me, checking his watch. "I'll be in my office. You're free to move around the penthouse, read, watch television if you've earned those privileges. But that stays in your mouth. And Clara?" He paused at the hallway entrance. "I'll know if you cheat."

Then he was gone, leaving me alone with my humiliation and the devastating arousal that came with it.

I stood there for several minutes, afraid to move, afraid that walking would make me more aware of how wet I was, how my body had responded to being treated like a naughty child who needed discipline.

The pacifier filled my mouth, making swallowing awkward, forcing me to focus on the simple act of breathing around it.

This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? When I'd thrown that plate, I'd been begging for consequences. Well, now I had them.