Page 16 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

I should have been planning escape. Should have been figuring out how to use this time to find a weapon, a phone, anything that could get me out of this penthouse.

Instead, I was counting the minutes until he'd come back, until he'd remove the pacifier and maybe, if I'd been good, tell me I'd done well.

God, what was wrong with me?

M y jaw ached with that specific soreness that came from muscles held too long in an unnatural position.

I lay on the bed where I'd collapsed after the longest hour of my life, the pacifier finally removed and hidden in my nightstand drawer like evidence of a crime.

Or maybe evidence of something else—submission, need, the mortifying discovery that being controlled like that had left my panties soaked through.

The soft knock barely registered at first. I'd grown used to Alexei moving through the penthouse like he owned it—which he did—without announcing himself. But this was different. Polite. Like he was asking permission to enter the room he'd trapped me in.

"Come in," I said, voice rough from disuse and the slight soreness in my throat.

He entered carrying a tray that looked absurdly domestic in his hands. This man who'd just spent an hour enforcing the most humiliating punishment I could imagine was now playing nurse, and the contradiction made my head spin.

Chamomile tea with honey—I could smell it from across the room. Ice water with a thin slice of lemon. And strangest of all, a small cup of what looked like vanilla ice cream, the expensive kind from the Italian place on Madison.

"For your jaw," he said, setting the tray on my nightstand with careful precision. "The first time is always uncomfortable."

First time.

First implied second, third, however many times it took until I learned to follow his rules without testing them. Or maybe—and this thought sent heat through me—until we both admitted I was testing them because I wanted the consequences.

He sat on the edge of my bed, and I didn't pull away. Should have. Should have kicked him, screamed, maintained some kind of boundary between us. Instead, I lay there as his fingers found my jaw, gentle as butterfly wings, testing for damage his punishment might have caused.

"Does this hurt?" He pressed slightly at the hinge of my jaw, watching my face for signs of pain.

"It's sore," I admitted, hating how small my voice sounded.

His fingers began to massage in small circles, working out the tension with surprising expertise.

Had he done this before? To other women he'd punished with pacifiers and rules and consequences that left them wet and confused?

The thought made jealousy flare in my chest, which was insane.

I didn't want his attention. Didn't want his hands on me. Didn't want—

"Relax," he murmured, fingers continuing their gentle work. "Fighting it makes it worse."

I wanted to tell him I was fighting everything—his touch, his kindness, the way my body melted under his hands like ice in summer.

But his fingers were magic, finding knots of tension I didn't know existed, working them out with patience that didn't match the man who'd forced a pacifier between my lips.

"Why?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

His hands stilled. "Why what?"

"Why not just hit me like my father would?" The words came out in a rush, like water through a broken dam. "Why the rules and the . . . the pacifier and now this? Why not just beat me until I comply? It would be simpler."

His hands remained on my face, but the massage had stopped. I could feel him looking at me, those gray eyes probably cataloguing every emotion that flickered across my features. When he spoke, his voice was softer than I'd heard it, almost gentle.

"Because you're not here to be damaged, little one." The endearment made my chest tight. "You're here to learn that actions have consequences, and that someone cares enough to enforce them."

"This isn't caring," I protested, but the words came out weak, uncertain. "This is control."

"Sometimes," he said, fingers resuming their gentle massage, "they're the same thing."

The words hung between us like a confession. Was he admitting he cared about me? Or just explaining his philosophy of ownership? His fingers worked the other side of my jaw now, and I couldn't help the small sound of relief that escaped as the tension released.

"It sounds like your father never set boundaries for you," he continued, voice thoughtful.

"Never cared enough to correct you, guide you, teach you that your actions matter.

You've been screaming into a void your whole life, haven't you?

Acting out, hoping someone would notice, would care enough to stop you. "

Tears pricked at my eyes because he was right.

Every rebellion, every small defiance against my father's indifference had been a cry for attention, for proof that I mattered enough to discipline.

And now here was Alexei Volkov, a criminal who'd kidnapped me, giving me exactly what I'd always craved.

"I hate you," I whispered, but we both heard the lie in it.

"No," he said simply. "You hate that you don't hate this."

His fingers left my jaw, and I almost whimpered at the loss. He stood, adjusting his suit jacket with that particular precision that meant he was rebuilding his walls, becoming the pakhan again instead of whoever he'd been for the last few minutes.

"Drink the tea," he instructed, back to his commanding voice. "It will help with the soreness. The ice cream is there if you want it. Small spoonfuls—your jaw needs rest."

He moved toward the door, and panic flared in my chest. I didn't want him to leave. Didn't want to be alone with my confusion and the wetness between my thighs and the memory of his gentle fingers on my face.

"Alexei," I called, his name feeling foreign on my tongue.

He paused but didn't turn. "Yes?"

"The hour with the . . . with that thing in my mouth." I couldn't say pacifier, couldn't acknowledge what I'd submitted to. "I kept it in. The whole time."

"I know," he said softly. "I was watching."

Of course he was. Probably had cameras everywhere, had seen me standing in the living room for twenty minutes, had watched me carefully attempt to read with it in my mouth, had observed every moment of my humiliation and arousal.

"Was I . . ." I swallowed hard, throat clicking. "Was I good?"

The silence stretched so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, just before he left:

"You were perfect, little one."

The door closed with a soft click, and I was alone with chamomile tea and vanilla ice cream and praise that made my whole body burn with need. I touched my jaw where his fingers had been, trying to hate the tenderness but failing completely.

He was right. I didn't hate this. I hated how much I wanted it—wanted him to set more rules just so I could break them, wanted consequences that came with gentle fingers and soft praise, wanted to be his good girl in ways that had nothing to do with leverage and everything to do with the heat that pooled in my stomach whenever he called me little one.

Tomorrow I would probably break more rules. And he would punish me. And then he'd take care of me after, because somehow, impossibly, Alexei Volkov cared about the woman he'd kidnapped.

I 'd been lying in mandatory darkness for forty-seven minutes, every nerve in my body singing with need I couldn't ignore.

I'd obediently gone to bed at ten o'clock like his rules demanded, turned off the lights, slipped under expensive sheets that felt like silk against my oversensitized skin.

But sleep was impossible when my body burned like this, when every shift of fabric against my nipples sent sparks straight to my core.

The day replayed in torturous detail. His fingers on my jaw.

The pacifier filling my mouth. "Good girl" in that dark velvet voice.

The way he'd looked at me when I'd asked if I'd been good, like he was proud of me, like I'd pleased him.

My thighs clenched involuntarily, and I bit my lip hard enough to hurt.

Rule number nine haunted me like a ghost: No touching yourself without permission.

Such a simple rule. Such an impossible rule when I was this wet, this desperate, this consumed by need I'd never felt before.

My hand drifted to my breast without conscious decision, finding my nipple hard and sensitive through the silk nightgown.

Just this, I told myself. Just innocent touching, not really breaking the rule.

But my other hand was already moving south, fingertips tracing the inside of my thigh with feather-light touches that made me shiver.

The wetness between my legs had soaked through my panties hours ago, probably leaving marks on his expensive sheets.

Evidence of what his control did to me, how my body betrayed every protest my mouth made.

"No touching without permission," I whispered into the darkness, but my fingers were already at the edge of my panties, already sliding beneath the fabric to find myself swollen and desperate.

What would he do if he caught me? The thought sent electricity through my entire body. Would he throw open the door, those gray eyes dark with disapproval and something else? Would he grab my wrist, pull my hand away, tell me exactly how naughty I'd been?

My fingers found my clit, circling slowly while my other hand pinched my nipple through the silk. In my mind, it was his hand between my legs, his fingers exploring what belonged to him, what I'd touched without permission.

"Such a naughty little girl," he'd say, and I'd nod, agree, apologize even as my hips rose to meet his touch. "Breaking my rules already. What am I going to do with you?"

I slipped two fingers inside myself, gasping at how easily they slid in, how ready I was.

In the fantasy, these were his fingers, longer and thicker than mine, stretching me while I squirmed and pleaded.

He'd know exactly how to touch me, exactly what I needed, but he'd make me wait, make me beg, make me admit what I really wanted.

"Please," I whispered to the empty room, to the phantom Alexei who existed only in my desperate imagination. "Please, Daddy."

The word sent lightning through me. Daddy. Not sarcastically this time, not thrown like a weapon, but whispered like a prayer. Someone who'd take care of me by taking control, who'd punish me when I was bad and praise me when I was good, who'd know exactly what I needed even when I didn't.

My fingers moved faster, my back arching off the bed as the fantasy evolved.

He'd bend me over his knee for breaking this rule, spanking me until I cried, until I promised to be good, until my ass was red and my pussy dripped onto his expensive suit pants.

Then he'd soothe the sting with those surprisingly gentle hands, tell me I was forgiven, that I was his good girl, his perfect little one.

"Daddy," I moaned into the pillow, muffling the sound even though the walls were probably soundproof. "Please, Daddy, I need—"

What did I need? To come? To be caught? To be owned so thoroughly that even my orgasms belonged to him?

All of it. I needed all of it.

I imagined him inside me, stretching me fuller than my fingers ever could, taking what was his while I surrendered everything.

He'd hold me down, tell me exactly how to move, when to come, what to say.

He'd make me call him Daddy while he fucked me, make me thank him for the privilege, make me beg for permission to come around his cock.

"Such a needy little girl," he'd growl in my ear. "My needy little girl. You're going to come for Daddy now, aren't you? Going to be my good girl and come all over my cock?"

"Yes, Daddy," I gasped, fingers working frantically. "Please, Daddy, please let me—"

The orgasm hit like a lightning strike, back bowing off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through me. I bit the pillow to muffle my scream, but his name—his title—escaped anyway. "Daddy!" Muffled by cotton but still audible, still evidence of what I'd done, what I'd wanted, what I'd become.

I came harder than I ever had before, my whole body shaking with the force of it, pussy clenching around my fingers as I imagined it was him, imagined he was filling me, claiming me, making me his in ways that had nothing to do with debt or leverage.

The aftermath hit like a bucket of cold water.

I lay there panting, fingers still buried inside myself, and the full weight of what I'd done crashed over me. I'd masturbated to thoughts of my kidnapper. Had called him Daddy and meant it. Had imagined him punishing me, controlling me, owning me, and had come so hard I'd seen stars.

"What is wrong with me?" I whispered to the darkness.

I was getting off on being kidnapped. On being controlled by my father's enemy. On rules and consequences and a man who'd stolen my freedom but given me something else—structure, boundaries, the attention I'd craved my whole life.

And I was loving it.