Page 24 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

"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.