Page 31 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

S loane

By the time the sun started to sink behind the skyline, I had searched every corner of this penthouse.

Twice.

There was a maintenance stairwell behind a service panel in the laundry wing that might— might —connect to the freight elevator, but it was sealed with a biometric lock that I would need to carve off someone’s body parts to bypass.

The ventilation ducts were laughably small, and the balcony system was glass sealed, climate controlled, zero handholds.

He’d built this place like a fortress or a vault.

Or a cage.

So, when I finally returned to the main living space, body sore and heart restless, I expected to find him in his office again or maybe not at all.

Instead, I smelled something cooking.

I froze in the hallway, one hand grazing the corner of the doorway as I peered inside the kitchen. He was standing at the stove.

Nikolai Morozov.

The Hammer himself.

Cooking.

He was wearing a black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the same fitted jeans he’d worn all day, and he was stirring something that smelled like butter and onions and slow-simmered comfort food.

He moved with a confident familiarity, like he’d done this many times before, and it was confusing.

A man like him wouldn’t cook for himself or anyone else… Right?

There were cast-iron pots and pans on the range. A cutting board covered in herbs. The lights were low, the city behind him a wash of gold and blue.

I stepped into the kitchen slowly, my ballet flats quiet on the marble. He turned when he heard me, and that soft smile— that smile —spread across his face like he’d been waiting for me.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I nodded before I realized I was even doing it.

He gestured toward the wide island where two places had already been set: linen napkins, vintage silverware, crystal glasses of still water.

“You’re… cooking?”

He smirked. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know. You just seem more like a ‘have someone else do it’ kind of guy.”

“I am,” he said. “But not tonight.”

He lifted the lid off one of the pots, fragrant steam rising. “It’s pelmeni . My mother’s recipe.”

Something in his voice shifted when he said that. Just a little.

I slid onto the stool and watched him work, the gentle rhythm of it somehow settling the chaos still rattling around in my chest. I didn’t ask questions, at least not yet, but my curiosity was thick in the air between us.

He plated the dumplings gently, ladled broth over them, then set the dish in front of me. I took hold of my spoon and dipped into it, bringing it to my mouth. The first bite tasted like butter, dill, and warmth. I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes until he spoke again.

“She used to make that for us on New Year’s Eve. Every year. Even when things got… bad.”

I looked up.

Nikolai was leaning against the counter now, arms folded, watching me like this mattered more than he was letting on.

“When we left Russia,” he said quietly, “it wasn’t because we wanted to. My father was Bratva. He was killed in a car bombing in Moscow. My mother died the same day. Same bomb.”

My heart stopped.

He continued, voice even.

“Sergei and Maxim were there when it happened. Ivan was just a kid. I was fifteen. We lost everything in one night—home, family, protection. The Volkovs moved in fast. Claimed the territory like they were trying to win a race.”

I swallowed hard, setting my spoon down gently.

“We ran,” he explained. “Landed in New York under an assumed name. Maxim negotiated with one of the old bosses from Brighton Beach. Bought us time. But Boston…” He looked out the window. “Boston was supposed to be our fresh start.”

“What happened after that?” I asked softly.

His jaw ticked. “Now we hold a corner of the city, but we’re still new blood here. Still earning our seat at the table.”

“And me?” I whispered.

He looked at me.

Soft. Steadfast. Unflinching.

“You’re going to make sure we keep it.”

I stared at him, chest tightening, heart thudding in my ears.

“Keep what?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Power,” he answered simply. “This city. Our name. Everything we’ve built.”

The words landed heavily between us.

“I don’t understand,” I replied. “I’m not… this isn’t my world.”

He nodded slowly, as if he expected that answer.

“But you walked into it anyway,” he murmured. “And now that you’re here, you’re a Morozov in the making. That means something.”

He leaned in closer.

“We’ve worked for years to claw our way into this city.

Boston didn’t welcome us, it watched us.

Judged us. Waited for us to fuck up. But when my brother’s daughter Irina married Aidan Murphy, when the Kozlovs crossed a line, and we bled with the Murphys to take them down, that’s when we earned our foothold. But it’s not stable. Not yet.”

The room suddenly felt too large.

“And you think marrying me is going to fix that?” I really tried not to let my voice squeak.

“I think marrying you ,” he continued, “will seal everything. A Kingsley at my side? The mayor’s daughter wearing my name and my ring? That’s not just a wedding. That’s a message.”

I didn’t answer, just let him keep going.

“You’ll be a symbol,” he continued. “To the families. To the city. A declaration that we’re not outsiders anymore. That we don’t just take what we want, we keep it. And you’re the one thing I intend to keep most of all.”

He stepped away from the counter, walked over to the sideboard near the fireplace, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small matte-black rectangular box. When he returned, he didn’t open it right away. He set it gently in front of me on the counter, next to the now-empty plate.

“What is it?”

He finally lifted the lid. Inside was velvet lining. There was a thin gold chain, delicate, with a single teardrop ruby at the center, dark and rich and stunning.

“This was my mother’s,” he said softly. “One of the few things we managed to get out of Moscow after the explosion.”

My throat tightened.

“Why are you giving it to me?” I asked, and my voice was smaller than I meant for it to be.

He looked at me for a long time. Not just at me—but into me. Like he was seeing all the pieces I kept under lock and key.

“Because I want you to remember that you’re not alone anymore. That you have me.”

I blinked.

My heart stumbled.

Before I could answer, before I could put that feeling anywhere, he stepped behind me. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He lifted the necklace from the box and fastened it around my neck with practiced hands.

The ruby settled over my collarbones, and I swallowed hard. He brushed my hair over one shoulder, and then leaned in close, his breath warm against the shell of my ear.

“I’m not giving this to Sloane Kingsley,” he murmured. “I’m giving it to my future wife. ”

My heart stuttered in my chest.

The chain was delicate, but it felt heavier than it looked—weighted by history, memories, and untold amounts of grief. I reached up and touched the ruby gently, brushing the stone like I might wake something inside it. Inside me.

It was personal, intimate , like a piece of him he wasn’t supposed to give away, but did anyway.

I sat still in the quiet space, too stunned to speak. For the first time since he took me, I didn’t feel like a prisoner. That might be more dangerous than all the rules and cameras in this place combined.

He returned to the stove without a word, stirring something absentmindedly, and I watch him in silence. He moved with a kind of ease I didn’t expect: shoulders relaxed, mouth softened, like the kitchen was one of the only places he let the weight of the world slide off him.

“Where did you learn how to cook?” I asked.

He glanced at me, and the corner of his mouth lifted into that slow, crooked smile that made my stomach flutter.

“Mama made sure the Morozov boys could cook, but I was the best one in the house,” he said with a wink.

Something in his tone tugged at me. I toyed with the edge of the napkin in front of me, eyes flicking to him, then brought my fingers up to the ruby at my throat.

“What was she like?” I asked softly. “Your mother.”

He paused—just for a moment—but it was enough to tell me I’d touched something that delved deep into his heart.

Then he let out a quiet breath and turned the stove off.

“She was… the loudest person I’ve ever known,” he said, a laugh slipping into his voice.

“I don’t mean in volume, I mean in spirit.

She walked into a room and everyone looked.

She had this laugh, Sloane. Big and messy.

She never cared if it made people stare.

She was one of the most confident people I’ve ever known. ”

I smiled despite myself. It’s impossible not to picture it.

“She made us believe we were kings,” he continued, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. “Even when we were dirt-poor and eating boiled potatoes three nights a week. She’d say, ‘We’re Morozovs; we don’t bow, we rise .’”

I looked down at the counter, the ball in my throat difficult to swallow around.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, that warm, booming laugh echoing faintly in his words now.

“She used to line up our shoes before school and make us step over them three times. Said it was for luck. I still do it. Even before a fight.”

“You’re superstitious?” I asked, surprised.

He smirked. “Very. Same routine every time. Left glove first. Then my right. Step into the ring with my left foot. Touch my necklace.”

I blinked. “You have a necklace?”

He nodded and reached beneath his shirt to pull out a small chain with a silver Orthodox cross. “This was hers. She gave it to me before my first real fight. I haven’t taken it off since.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, because suddenly, this man who pressed me down and made me beg for mercy while he spanked my bare ass, who’d promised to make me his wife whether I wanted it or not… didn’t seem like a monster.

He seemed like a boy who lost his mother in a war he didn’t start. A man who rebuilt his life with fire in his blood and family on his back. A protector. A provider. The kind of man who gave away his mother’s necklace because he knew what it meant to carry something close to your heart.

And the worst part?

I felt something dangerous creeping in: the temptation not to run.

At least not tonight. Not while I was still warm with food in my belly, clothed in his dress, and wearing something that belonged to the woman who had raised the man in front of me.

Fuck.

I was supposed to be planning my escape, thinking about how to contact Ghost, about finding a way to get out. I had to figure out how I was not going to be walked down the aisle in less than a week, but instead, I was sitting here wondering what it would feel like to be wanted like this forever .

I didn’t know what scared me more: the fact that I was still thinking about running…

Or the fact that a piece of me didn’t want to anymore.