Page 47 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

S loane

I woke up sore.

Not the aching kind of sore from a workout or a hangover.

This was deeper. The kind of sore that bloomed in your muscles and your skin for hours or even days on end.

The kind that whispered you’ve been claimed thoroughly and completely .

My ass still throbbed with every tiny movement.

My thighs were sticky. I felt like I’d been poured into a new version of myself and left to set overnight.

Nikolai was already awake, of course.

He stood by the windows, shirtless, coffee in hand, looking out at the city like he owned it. Which, at this point, he might. The early light cast sharp lines across his chest and arms, and I let myself admire the view for a moment before he turned and caught me.

He smiled.

And fuck, that smile—it made me bite my lip as my toes curled.

“Time to get up, baby girl,” he said gently. “We’ve got a wedding to plan.”

My heart leapt and my stomach dropped in the same breath.

This was really happening.

I pushed the covers off slowly, slipping out of bed with a groan as the soreness settled deeper. Nikolai crossed the room to me and handed me a white box wrapped in black silk ribbon.

“What’s this?” I asked, fingers brushing over the silk.

“Something soft,” he said. “For this morning.”

Inside, nestled in white tissue, was a delicate wrap dress in the palest ivory silk. Soft, flowing, understated, but elegant in the same breath. It draped like water when I held it up. A belt cinched the waist. The neckline dipped low enough to entice and the hem floated mid-thigh.

It was elegant. Commanding. Effortless. Bridal.

I slid it on without question, the cool silk kissing every inch of my tender skin and let him fasten the sash around my waist. When I turned to face him, he stepped closer and brushed his knuckles along my jaw.

“I want everyone to know what they’re looking at when they see you today.”

I swallowed. “And what is that?”

“My bride.”

Before I could answer, there was a knock at the penthouse door.

He didn’t look away from me as he called, “Come in.”

The door opened, and two women stepped inside like they’d been here a hundred times before.

The first one was wearing an elegant pair of black cigarette pants and an oversized cream coat, her dark brunette hair in a sleek bun, her expression quietly curious.

She looked like she belonged in an art gallery, sipping champagne while casually destroying reputations with her words.

Her eyes lit up when she saw me, but she didn’t smile too wide.

Just that soft, knowing curve of someone who’d been here before.

The second one was younger. Her dark red hair was loose and a little wild, her dress too pretty to be accidental. She looked at me with open mischief, but behind it was a sense of solidarity. Like she knew what it was like to stand in a room full of men and hold your ground.

Nikolai introduced us in his usual way: abruptly.

“Amy. Riley. This is Sloane. Sloane, Amy is my brother Aleksei’s fiancée and Riley is Maxim’s wife.”

I gave them a smile that felt too formal and then a nod that probably looked like a bow.

“Hi.”

Amy’s smile widened just enough. “We’ve heard a lot.”

Riley grinned. “We brought coffee. And opinions.”

I glanced at Nikolai. He just kissed my forehead.

“They’re taking you shopping,” he said. “I rented out the bridal floor at Vitale’s. It’s yours for the morning.”

I stared at him and I’m fairly certain my mouth was hanging open.

“You rented out an entire couture boutique?”

He smirked. “You think I’d settle for anything less?”

My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t argue.

He looked at Amy and Riley. “Find something perfect. She deserves the best.”

Then his gaze returned to mine, and something in his voice shifted, became softer, but just as seductive as it always was.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, my bride.”

Vitale’s bridal floor looked like a dream someone designed after drinking too much French champagne.

All ivory walls, soft golden light, and racks of dresses that glimmered like liquid moonlight. There were attendants waiting—young, polite, dressed in black—and a woman named Delphine who greeted us with a French accent so smooth I wasn’t entirely convinced it was real.

Nikolai had cleared the whole place out.

No cameras. No strangers. Just Amy, Riley, and me, and an entire floor of couture at our fingertips.

We’d barely stepped into the space before Riley clapped her hands. “Oh, my God! This is real. You’re actually doing this.”

Amy arched a brow with a smirk. “Big bad Nikolai, getting married in just a few hours. Can you believe it?”

I laughed—nervous and light—the sound bubbling out of me before I could help it. “Honestly? No.”

Riley grabbed a hanger off the first rack and held up a fitted satin number with a plunging neckline and feathers. “Okay, but imagine his face if you walked down the aisle in this. ”

Amy made a noise of protest. “We’re not going full burlesque, Riley.”

“I’m just saying, Sloane is the one girl who could pull it off.”

I grinned and shook my head, already easing into the chaos. They were opposites: Amy elegant and refined, Riley bright and impulsive. Somehow, they worked together as a team, and for the first time since I’d agreed to marry one of the most dangerous men in Boston, I didn’t feel alone.

Delphine returned with a tray of champagne and sparkling water, and we got to work.

I tried on dress after dress: silk, tulle, lace, and beading so fine it shimmered under the lights like dew.

The mirror became a blur of white and motion.

I turned, posed, let them ooh and ahh and giggle about how Nikolai would lose his mind the second I walked down the aisle.

But it wasn’t until I was alone in the fitting room, standing in front of the three-panel mirror entirely bare, that the buzz dulled for a moment and something sharper settled in my chest.

I turned slowly to the side, and there they were.

Several faint marks from the belt, right at the curve of my ass. Red, fading, but still clearly visible.

The memory flashed so vividly I swore I felt it again.

The way his voice had sounded, deep and commanding, the way his hand had held me down, and how the strap had stung each time it had whipped my backside.

Most of all, the way my tears had dried while he held me in his lap and told me he was proud of me.

I slipped back into my robe and stepped out, blinking against the light. Amy and Riley were waiting on the velvet sofa, sipping water and talking low. They both looked up when I entered.

“Okay,” Riley said. “You’ve tried on seven dresses. Spill. How are you feeling?”

I paused and smiled. “Honestly? Kind of… shocked.”

Amy tilted her head. “At what? The price tags or the fact that you’re about to become a Morozov?”

“Both,” I admitted, laughing. “Mostly that this is happening. I didn’t think I’d ever get married.”

“Neither of us did either,” Amy said, folding one leg over the other. “But here we are. I mean, you know Aleksei. He was like artsy boy Casanova and then boom: engaged. Now he reads art history books in bed with me and argues about postmodern sculpture while rubbing my feet.”

“That’s… kind of adorable.”

“It’s deeply confusing,” she replied with a smile. “But also? Really, really good.”

Riley nodded. “And Maxim? He’s mostly silent in public, but behind the scenes? Total domestic tyrant: breakfast made every morning, my favorite wine stocked. Every bill paid, every shoe fixed, every dinner handled. It’s like he’s running a small country, and I’m the only citizen.”

Amy leaned in with a little smile. “They’re strong men. Not easy in any way, but they take care of their women. Some might even say they spoil us,” she added with a wink.

My chest warmed and I swallowed around the tight feeling in my throat.

They didn’t say kept. They didn’t say controlled. They said taken care of.

And they meant it.

“I hope I get that too, but I don’t think I’ve found the dress just yet. I want to try on just a few more,” I ventured.

I tried on one more dress.

Delphine brought it out like she already knew it was the one. She whispered something in French before hanging it carefully on the gold hook, and Amy and Riley fell quiet when they saw it.

There wasn’t any beading or glitter or feathers. No corset or lace.

Just pure, elegant silk.

It was ivory—soft and warm—not the icy white that screamed tradition. The fabric shimmered faintly under the light like it had been kissed with moonlight. Strapless, it hugged the waist, curved over the hips, then fell in a long, clean line to the floor. The train was short. Intentional. Confident.

There was nothing to hide behind. No sparkle to distract from anything else.

It would just be me.

I stepped into it without speaking, the weight of it light, but somehow incredibly meaningful. The attendant zipped it carefully, smoothing it over my back, then left without a word. I stood there in front of the three-way mirror, bare feet on the cool marble floor, heart beating loud in my ears.

Then I strode out into the waiting room like a woman walking into a war with her chin lifted and her lips painted for battle.

Riley gasped when I stepped out. “Oh, my God. ”

Amy just stood slowly. Her smile was small, but I saw it. Felt it.

“No veil,” she said. “Please, no veil. That’s not who you are. You’re Sloane Kingsley and you don’t need to hide behind anything.”

“Agreed,” Riley said, circling me like she was inspecting body armor for signs of weakness. “This is it. This is so it.”

Amy stepped closer and reached for the small ribbon at my waist, adjusting the tie gently. “You look like you already know how the story ends,” she said softly.

“I don’t,” I said. “But I know who I’m walking into it with.”

Riley grinned. “Damn right you do.”

We stood there for a moment longer, all three of us looking at the girl in the mirror.

“I’ll take this one,” I said.