Chapter 10
Dmitry
The elevator recognized my key code with a soft chime that felt too cheerful for the weight in my chest. Eleven AM exactly—my brother appreciated punctuality. I couldn’t help thinking of Eva in my apartment, int those tiny clothes, waiting for me to return.
“Focus, zasranets,” I scolded myself.
I gave myself a light slap on the cheek, and headed in.
The ride up to Alexei's penthouse was long. Each floor marked a countdown to vulnerability I'd spent thirty-four years avoiding.
The doors opened to familiar luxury—marble floors that reflected the chandelier's light, that particular scent of Clara's lavender candles mixed with expensive leather and something indefinably Alexei.
Home, but not mine. A place where I was always the younger brother, the enforcer, the one who solved problems with fists rather than words.
Today I needed words. Today I needed my brother's experience with something I'd never thought I'd have.
The leather journal pressed against my ribs where I'd tucked it inside my jacket—months of research, carefully transcribed articles, notes from forums where men like me tried to understand how to be what someone needed.
Every page evidence that Dmitry Volkov, who'd broken bones without blinking, was terrified of breaking something far more fragile.
I found them in Alexei's study, a tableau of domestic dominance that made my chest tight.
My brother sat behind his massive oak desk, reviewing construction permits with the same focus he brought to everything—absolute, unwavering, successful.
But it was Clara who drew my attention, curled in the window seat with a book, legs tucked under her, looking younger than her twenty-three years.
The burgundy collar around her throat caught the light when she turned a page. Not hidden, not displayed, just present. Like breathing. Like belonging.
This was what I wanted with Eva. This casual intimacy, this unquestioned dynamic, this peace that came from established roles and absolute trust. The thought of her made my hands clench.
"Dmitry." Alexei's voice pulled me from my thoughts, his eyebrow rising slightly. My brother had cataloged every tell I'd ever had, could read my nervousness like a neon sign. "You're exactly on time."
"Traffic was light," I said.
Clara looked up from her book, those pale eyes that missed nothing taking in my rigid posture, the way I held my left arm slightly pressed to my side to keep the journal in place. She uncurled from the window seat with fluid grace, book marking her place with a finger.
"Dmitry," she said warmly, moving to stand beside Alexei's chair. Her hand found his shoulder automatically, his hand covering hers without thought—practiced, natural, theirs. "Coffee? You look like you could use it."
"No." The word came out too sharp, and I forced myself to soften. "Thank you, but no."
Alexei closed the permits folder with deliberate precision, giving me his complete attention in that way that had terrified bigger men than me.
But this was my brother, not the pakhan.
This was the man who'd held our family together when our father died, who'd built an empire from blood and discipline, who'd somehow found a way to have this—Clara, collars, contracts, and contentment.
"This isn't bratva business," he observed, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked, familiar as our father's voice had once been.
"No," I agreed, pulling out the journal finally, letting its weight settle in my hands. "It's personal."
Clara's eyes tracked to the worn leather cover. Her hand squeezed Alexei's shoulder slightly—support, encouragement, that silent communication established couples had.
"How personal?" Alexei asked, though his eyes on the journal suggested he already suspected.
I'd rehearsed this conversation driving over. But standing here, watching my brother and his Little exist in such easy harmony, every prepared speech crumbled.
"I need help structuring a DDlg relationship," I said, the words falling into the study's silence like stones into still water. Each word felt like stripping armor, leaving me exposed in ways that had nothing to do with physical vulnerability.
Clara shifted closer to Alexei, her hand finding his automatically—not seeking comfort but offering it, that unconscious intimacy that made my chest ache.
They touched constantly, I'd noticed. Small gestures that spoke of established trust, negotiated boundaries, the kind of safety I wanted to build with Eva.
If she'd let me. If she'd stop fighting long enough to see what I was offering.
"You've found someone," Alexei said, not a question but that older brother certainty that had always irritated and comforted in equal measure. "Someone specific."
I nodded, fingers tracing the journal's worn edges. "She's—" How did I describe Eva? Feral and fragile? Defiant and desperate? Mine, even though I had no right to claim her? "Complicated."
"They always are," Clara said, and her smile held memories of her own complications, her own journey from kidnapped leverage to cherished Little. "The ones worth having are never simple."
"Tell me about her," Alexei commanded, slipping into pakhan mode without meaning to—that tone that demanded truth and accepted no deflection.
"I can't." The refusal came out harder than intended, protective instinct flaring. "I'm protecting someone who needs protection," I said, deliberately vague. "Someone who's never had structure, never had safety, never had anyone give enough of a damn to set boundaries that make sense."
Clara made a soft sound of understanding. "A survivor."
The word fit Eva perfectly—not a victim, never that, but someone who'd survived things that would have broken others. Who'd survived them alone, with nothing but street smarts and stubbornness.
"How long has she been with you?" Clara asked, gentle but probing.
"Two weeks. But obviously, I've been preparing longer."
I opened the journal to a middle section, pages covered in notes about contracts, about negotiation, about the difference between domination and dominance. Clara leaned forward to read, making small approving sounds at certain passages.
"You've done your research," she said, tracing a finger over a paragraph about aftercare requirements. "This is thorough."
"Research is easy," I said, frustration bleeding through. "Application is harder. She's not—she doesn't trust easily. Doesn't submit naturally. She fights everything, tests every boundary, breaks rules just to see if I'll enforce them."
"A brat," Alexei said, and there was something knowing in his tone. "Like Clara was."
"I was never a brat," Clara protested, but her smile said otherwise.
"You threw plates at me," Alexei reminded her. "Multiple times."
"That was different. That was—" She stopped, color rising in her cheeks. "Okay, maybe a little bratty."
Their casual intimacy, their ability to joke about what had clearly been a difficult beginning, gave me hope. If they could build this from kidnapping and coercion, maybe Eva and I could build something from witness protection and want.
"Tell us what you want," Clara said, serious now. "Not what you think you should want, not what the forums say you should want. What do you actually want with her?"
The question unlocked something I'd been holding back, words tumbling out before I could censor them.
"I want to wake up and make her coffee exactly how she likes it.
I want to brush her teeth because she forgets, gets distracted, needs someone to make her take care of herself.
I want to read her bedtime stories in Russian, the ones my grandmother read to me, watch her fight sleep because she doesn't want to miss anything. "
I was standing now, pacing, the journal forgotten in the chair.
"I want to punish her when she's reckless, when she endangers herself, when she forgets she matters.
But I also want to hold her after, explain why the rules exist, make her understand that consequences come from care, not control.
I want to teach her to fight properly, to protect herself, but also teach her she doesn't have to fight alone anymore. "
The words kept coming, months of suppressed want spilling into Alexei's study.
"I want to buy her clothes that fit, that make her feel beautiful instead of functional. I want to take her to that bakery on Third that makes those cookies that I know she’d love. I want to give her bubble baths with too many bubbles, wash her hair, wrap her in towels warmed on the radiator."
Clara had tears in her eyes. Alexei's expression had shifted from skeptical to something softer, something that might have been recognition.
"You're not describing a submissive," Alexei said quietly. "You're describing someone you love."
The word hit like a physical blow. Love. Was that what this was? This desperate need to protect, to provide, to structure her chaos into something sustainable?
"I've known her two weeks," I said, but the protest sounded weak even to me.
"I knew Clara was mine the moment she stood in that elevator, terrified but defiant," Alexei said. "Time is irrelevant when you recognize your match."
"Your Little," Clara corrected softly. "When you recognize your Little."
The truth of it settled into my bones with certainty that should have been terrifying.
Eva was my Little.
"She's mine," I said, the admission feeling like coming home. "Has been from the moment we first met."
Alexei and Clara exchanged a look—the kind of silent communication that came from established dynamic, from trust built through trial and error and absolute commitment.
"Then let's make sure you do this right," Alexei said, moving to his desk drawer. "Let's build her a framework that protects you both."
"She might not sign it," I warned, thinking of Eva on my couch, defiant in ruined punishment clothes, coming during corner time just to prove she could. "She might run."