Chapter 11 #2
The collar display was in an alcove toward the back of the store. More private than the main floor, the lighting slightly dimmer, the feeling more intimate. Ms. Laurent had clearly designed this space for moments like this—moments of choosing something that meant more than its function.
Dozens of options filled the case. Thick leather pieces with heavy buckles.
Delicate chains that would sit against collarbones like jewelry.
Velvet ribbons with tiny silver rings. Traditional posture collars in stiff leather.
Everyday collars designed to look like chokers, invisible to anyone who didn't know what they were looking at.
I couldn't focus on any of them.
The arousal had built too high. My whole body felt strung tight, skin too sensitive, nerves firing at random. The smell of leather from the case mixed with Maks's scent—cedar and warmth—and created something that short-circuited my brain entirely.
All I could think about was him putting one around my throat. His fingers working the buckle. His eyes dark with possession as he claimed me in this final, visible way.
His hand was on my back. His heat was behind me. His breath was close enough to feel.
And I was so aroused I could barely remember my own name.
I could feel it building—that squirmy, defiant energy that came when I was overwhelmed and turned on and didn't know what to do with any of it.
My skin felt too tight. My thoughts scattered like startled birds every time I tried to gather them.
The wanting had built to a pitch my body couldn't sustain, and something had to give.
"Which one speaks to you?" Maks asked again, patient. Waiting.
My mouth opened.
"Maybe I don't want a collar."
The words came out before I could stop them. Sharp. Petulant. The tone of a child pushing boundaries just to see what happens.
"Maybe I've changed my mind about the whole thing."
Silence.
I knew—even as the words hung in the air between us—that they were ridiculous.
The opposite of everything I'd said last night, everything I'd felt this morning, everything I'd been feeling since I walked into this store and let him guide me through displays designed for exactly this kind of claiming.
I wanted the collar. I wanted it desperately, viscerally, with a need that scared me.
But the wanting was too big. The arousal was too much. My overwhelmed brain had short-circuited somewhere between the blindfolds and the floggers, and now it was doing the only thing it knew how to do when the input exceeded its capacity.
Pushing.
Testing.
Begging for someone to take control so I didn't have to.
Maks's eyes darkened.
The warmth bled out of them, replaced by something harder. Something dangerous. The Fox, surfacing through the careful veneer of the Daddy who'd been patiently guiding me through this space.
He stepped closer.
One step. Then another. Until my back was against the display case and his body was close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
His hands landed on either side of me. Caging me. Not touching, but blocking any escape.
"Little bird." His voice had dropped to something low and rough and terrifying. "Would you like to try that again?"
My whole body flushed.
Heat flooding from my chest to my cheeks to somewhere much lower, somewhere that clenched at the authority in his voice. The tone that said I see exactly what you're doing, and you're not going to get away with it.
I knew what I was supposed to say. I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean it. Please forgive me.
But my mouth had other plans.
"Make me," I whispered.
The words came out small. Defiant. A challenge wrapped in submission, begging for consequences I was too overwhelmed to ask for directly.
For one suspended moment, nothing happened.
Maks just looked at me. Those warm brown eyes gone dark with something that looked like hunger and patience and the anticipation of a predator who'd just been given permission to hunt.
Then he smiled.
The expression transformed his face. Not the gentle warmth of Lis, not the controlled competence of the Fox. This was something else entirely. Pure predator. The smile of someone who had been given exactly what he wanted and intended to take his time enjoying it.
"Oh, I will," he said softly. "When we get home."
The promise hung in the air between us. Heavy. Inevitable. A guarantee that what I'd just started, he would finish.
My knees went weak. Actually weak—I had to grip the edge of the display case to keep from sliding down it. The arousal that had been building all afternoon spiked into something desperate, something that made me want to press my thighs together and whimper and beg him to skip the waiting and just—
But he was already moving.
He turned to the display case, dismissed me entirely, and began examining the collars with the focused attention of someone who had made a decision and was simply selecting the best tool to execute it.
I stood there trembling. Watching his hands move over the options. Leather and velvet and chain, all those possibilities I'd been too overwhelmed to consider, now being considered for me.
"This one," he said finally.
He held it up for Ms. Laurent, who had materialized at some point—discreet and professional, giving no indication that she'd witnessed what just happened in her alcove.
The collar was beautiful.
Delicate black leather, soft and supple, barely half an inch wide. Simple enough to pass as a choker if you didn't know better. But at the front, centered perfectly, a small silver ring caught the light.
A ring meant for attaching things. A leash. A chain. Whatever the owner wanted.
Whatever Maks wanted.
"We'll take it," he said. His voice was calm. Controlled. The voice of someone making a routine purchase, not someone who had just promised consequences that made my entire body shake.
He didn't ask my opinion. Didn't check if I liked his selection. Didn't give me any input at all.
He'd told me during our negotiation—I won't discipline when I'm angry. But this wasn't anger. This was something else. Measured. Deliberate. The patience of someone who understood exactly what I needed and intended to give it to me.
On his terms. In his time.
Ms. Laurent wrapped the collar in tissue paper, placed it in a small velvet bag, handed it to Maks with a smile that suggested she saw versions of this scene play out regularly. "Enjoy," she said simply.
Maks took the bag. Took my hand. His grip was firm—not painful, but inescapable.
"Come, Ptichka."
Not a request. A command.
I followed on shaky legs, my heart pounding, my skin too sensitive, my whole body vibrating with the knowledge of what was coming.
The door closed behind us. The city noise swallowed us. The nondescript building disappeared into the Meatpacking District's trendy anonymity.
T he ride home was excruciating.
I sat in the passenger seat vibrating with anticipation and nerves, the velvet bag containing my collar clutched in my lap like something precious. Like something dangerous.
Maks didn't speak. His hands were steady on the wheel, his profile sharp against the passing city lights, his expression giving nothing away.
The controlled patience was worse than anger would have been.
Anger I could have responded to. This—this measured silence, this deliberate waiting—left me alone with my racing thoughts and trembling hands and the agony of anticipation.
Every red light felt like torture. Every block closer made my heart pound harder. The bag in my lap was warm from my grip, the tissue paper crackling slightly every time my fingers twitched.
What had I been thinking? Make me. I'd actually said make me to a man who'd killed people with his hands, a man who'd promised consequences with a predator's smile. My brain replayed the moment on loop—the bratty words, his darkening eyes, the way he'd caged me against the display case.
I'd asked for this.
I'd begged for it.
And now I was going to get it.
The apartment building appeared too soon. The elevator ride was endless. The hallway stretched before us like a judgment.
Ghost greeted us at the door, his long grey body winding between our legs, tail wagging at our return.
The normalcy of it—my ridiculous dog, happy to see us, completely unaware of what was about to happen—felt surreal.
Like I'd stepped into an alternate reality where domestic moments and inevitable consequences existed in the same space.
Maks acknowledged Ghost briefly. A pat on the head, a quiet "good boy." Then he closed the door behind us.
The locks engaged. All of them. The sound of metal sliding home, one mechanism after another.
Final.
He turned to me.
"Living room. Now."
Not harsh. Not angry. Just certain. The voice of someone who expected obedience and would accept nothing less.
I obeyed on shaky legs.
The living room stretched before me, familiar now after days in this space—the leather couch where we'd negotiated, the coffee table where I'd colored while he watched, the floor-to-ceiling windows that made the city feel like a silent witness.
Maks followed me in. Set down the velvet bag on the coffee table, deliberate and visible. A reminder of what we'd chosen today. What I'd asked for.
Then he sat on the couch.
The motion was controlled. Unhurried. He settled into the cushions like he had all the time in the world, like the trembling woman standing in the middle of his living room was simply another item on his agenda.
"Come here."
I moved toward him. One step. Another. Until I stood between his parted knees, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
His hand reached up. Caught my chin. Tilted my face so I couldn't look away.
"You were bratty in the store," he said quietly. "Do you know why?"