Chapter 14
Maksim
T he light came in grey and soft, the quality of early morning before the city fully woke. I'd been awake for twenty minutes. Hadn't moved. Couldn't, really—not when she was curled against me like that, her breath slow and even, one hand tucked near her face the way a child might sleep.
The collar was dark against her throat.
Black leather on pale skin, the silver ring catching what little light filtered through the curtains.
I traced the line of it with my eyes, following the curve where it met her jaw, the hollow of her collarbone visible just below.
Mine. The word surfaced the way it always did now—automatic, possessive, absolutely true.
She'd been in my bed for days. The novelty should have worn off.
Instead, it felt more miraculous each morning.
This woman. This woman, with her grey-green eyes and her brilliant, anxious brain and the way she'd looked at Sophie and Maya yesterday like she'd found something she'd been searching for her whole life.
She had found it.
We both had.
My thumb traced the curve of her shoulder.
Careful. Light enough not to wake her. The skin there was impossibly soft—she used some kind of lotion that smelled like lavender, and every time I touched her I caught that scent.
Grounding. Familiar now, after only days. The alchemy of becoming someone's home.
Her lashes fluttered.
Not waking. Just dreaming, maybe. Her lips parted slightly, and she made a small sound—content, satisfied, the noise of someone safe in their sleep. The sound did something to my chest. Made it tight in ways I couldn't fully explain.
I allowed myself another minute of watching.
Then I slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb her, and crossed to the closet.
Her clothes hung beside mine now.
The sight of it still hit me every time I looked. Those soft sweaters next to my button-downs. The flowing skirts beside my tactical pants. Two lives, merged in fabric and hangers and the intimacy of shared space.
She'd protested, of course. When I'd cleared half the closet for her, insisted she bring more than the single bag she'd arrived with.
"I don't need that much space." But I'd heard what she wasn't saying.
I don't deserve that much space. The familiar refrain of someone who'd spent her whole life being told she was too much and not enough in equal measure.
I'd given her the space anyway.
And now her clothes lived next to mine, and every morning I got to stand here and choose what she would wear.
The power of it never got old.
I ran my fingers along the fabrics. Considering. Today needed something soft—we had plans, but nothing too formal. Something that would move well, feel good against her skin, accommodate the sensory needs I was still learning to anticipate.
The dusty rose cashmere caught my attention first.
I lifted it from the hanger. Ran the fabric between my fingers. Impossibly soft, the kind of quality that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The color would bring out the warmth in her skin, the flush that crept up her cheeks when she was pleased or embarrassed or aroused.
I wanted to see that flush today.
The skirt came next. Flowing fabric in a deeper rose that complemented the sweater. Long enough to be modest, full enough to move when she walked. I imagined her spinning in it, the fabric flaring around her legs, that delight she showed when clothes did something unexpected.
The underwear drawer was last.
I'd bought these without telling her. A small box from a boutique I knew, delivered while she was in the shower three days ago. Delicate lace in cream. Not quite innocent, not quite obscene. The balance between sweet and sinful that seemed to define everything we did together.
I laid each piece on the bed. Arranged them with care—sweater, skirt, the lace folded discretely beneath. The morning light had shifted while I worked, growing warmer, more golden. It fell across her face, and she stirred.
"Stay there, little bird."
The words came out quiet. Commanding. The tone that I'd learned made her body respond before her brain caught up.
Her eyes opened. Blinked. Found me standing at the foot of the bed with morning light behind me.
"Daddy?" Sleep-rough. Confused. Beautiful.
"This is what you're wearing today."
I gestured to the clothes laid out beside her. Watched her eyes track from the sweater to the skirt to the lace peeking from beneath. Watched her breath catch.
That response. The hitch in her breathing that meant arousal and surrender tangled together, impossible to separate. I was learning her tells now. The way her pupils dilated when I gave commands. The way her fingers twitched when she wanted to touch but hadn't been given permission.
She didn't argue.
Didn't ask questions. Didn't protest that she could choose her own clothes, that she was a grown woman, that this arrangement was unconventional. She just rose from the sheets, bare except for the collar, and stood before me waiting.
Mine. The word thundered through me again.
I started with the underwear.
Held the lace open so she could step into it, then drew it up her legs slowly. Let my fingers trail along her thighs as I went, feeling her shiver at the contact. The fabric settled against her hips, cream lace against pale skin, and my mouth went dry.
"Daddy—"
"Shh. Let me."
I reached for the bra next. The matching piece, delicate straps and barely-there cups that would do nothing to hide her nipples when they peaked. Which they were doing now, tightening visibly as my knuckles brushed against them while I fastened the clasp.
The sweater next.
I held it open and she raised her arms like a child, trusting, compliant. The cashmere slid over her skin with that whisper of expensive fabric. I smoothed it down her body, adjusting the neckline so the collar showed—deliberate, visible, mine.
The skirt last.
She stepped into it and I drew it up, fastening the hidden zipper at her hip, letting my palm linger on the curve of her waist. The fabric fell in soft folds around her legs. Exactly as I'd imagined.
When I finished, I turned her toward the mirror.
We stood together, her back to my chest, my hands on her shoulders. The reflection showed us both: her in dusty rose and cream, flushed and beautiful, the collar dark at her throat. Me behind her, taller, darker, the satisfaction of ownership visible in every line of my body.
"Beautiful." My voice came out rough. Reverent. "My beautiful girl."
The flush I'd wanted crept up her cheeks. She met my eyes in the mirror, something vulnerable and fierce in her expression.
I kissed the back of her neck.
Just there, where the collar ended and her skin began. Let my lips linger, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my mouth. She made a soft sound—not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Something in between.
"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered.
I kissed her again. Her shoulder this time, through the cashmere.
The day was just beginning.
T he studio was a secret I'd been keeping since Auralia had started staying with me. It had been a long negotiation, but it was finally mine.
A converted loft in SoHo with windows that faced north. I'd signed the paperwork just two days ago, and I couldn’t wait to show my baby girl around.
Now she stood in the doorway, dusty rose cashmere catching the afternoon sun, her eyes wide as they tracked across the space.
"You rented a whole studio?"
"I wanted privacy." I guided her inside with a hand on her lower back. "No instructors. No classmates. Just us."
The space was simple but well-equipped. Two easels already set up, facing each other across an expanse of paint-splattered floor.
Canvases primed and waiting. Brushes in jars, paints arranged by color, the organization of a working artist's space.
I'd come here yesterday to set everything up, to make sure it was perfect.
She moved toward the window. Traced her fingers along the frame, looking out at the rooftops of SoHo below.
"I don't—" She stopped. Started again. "My art isn't for other people. I told you that."
"I know."
"It's private. It's messy. It's the one place I don't have to be good at things."
"I know that too." I came up behind her. Not touching, just close. "But this isn't a test, Ptichka. This is just us. Just play."
She turned. Her grey-green eyes held that uncertainty I was learning to read—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of being found wanting by someone whose opinion actually mattered.
"No judgment," I said quietly. "Just paint what you see."
She held my gaze for a long moment.
Then nodded.
We took our positions at the easels. Facing each other across maybe eight feet of space, enough distance to see the whole person but close enough to catch details. She picked up a brush, set it down, picked up a different one. Nervous energy making her hands move without purpose.
"How do we start?" she asked.
"Just look at me."
She looked.
And I looked back.
The first hour was the hardest.
Every time she glanced up from her canvas, our eyes met. Electricity arced between us—not quite sexual, not quite innocent. The intimacy of sustained attention, of being truly seen by someone who was paying attention.
Her brush began to move.
I watched her work, even as I worked myself. The way she held the brush—loose but precise, the muscle memory of someone who'd done this for years. Her lower lip caught between her teeth when she concentrated. Her brow furrowed at some challenge only she could see.
I tried to capture it. The furrow. The caught lip. The intensity of a brilliant mind fully engaged in creation.
But my hands kept wanting to paint other things. The collar at her throat. The flush on her cheeks. The way the afternoon light turned her hair into something golden and warm.
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft sounds of brushes on canvas.
She looked up. Caught me staring.
"Your nose is wrong."