Chapter 8
Sophie
Iarrived at Nikolai's office at eight AM exactly, which was how we did things now.
Exact.
Careful.
Professional.
It had been a week of morning briefings where we discussed Belyaev communications and territorial disputes and supply chain logistics like I hadn't kissed him. Like he hadn't kissed me back before pulling away and making me feel like I'd done something wrong just by wanting him.
The routine was painfully polite. I'd knock. He'd tell me to enter. We'd review my work from the previous day. He'd assign new tasks. We'd have dinner at seven, conversation limited to safe topics—books, the weather, compound operations. Then I'd retreat to my room and he'd disappear to the war room or his office or wherever Pakhans went when they needed to avoid the women they'd rejected.
And every night I touched myself thinking about him.
My hand between my legs in the dark, the weighted blanket he'd given me pressing down on my body, imagining it was his weight instead. I'd picture his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, what would have happened if he hadn't pulled away. The way he'd called me malyshka in Russian, little one, like I was something precious. I'd come thinking about being small and safe in his arms, about surrendering control to someone who actually knew what to do with it.
Then I'd feel ashamed. Because he'd rejected me. Because I should be stronger than this desperate wanting. Because good feminists didn't fantasize about mob bosses calling them little one while they got themselves off.
But I wasn't a good feminist. I was just lonely and scared and so tired of being the only one holding myself together.
I knocked on his door. Two sharp raps.
"Come in."
His office was smaller than I'd expected for a Pakhan. Masculine but not ostentatious—dark wood desk, leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes in Russian and English. Three monitors on one wall showing security feeds. A chess board on the side table, mid-game, like he played against himself when he couldn't sleep.
Nikolai sat behind his desk wearing a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark hair was slightly damp like he'd showered recently. He looked up when I entered, and those grey eyes tracked over me in one quick assessment before he caught himself and looked away.
But I'd seen it. The way his gaze had snagged on the sweater I was wearing.
Dove grey cashmere. One of the ones he'd provided, expensive and soft. I'd told myself I was wearing it because it was comfortable. Because my other clothes were in the laundry. Because it was cold in the compound this morning.
All lies. I'd worn it because some pathetic part of me wanted him to look at me like that. Wanted him to notice. Wanted him to regret pulling away.
"Good morning," he said. His voice was controlled, professional. Like we hadn't kissed. Like I hadn't felt him hard against my hip before he'd retreated. "How did you sleep?"
"Fine." The lie came automatically. I'd barely slept, actually. Had woken up at three AM from another nightmare, counted to four until my hands stopped shaking, then lay awake imagining what would have happened if he'd stayed.
"Good." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I sat. Crossed my legs. Noticed the way his jaw tightened slightly before he pulled a phone from his drawer and slid it across the polished mahogany.
An iPhone in a sleek black case. Newer than anything I'd ever owned.
"For you," he said.
I stared at it. "Why?"
"Because you need one." He leaned back in his chair, that controlled posture that made him look relaxed when I knew he wasn't. "My number is programmed in. Maks's number. Kostya's. The compound's main line. Keep it charged and with you always."
I picked up the phone. It was heavier than I expected, solid in my hand. The screen lit up when I touched it, showing a simple background—grey, neutral, inoffensive. I swiped through to the contacts. Four entries, just like he'd said.
Nikolai (cell). Maks Besharov. Kostya Besharov. Besharov Compound Main.
"Is this because I can't be trusted?" The words came out sharper than I meant them to. Defensive. But giving someone a phone with your numbers programmed in felt like a leash, not a gift.
"It's because you're valuable," he corrected quietly. His eyes held mine. "And because the Belyaevs are still out there. If something happens—if you need help, if you feel unsafe, if anything seems wrong—I need to be able to reach you. You need to be able to reach me."
The way he said it made my throat tight. I need to be able to reach you. Like he'd been thinking about scenarios where I was in danger and he couldn't get to me.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once. Looked away first, which felt like a small victory. "There's a stipend loaded on the account. Five hundred a month, like the contract states. You can use it for personal expenses. Clothes, books, whatever you need."
"I don't need anything."
"Everyone needs something." His voice had gone softer. More intimate. The Pakhan mask slipping slightly. "If you think of something, tell me."
What I needed was for him to kiss me again. To stop pretending that night hadn't happened. To acknowledge that we'd both felt something real and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
But I couldn't say that. So I just nodded and clutched the phone like it was a lifeline instead of a tracking device.
The silence stretched. Heavy. Charged. All the things we weren't saying filling the space between us until the air felt thick enough to choke on.
His eyes met mine. Held. I couldn't look away.
I wondered if he touched himself thinking about me. If he lay in bed at night and remembered how I'd tasted. If he regretted pulling away or if he was relieved he'd maintained control.
I wondered if I'd ever be brave enough to ask.
"You should get to work," he said finally. His voice was rougher than it had been. Like something was costing him. "The library is yours today. I have meetings until three."
Dismissed. I stood on shaking legs, the phone clutched in my hand.
"Sophie."
I stopped at the door. Turned back. He was standing now, hands braced on his desk, that careful control fraying at the edges.
"Keep the phone with you," he said. "Always."
I promised. Then I left before I could do something stupid like cross the room and kiss him again just to see if he'd reject me twice.
The Belyaev communications were almost soothing in their predictability. I'd been working in the library since nine AM, the new phone sitting on the desk beside me like a talisman, cataloging emails and text messages and surveillance reports with the kind of focus that came from having something concrete to control.
Anton Belyaev to unknown contact, July 15th: "Confirm the West Coast routes. We need leverage before the territory meeting."
Sergei Belyaev to Anton, July 22nd: "The Volkov girl is the missing piece. Everything her father knew is in that head."
I typed notes into my document, cross-referenced dates, built the timeline of their obsession with me. It should have been terrifying. Instead it was almost boring. Just men wanting information, wanting power, wanting control. Same story, different players.
My phone buzzed at 3:47 PM. I picked it up expecting a text from Nikolai or maybe Maks with some technical question.
Email notification. SecureStore Self-Storage.
My stomach dropped before I even opened it.
FINAL NOTICE: Unit 237 scheduled for clearance and auction in 48 hours due to non-payment. Remove all items by 5 PM Thursday or contents will be sold to recover outstanding debt of $340. This is your final opportunity to claim your belongings.
Thursday. Today was Thursday. I had one hour and thirteen minutes.
The words blurred. I read them again, slower, like that would change what they said. Unit 237. My father's storage unit. The one I'd been paying for with money I didn't have, juggling bills, always three months behind until I just stopped paying altogether because what was the point when I couldn't even visit without having panic attacks.
Everything was in there. The samovar my grandmother brought from Russia. My father's chess set. His reading glasses. The photographs I'd taken with my Polaroid camera before the Belyaevs grabbed me. Every physical piece of him that was left in the world.
About to be sold to strangers.
My hands were shaking. I set the phone down carefully on the mahogany desk, pressed my palms flat against the polished wood, tried to breathe. Four counts in. Four counts out.
Didn't help.
I'd forgotten. In the chaos of being auctioned and kidnapped and brought here, of signing contracts and cataloging intelligence and falling for a man who'd rejected me, I'd completely forgotten about the storage unit. About the automatic payments I'd been missing. About the warnings I'd been ignoring.
And now it was too late. Almost too late. Forty-eight hours, except the facility closed at five and it was already almost four.
I could go. The thought hit like electricity. Could take the subway to the storage facility, grab what mattered most, and be back by dinner at seven. Two hours, maybe two and a half if the trains were slow. Plenty of time.
Except I wasn't supposed to leave.
Was I? The contract didn't explicitly say I couldn't leave. Didn't have a provision about being confined to the compound. I'd signed up to work here, not to be imprisoned here.
But Nikolai had given me the phone this morning with very specific instructions. Keep it charged and with you always. Because he needed to reach me. Because the Belyaevs were still out there.
Because I was valuable.
I picked up the phone again. Pulled up his contact. My thumb hovered over the call button.
I could ask permission. Could explain about the storage unit and the deadline and needing to salvage my father's things. He'd probably understand. Might even offer to drive me.
Or he'd say no. Say it was too dangerous. Say I couldn't leave the compound without security. Say the risk wasn't worth it for some old belongings.
And I couldn't stand the thought of him saying no. Couldn't stand the thought of losing my father's things because I was too scared to act without permission.
I checked the time again. 3:51 PM. The storage facility was in the industrial district, maybe forty minutes on the subway. I could be there by 4:35, grab the essentials, be back on the train by 5:15. Back to the compound by 6:00, plenty of time before dinner.
No one would even know I'd left.
The rationalization felt thin even as I constructed it. But I wanted it to be true. Wanted to believe I could do this one thing without asking, without explaining, without being dependent on Nikolai's approval for every choice I made.
I wasn't his prisoner. The contract said employee. Said service agreement. Said nothing about being locked in.
Even though I knew—I knew—that leaving without telling him was breaking the unspoken rules we'd been dancing around all week. The rules about safety and trust and him needing to know where I was.
But maybe I wanted to break those rules. Wanted to see what would happen. Wanted to know if he'd come after me or if he'd let me go.
The thought made my breath catch. Made that buried, shameful part of me whisper that this was a test. That I was leaving partly to save my father's things and partly to see if Nikolai cared enough to track me down when I disappeared.
Stupid. Dangerous. The kind of bratty behavior that got people hurt.
I grabbed my bag anyway. Shoved the phone in my pocket. Left my notes spread across the library desk like I'd be coming right back.
The compound was quiet at this hour. Guards at their posts but not actively patrolling. Irina in the kitchen preparing dinner. Maks probably in his office doing tech things. Kostya out on some enforcement business. Nikolai in meetings until three, he'd said, which meant he might still be occupied.
I could slip out. Be back before anyone noticed.
I took the stairs instead of the elevator. Quieter. The ground floor exit led to a side street, one of the residential entrances that didn't have cameras pointed directly at it. I'd noticed it during one of my carefully supervised walks around the compound with Irina.
The door was heavy but unlocked. I pushed it open. Brooklyn afternoon air hit my face—cool, slightly humid, smelling like car exhaust and food from the restaurant down the block.
Freedom.
I stepped through before I could change my mind. Let the door close behind me with a soft click that felt like sealing my fate.
Then I walked to the subway, my father's storage unit address pulled up on my new phone, and tried not to think about what Nikolai would do when he realized I was gone.
I'd taken the G train to the industrial district, then walked three blocks through streets that got progressively emptier, more warehouse-lined, less residential. The storage facility was a massive concrete building that looked like it had been a factory once, converted into hundreds of identical units with rolling metal doors and fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead.
Unit 237 was on the second floor. I'd used the code the email provided—they'd already changed it from my personal code, preparing for the auction—and the lock clicked open with mechanical indifference.
The door rolled up with that familiar metal screech. I stepped inside.
My boxes were still there but scattered now, contents disrupted, like someone had gone through them hastily. Which made sense. The Belyaev men had grabbed me here. Must have searched the space first, looking for what? Information? Proof of my father's debts? Evidence of the photographic memory they wanted to extract?
My backpack was on the floor where I'd dropped it. Or where they'd dropped it. The zipper was open, contents spilled—my wallet, keys to an apartment I didn't have anymore, a granola bar wrapper.
And my Polaroid camera.
I picked it up with shaking hands. I'd documented everything with it. My life with Sergei. My dance career. My father's final months. The storage unit contents when I was cataloging them for the estate sale. Every important moment captured in those square instant photographs that developed right in front of you.
I'd thought I'd lost it. Thought the Belyaevs had taken it or it had been destroyed in the struggle. But here it was. Waiting.
My vision blurred. I pressed the camera against my chest and let myself cry.
Stupid. Crying over a camera when I should be packing efficiently, choosing what mattered, getting out before the facility locked up for the night. But I couldn't stop. Three years of holding it together, of being strong every single minute, and I was breaking down in a storage unit over a piece of plastic and leather and glass.
I set the camera down carefully. Wiped my eyes with my sleeve. Started going through boxes.
Photographs. So many photographs. My parents on their wedding day, my mother young and beautiful and alive. Me as a baby. My father holding me at my ballet recital when I was twelve, both of us smiling.
I was crying again. Couldn't stop. Tears dripping onto cardboard and old books and the remnants of a life that used to mean family.
My father's reading glasses. I picked them up, felt the weight of them, remembered how he'd push them up his nose when he was concentrating on a card game or reading the paper. How he'd take them off and rub his eyes when he was tired.
How I'd held his hand in the hospital while he died and he'd been too weak to ask for his glasses so he could see me clearly one last time.
My phone rang. The sound was sharp in the quiet space, making me jump. I pulled it from my pocket. Nikolai's name on the screen.
My heart stopped. He knew. Of course he knew. Probably had been tracking the phone since I left. Probably knew the second I walked out the compound door.
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Didn't know what to say. Sorry I left? Sorry I didn't trust you enough to ask? Sorry I'm sitting in my dead father's storage unit having a breakdown?
The call went to voicemail. I stared at the screen. Waited.
Thirty seconds later, it rang again.
I ignored it again. Hit the side button to silence it. Shoved it back in my pocket like that would make the situation go away.
I had maybe ten minutes. Maybe less. He knew where I was. Was probably already in his car. Probably furious that I'd left without telling him, that I'd ignored his calls, that I'd done exactly what he'd been afraid I'd do.
I worked faster. Grabbed what I could and left the rest. The furniture and boxes of old clothes and books I'd never read. The physical weight of a life that was over.
I was shoving one last photo album in my bag when I heard footsteps in the hallway outside.
Heavy. Purposeful. Male.
My whole body went rigid. The Belyaevs. They'd found me. I was alone in a storage unit with no weapon and no escape route and I'd been so stupid, so fucking stupid to leave the compound without telling anyone—
The metal door rolled up with that terrible screech.
Nikolai stood there, backlit by fluorescent lights, his face unreadable.
Not the Belyaevs. Him.
Relief and terror hit simultaneously. Relief that I wasn't about to be kidnapped or killed. Terror because the look in his grey eyes was something I'd never seen before. Not anger exactly. Something colder. More controlled. More dangerous.
He was wearing the same navy button-down from this morning. His sleeves were still rolled up. He stood perfectly still in the doorway, not moving closer, not speaking. Just looking at me.
At my tear-stained face. At the boxes scattered around me. At the Polaroid camera clutched in my hands like a lifeline.
I opened my mouth. "I can explain—"
He held up one hand. I went silent. My heart slammed against my ribs. My throat was tight. I'd never been afraid of him before. Not really. Even when he'd bought me at the auction, even when he'd locked me in his compound, I'd never felt actual fear.
But right now, standing in this storage unit with evidence of my betrayal scattered around me, I was terrified.
Not that he'd hurt me physically. But that I'd broken something between us that couldn't be fixed. That I'd confirmed every doubt he had about whether I could be trusted. That I'd ruined this before it even had a chance to begin.
His hand lowered. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Dangerous in its control.
"Are you hurt?"
I shook my head. My voice came out small. "No. I'm not hurt." Just crying in a storage unit over a dead man's reading glasses while ignoring your calls. Just breaking rules I knew were there even though we never said them out loud.
"Are you in immediate danger?" His eyes scanned the storage unit like he was checking for threats. Looking for Belyaev soldiers or weapons or evidence that something terrible had happened.
"No, but—"
"Then we'll talk about this later." He stepped inside. The space felt smaller with him in it. He took up too much room, his presence overwhelming even when he was being careful. "Show me what you need to keep."
I stared at him. That was it? No lecture about leaving without permission? No yelling about how stupid and reckless I'd been? Just help me pack?
Something in his expression softened when he looked at the boxes. At my father's reading glasses still clutched in my hand. At the photograph album open on the floor showing my mother's face.
"Show me, Sophie," he said again. Gentler this time. Almost tender.
I showed him. The chess set I'd already packed in my backpack. The teacups wrapped in newspaper. My father's glasses. The Polaroid camera. The photograph albums I couldn't bear to leave.
He pulled a cardboard box from somewhere—must have grabbed it from the hallway or maybe he'd brought it from the car. Started packing things carefully. His movements were efficient but tender, like he understood that these weren't just objects. They were memories. They were all I had left.
"The samovar," I said, pointing to the ornate Russian tea urn in the corner. My grandmother's. Too big to bring back now but too valuable to leave. "And the books. The ones in Russian."
He nodded. Made a note in his phone. "I'll send Kostya tomorrow with a truck. We'll move everything you want to keep to the compound."
We. Like it was already decided. Like my father's belongings had a place in his home.
My throat went tight. "You don't have to—"
"I know." He looked up from packing a photograph album. Those grey eyes held mine. "But I'm going to anyway."
The gentleness in his voice nearly broke me. I'd expected anger. Expected consequences. Expected him to be furious that I'd left without telling him, that I'd ignored his calls, that I'd put myself at risk.
Instead he was packing my father's things like they mattered. Like I mattered.
We worked in silence. He was meticulous about it, asking where I wanted certain items, whether I cared about keeping specific books or if they could be donated. Never rushed. Never impatient.
When everything I wanted was packed, he carried the box. I grabbed my backpack with the chess set and camera. We walked out together.
The storage unit door rolled down behind us. I'd probably never come back here. This chapter was closing.
His car was parked illegally right outside the facility. He opened the passenger door for me, waited until I was buckled in, then put my father's box carefully in the back seat before getting in the driver's side.
The silence in the car was suffocating. I could feel his presence beside me, could smell cedar and something clean, could see his hands gripping the steering wheel with that controlled precision that meant he was holding something back.
He pulled into traffic. Drove with the same careful control he did everything. The city passed by outside my window—industrial buildings giving way to residential neighborhoods, Brooklyn in that in-between time when afternoon was sliding into evening.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words felt inadequate. Sorry didn't cover leaving without permission. Didn't cover ignoring his calls. Didn't cover the fear he must have felt when he realized I was gone.
Nikolai's hands tightened on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched. He didn't look at me. Just kept driving.
"Why didn't you call me?" His voice was strained. Tight with something that might have been anger or might have been fear or might have been both. "You have the phone. You could have asked."
"I thought you'd say no."
"I would have said yes." The words came out hard. Definitive. Like he was angry I hadn't known that. "I would have driven you here myself. Would have helped you pack. Would have made sure you were safe. But you didn't give me the chance."
The accusation hit like a slap. You didn't give me the chance. You didn't trust me enough to ask. You assumed the worst and ran instead of staying and communicating.
He was right. I had assumed the worst. Had expected him to say no, to control me, to prioritize my safety over my needs. But he wasn't like that. That was the problem. That was what terrified me.
"I needed to do it myself," I said. My voice was small. "I needed to feel like I could make one decision without asking permission. Like I still had some control over my own life."
He made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Something bitter and understanding and sad.
"You have control, Sophie. You've always had control." He glanced at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "The contract gives you control. You can leave anytime with thirty days notice. You can refuse any task. You can set boundaries. The only thing—the only thing—I need is for you to tell me when you're leaving the compound. Not ask permission. Tell me. So I know where you are. So I can keep you safe if something goes wrong."
Tell him. Not ask. The distinction felt enormous.
"So if I'd texted you this afternoon and said I'm going to the storage unit, you would have just let me go?"
"I would have asked if you wanted company," he corrected. "Would have made sure you had security—either myself or someone else. And I would have made sure you had what you needed. But yes. If you'd insisted on going alone, I would have let you. Would have trusted you to make that choice."
The tightness in my chest loosened slightly. Then contracted again when I realized what I'd done. I'd tested him. Had manufactured a scenario where he had to choose between letting me go and coming after me. Had forced him to prove he cared enough to track me down.
Bratty. Manipulative. The kind of behavior that got people hurt.
But it had worked. He'd come after me. Had dropped everything and tracked me down and showed up when I needed him even though I'd been too scared to ask.
"I'm sorry," I said again. Meaning it more this time. "I should have told you. Should have trusted you enough to ask."
His hands relaxed slightly on the steering wheel. We were getting closer to the compound now. I could see familiar streets, familiar buildings.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For coming. For helping. For not—for not being angry."
"I am angry." His voice was quiet but firm. "I'm furious that you put yourself at risk. Furious that you ignored my calls. Furious that you didn't trust me enough to help you." He paused. "But I'm more relieved that you're safe. That's what matters."
The confession made something warm bloom in my chest. He was angry but relief trumped anger. My safety mattered more than his ego or his authority or his need for control.
We pulled into the compound's underground garage. He killed the engine but didn't move. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, breathing carefully.
The silence was different now. Still charged. Still heavy. But with something other than tension. Something that felt like possibility.
We got out of the car in silence. He carried my box of salvaged memories like it was precious.
The elevator ride to the third floor felt eternal. We stood on opposite sides, maintaining distance, both of us breathing too carefully. The air between us was thick with everything we weren't saying. Everything we'd been not-saying for a week.
The elevator doors opened. Third floor. The guest wing stretched out before us, thick carpet and expensive artwork and doors to rooms I'd never seen inside.
Mine was at the end. Maximum distance from his room. Maximum privacy.
We walked. My bad knee protested slightly—too much movement today, too much stress. I tried not to limp. Failed. Noticed him notice, the way his eyes tracked down to my leg and back up.
We reached my door. He set the box down carefully beside it. Straightened. Neither of us moved to turn the handle.
We stood too close. Breathing the same air. The hallway was quiet around us. Just us and the weight of decisions we were both afraid to make.
"Sophie." My name in his voice did things to me. Made my pulse jump. Made heat pool low in my abdomen. "When you leave without telling me, when I can't reach you, when I don't know where you are—"
His voice cracked slightly on the last word. I watched his throat work as he swallowed hard.
"I can't protect you," he continued. "The Belyaevs are still out there. They want you. And I can't—"
He stopped. His hands clenched at his sides. I watched him fight for control, watched the careful mask slip enough that I could see underneath. See the fear. The need. The desperation.
"I can't lose you," he finished. Barely more than a whisper.
The confession hung between us. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way I'd never seen him be.
My hand reached out. Touched his chest over his heart. I could feel it pounding through the fabric of his shirt. Too fast. Like mine.
"I wanted you to come after me," I whispered. The truth felt dangerous but necessary. "I wanted you to care enough to find me. I wanted—"
I stopped. Couldn't quite say it. The enormity of what I was about to ask felt too big, too vulnerable, too much like handing him every weapon he'd need to destroy me.
His hand covered mine on his chest. Warm. Large enough to engulf my smaller hand completely. "What did you want, malyshka?"
The endearment made my knees weak. Said in that voice that was pure dominance and care mixed together.
I looked up at him. Met those grey eyes that saw too much. That understood the parts of me I'd buried for three years.
"I wanted you to be my Daddy," I breathed. The words came out small. Young. Desperate. "I want to sign the contract. The real one. With all the optional clauses. I want rules and structure and discipline when I break them. I want—"
My voice broke. I couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate the depth of what I wanted. Someone to make decisions when I was drowning. Someone to hold me when the world felt too big. Someone to tell me I was good even when I was being bad.
Someone to see Little Sophie and not run away.
His eyes went dark. Pupils dilating until the grey was almost black. I watched his control fracture in real time. Watched the Pakhan mask crack and something hungrier, more primal underneath break through.
He kissed me.
His mouth crashed against mine, firm and claiming and everything I'd been fantasizing about for a week. His hand slid into my hair, tangled in the honey-colored strands, tilted my head back so he could deepen the kiss.
I melted into him. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulled me flush against his body. I could feel him hard against my body. Could feel how much he wanted this, wanted me.
A small sound escaped my throat. Not quite a whimper. Not quite a moan. Something desperate that said please and yes and finally.
He groaned against my mouth. The sound vibrated through me, made heat spike between my legs. His tongue swept inside when my lips parted, claiming, exploring, tasting. I'd never been kissed like this. Like I was air and he was drowning. Like he'd been starving and I was the first meal he'd seen in weeks.
His hand in my hair tightened. Not painful. Just firm. Controlling. Holding me exactly where he wanted me. The sensation made my brain go fuzzy, made coherent thought nearly impossible.
I needed more. Needed his hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck, his body over mine in that bed just a few feet away behind the door we were pressed against.
My hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. The strands were thick and soft between my fingers. I pulled slightly and he made a sound deep in his chest that went straight to my core.
We were pressed together so tightly I could feel every line of his body. Could feel the way his breathing had gone ragged. Could feel his heart slamming against his ribs in rhythm with mine.
His mouth left mine, trailed along my jaw, down to my neck. His teeth scraped against my pulse point and I gasped. My head fell back, giving him access. His lips were hot against my throat, tongue tasting my skin like he couldn't get enough.
"Nikolai." His name came out breathy. Needy. I didn't recognize my own voice.
His hand slid from my hair down my back, curved over my hip, squeezed. The possessiveness in the gesture made me dizzy. Like he was claiming me. Marking me as his.
"Say it again," he murmured against my neck. His voice was rough, wrecked. "Ask me again."
My brain was fuzzy. Too much sensation. Too much wanting. I struggled to form words. "Be my Daddy. Please. I need—I need you to—"
I couldn't articulate it. Couldn't explain the depth of what I needed. Rules and structure and someone to hold me when I fell apart. Someone to make the world make sense.
His mouth found mine again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. Like this kiss was a promise.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. My lips felt swollen. My body was singing with want. I could feel how wet I was, could feel the ache between my legs that demanded attention.
He pressed his forehead against mine. Closed his eyes. His hands were shaking where they held me.
"Tomorrow," he said roughly. "We'll discuss the contract tomorrow. When we're both thinking clearly."
The words felt like ice water. Tomorrow. Not now. Not tonight when we were both desperate and wanting and finally honest about it.
"But—" I started.
"Tomorrow, devotchka." His voice was firm. Not harsh. Just certain. The Daddy Dom voice that expected obedience. "I promise. We'll sit down, we'll go through everything, we'll negotiate properly. But not tonight. Not when you're emotional and I'm—"
He stopped. Swallowed hard. "Not when I want to take you to bed and make you forget everything but my name."
The confession made my core clench. Made heat flood my face and chest and everywhere. He wanted that too. Wanted me with the same desperate intensity I wanted him.
But he was maintaining control. Being responsible. Making sure we did this right.
It should have been frustrating. Should have made me want to argue, to push, to break down that control until he gave me what we both wanted.
Instead it made me feel safer. Like he was strong enough to hold the boundaries I couldn't hold myself. Like he'd protect me even from my own impulsiveness.
"And the punishment?" My voice came out smaller. Younger. Little Sophie peeking through. "For breaking the rule?"
His eyes darkened again. His hand came up, cupped my face. Thumb stroking over my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"Tomorrow, malyshka," he said quietly. "We'll discuss what you earned. I promise."
The word earned made something flutter low in my stomach. Not fear. Anticipation. The knowledge that consequences were coming, that he'd follow through, that the rules were real and so was the discipline when I broke them.
He stepped back. Put space between us even though I could see how much it cost him. His control was fracturing at the edges but holding. Barely.
"Get some rest," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."
He picked up my box of memories. Carried it inside my room, set it carefully on the dresser. Then he walked back out, closing the door between us with a soft click that felt final.
I stood in the hallway. Touched my swollen lips. My whole body was trembling with wanting.
Tomorrow. We'd discuss the contract tomorrow. I'd sign those optional clauses and officially become his Little. His to care for. His to discipline. His to protect.
His.
I went inside. Closed the door. Leaned against it and let myself smile.
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.