Chapter 10
Sophie
Rules. He wanted to talk about rules.
My heart was pounding, my body felt like it was on fire.
Nikolai's expression was different. It was intense. The gentle man who'd held me while I cried about Sergei was still there—I could see him underneath. But layered over top was someone else. Someone commanding. Someone who expected obedience and would enforce consequences when he didn't get it.
Daddy.
He leaned back in his chair. Settled into it with that controlled grace that made every movement look deliberate. His legs spread slightly. His hands rested on the armrests. He looked at me with those grey eyes that missed nothing.
Then he patted his lap.
Two gentle pats. An unmistakable summons.
"Come here, devotchka," he said. His voice had dropped an octave. Gone quiet and firm and absolutely certain. "It's time you learned what happens when my Little girl breaks the rules."
My heart slammed against my ribs. The air in the study felt too thick. I couldn't get enough of it into my lungs.
This was happening. This was actually happening.
I'd asked for this. Had begged him to be my Daddy, to give me structure and discipline and consequences when I fucked up. Had sat in this very chair ten minutes ago and told him I needed to know he'd follow through.
But now that it was real—now that he was looking at me like that and I knew what was coming—terror and anticipation warred in my stomach until I felt sick with it.
My core clenched. Heat pooled between my legs. The pink cashmere sweater was suddenly too warm. Too tight. My skin felt electric, hypersensitive, aware of every sensation. The leather chair under me. The Persian rug under my feet. The way my bad knee was protesting from sitting too long.
The way Nikolai's gaze tracked over me like he could see all of it. The fear. The arousal. The desperate wanting mixed with the urge to run.
"Sophie." Not a question. A command wrapped in my name.
I stood. My legs shook. I'd danced on stage in front of thousands of people without trembling. Had survived being sold at auction. Had held Sergei while he died.
But crossing the burgundy Persian rug to where Nikolai sat waiting—that took courage.
Each step felt too slow and too fast at once. My bad knee protested. I tried not to limp. Failed. He noticed. Of course he noticed. Those grey eyes cataloged everything.
I stopped in front of him. Close enough that my knees almost touched his. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat.
He was affected too. Not as calm as he looked. The realization helped somehow. Made this feel less like punishment and more like—
What? Connection? Trust? Two people doing something vulnerable together?
His hands settled on my hips. Warm through the cashmere. Large enough to span my waist. The pressure was gentle but firm. Grounding.
"We're going to discuss what you did yesterday," he said quietly. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just matter-of-fact. "Tell me the rule you broke."
My throat was tight. I had to swallow twice before words would come. "I left the compound without telling you where I was going."
"And?"
"I ignored your calls."
"Good girl." The praise made warmth bloom in my chest despite everything. "Now tell me why that's a rule."
He was making me think through it. Making me articulate the reasoning instead of just accepting punishment blindly. The realization made something in me settle slightly.
This wasn't arbitrary. Wasn't about control for control's sake. He needed me to understand.
"Because the Belyaevs want me," I said. My voice was steadier now. "Because something could go wrong. Because I need to be reachable if there's danger."
His hands squeezed my hips gently. Encouraging. "What else?"
I looked at him. Really looked. Saw the tension in his jaw. The tightness around his eyes. The fear he'd been carrying since yesterday when I'd disappeared.
"Because you need to know I'm safe," I whispered. "Because when you can't reach me, when you don't know where I am, you—" My voice broke slightly. "You can't protect me. And that terrifies you."
Something shifted in his expression. Softened. "Yes. Exactly. So when you left yesterday without telling me, what did you do?"
The tears I thought I'd cried out earlier threatened to return. "I put myself in danger. I made you worry. I broke your trust."
The admission made my chest ache. That was the real violation. Not leaving the compound—I'd had legitimate reasons for that. But the not telling him. The ignoring his calls. The forcing him to track me down instead of just asking for help.
I'd tested him. Had manufactured a crisis to see if he'd care enough to come after me.
And he had. But that didn't make it okay.
"Yes," Nikolai said. His voice had gone rougher. "You broke my trust. And major rule violations require consequences. Do you understand why?"
I nodded. Couldn't speak past the lump in my throat.
His hand came up to cup my face. Thumb stroking my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "I need to hear you say it, Sophie. Tell me why rules need consequences."
The vulnerability of it made me want to look away. But his grey eyes held mine captive.
"Because actions have consequences," I said. Each word felt dragged from somewhere deep. Somewhere I'd been protecting. "Because rules only matter if they're enforced. Because I need to know—"
I stopped. The truth was too big. Too revealing.
"What do you need to know?" he asked softly.
"That you'll follow through." It came out as a whisper. "That the structure is real. That you're strong enough to—to hold the boundaries when I can't hold them myself."
His eyes went dark. Pupils dilating until the grey was almost black. I watched his throat work as he swallowed hard.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Such a good, brave girl for telling me the truth."
Then his hands returned to my hips. His grip firmed.
"Over my lap, devotchka," he said. "Now."
I moved toward him. My legs didn't want to cooperate. My brain was screaming at me to run, to make excuses, to do anything except drape myself over the lap of a man who was about to spank me for the first time in three years.
But I wanted this. Needed this. Had asked for this.
So I lowered myself carefully across his thighs.
He guided me with gentle hands. Positioned me so my upper body was supported by the chair arm, my weight distributed, my hips elevated over his thighs. The position was vulnerable. Exposed. My face heated.
This was happening. This was real.
His hand settled on my lower back. Warm through the cashmere. Grounding. "Breathe, devotchka."
I tried. Managed something that was half breath, half whimper.
His fingers found the hem of my pink sweater. Lifted it slightly. Not removing it—just pushing it up enough to expose the waistband of my black leggings.
"These need to come down," he said. His voice was still calm. Still controlled. But there was an edge to it now. Command that expected obedience. "Just to your thighs. I want you to feel this properly, but I'm not humiliating you. Do you understand?"
I nodded against the chair arm. My throat was too tight to speak.
"Words, Sophie."
"Yes. I understand."
His fingers hooked in the waistband of my leggings. "Lift up."
I lifted my hips. The movement made my core clench. Made me hyperaware of how wet I was, how my body was responding to this with arousal instead of just fear.
He pulled the leggings down slowly. Past my hips, over my ass, down to mid-thigh. The fabric bunched there, holding my legs together, restricting my movement.
The air in the study was cool against my exposed skin. I was wearing the panties he'd provided—soft white cotton with tiny flowers. Simple. Almost childlike. The realization made my face burn hotter.
His hand settled on my lower back again. "I'm not taking these off," he said quietly. "You'll stay covered. But you'll feel every spank through the fabric. That's part of your consequence—feeling what you've earned."
Earned. The word made something flutter in my stomach.
"We're using the count method," he continued. His voice had dropped into that commanding register that made my brain go fuzzy. "Twenty spanks. You'll count each one out loud. You'll thank me after each count. If you lose count or forget to thank me, we start over from one. Do you understand?"
Twenty. That seemed like so many. But I'd agreed to this. Had asked for discipline when I broke rules.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Yes, what?"
The title rose to my lips automatically. Naturally. "Yes, Daddy."
His hand went still on my back. The silence stretched. I'd said it without thinking—just let it slip out like it belonged there.
"Good girl," he murmured finally. His voice had gone rough. "Such a good girl for Daddy."
The praise made warmth bloom in my chest despite my vulnerable position. Made me feel safe even though I was draped over his lap waiting for punishment.
His hand left my back. I tensed. Held my breath. Waited.
The first spank landed on my right cheek. Not gentle. Firm. The sting bloomed sharp and hot through the thin cotton of my panties.
I gasped. "One. Thank you, Daddy."
My voice wavered on the words.
The second spank landed on my left cheek immediately. Same force. Same sharp sting.
"Two. Thank you, Daddy."
Third spank. Right side again. The heat was building now. Layering.
"Three. Thank you, Daddy."
He kept going and I kept thanking him.
By the sixth spank, my bottom was burning. The heat had spread from sharp stings to a deeper ache. Each impact made me jerk slightly. Made small sounds escape my throat.
"Six. Thank you, Daddy."
After the eighth, I was squirming. Couldn't help it. My body wanted to escape even though my brain was screaming to stay still, to take it, to be good.
With the tenth spank, tears pricked my eyes. Not from the physical pain—that was manageable. From something deeper. The overwhelming release of finally, finally surrendering control.
My bottom was on fire. Each breath came too fast. My core was clenching with every spank. I was wet. Could feel it. Could feel my body responding to this discipline with arousal that should have been shameful but just felt right.
By the twelfth, I was crying openly. Silently. Just tears streaming down my face while I counted and thanked him for each spank. The fourteenth made me sob. Not from pain. From release. From the relief of being disciplined, being held accountable, being cared for enough that he'd follow through.
His hand paused. Rested on my heated skin. "Breathe, devotchka. You're doing so well. Just a few more. Can you give me six more?"
I nodded against the chair arm. Couldn't speak. Just nodded and tried to breathe through the tears.
"Good girl," he murmured. "My brave, good girl."
He kept going and I kept letting go.
The twentieth spank landed firm and final on my left cheek. The culmination of everything. The physical manifestation of consequences, of structure, of being cared for enough to be disciplined.
"Twenty. Thank you, Daddy."
My voice broke completely on the final words. Shattered into tears and relief and overwhelming gratitude that he'd done this. That he'd followed through. That the rules were real and so was he.
His hand stilled on my heated skin. No longer delivering discipline. Just resting there. Warm. Gentle. Grounding.
"Good girl," he said. His voice was rough with emotion. "Such a good girl for me. You took your punishment so well, devotchka."
He helped me up carefully. His hands under my arms, supporting my weight, mindful of my bad knee. I was shaking. Crying. My bottom was burning and my leggings were still around my thighs and I felt cracked open and vulnerable and so relieved I could barely breathe.
"Come here, devotchka," he murmured. "Let me hold you."
He guided me into his lap. Not across it this time—facing him. My legs straddling his thighs. My knees on either side of his hips. The position put us face to face. Intimate. My sore bottom rested on his thighs and the pressure made me wince.
But I didn't care. Didn't care about the burn or the lingering sting or anything except getting closer to him.
I buried my face in his neck. Pressed my tear-soaked cheeks against his warm skin. Breathed in cedar and soap and something uniquely him.
And I sobbed.
Not the quiet crying from before. Full body sobs that shook my whole frame. Tears and snot and three years of holding everything together finally breaking apart.
But not breaking in a bad way. Breaking in the way things needed to break so they could be put back together properly.
His arms wrapped around me. One hand stroking my back in long, soothing motions. The other cradling my head, fingers tangling in my hair.
"Shh, I've got you," he murmured against my temple. "You're okay. It's over. You're forgiven."
Forgiven. The word made me cry harder. Because that's what I needed to hear. That the slate was clean. That I'd taken my consequence and now we could move forward.
That I wasn't bad or wrong or broken for needing this.
He rocked me slightly. Just small movements. Letting me cry myself out against his neck while he held me together.
"Moya khoroshaya devochka," he whispered in Russian. My good girl. "Ty v bezopasnosti. Ty proshchena." You're safe. You're forgiven.
The Russian made something warm bloom in my chest. Made me feel small in the best way. Like he was speaking directly to Little Sophie, to the part of me that needed reassurance in the language of fairy tales and bedtime stories.
I don't know how long we sat like that. Could have been five minutes. Could have been twenty. Time felt elastic, meaningless. There was just the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear.
Eventually the sobs quieted. Became smaller. Then just breathing. Shaky and uneven but calming.
His hand continued stroking my back. Patient. Not rushing me.
When I finally lifted my head, my face was a mess. Tears and snot and probably mascara everywhere. I must have looked terrible.
But Nikolai just cupped my face in his hands. Thumbs wiping at my wet cheeks. Looking at me like I was something precious.
"There you are," he said softly.
I tried to speak. Couldn't. My throat was too raw.
He seemed to understand. Reached for something on the side table beside his chair.
A tube of arnica cream. The kind dancers used for bruises and sore muscles. He'd had it ready. Had planned for this moment. Had known I'd need physical aftercare after the discipline.
The realization made my chest tight. He'd thought ahead. Had prepared to care for what he was going to do to me.
"Stand up for me, devotchka," he said gently. "Let me take care of you."
I stood on shaking legs. My leggings were still bunched around my thighs. My bottom throbbed with every movement.
He guided me to step out of the leggings completely. First one leg, then the other. His hands were steady where mine were shaking. When the fabric was clear, he set them aside carefully. Not thrown. Folded and placed on the chair arm like they mattered.
"Bend over the chair arm," he said. His voice was still gentle but firm. Still commanding. "Just like before."
I bent forward. The position put my bottom in the air, exposed in just my flowered cotton panties. My face heated. This was different than the spanking. More vulnerable somehow.
Because now he was looking at what he'd done. At the evidence of his discipline.
I heard the cap opening. Then his hands were on me. One palm resting on my lower back. The other—
Cool cream against heated skin. I gasped. The sensation was immediate—cooling, soothing, easing the burn.
"I know," he murmured. "Just relax. Let me make it better."
His hands rubbed the cream in with careful precision. Not roughly. Not carelessly. With the same meticulous attention he brought to everything. Covering every inch of reddened skin. Taking his time. Making sure I was cared for.
The intimacy of it made my breath catch. He was touching me so gently. So reverently. Like tending to my sore bottom was an honor rather than an obligation.
His fingers traced the edges where my panties met skin. Slipped barely underneath to reach the spots he'd spanked lower. The touch was clinical but tender. Focused on my comfort rather than anything sexual.
Though my body didn't get the memo. I was acutely aware of how close his hands were to other places. How the position had me bent and exposed. How I was still wet from the discipline, arousal mixing with the burn in a way that should have been confusing but just felt right.
"Almost done," he said quietly. His hands kept working. Rubbing the cream in with gentle circular motions. "You're doing so well, devotchka. Taking such good care for me."
The praise made warmth bloom in my chest despite everything. Made me feel good and cared for and safe.
When he'd covered every inch of reddened skin, he capped the tube. Helped me stand. His hands on my hips were gentle. Steadying.
"Leggings back on," he said. "Nice and slow."
He held the fabric while I stepped in. One leg at a time. Pulled them up carefully, mindful of my sore bottom. The soft fabric settling against my heated skin made me wince slightly, but the cream helped. The burn was already less sharp. More of a deep ache. A reminder.
When I was dressed again, he sat back in his chair. Patted his lap. Different than before. This wasn't a summons to discipline. This was an invitation to be held.
I settled in sideways this time. My legs across his lap, my head on his shoulder. Curling into him like a child seeking comfort.
His arms wrapped around me immediately. Secure. Protective. One hand stroking my hair. The other resting on my hip.
"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.
I considered the question. My bottom still burned slightly, a constant reminder of consequences. My face was probably a mess. My body was wrung out from crying.
But underneath all that—peace. Clarity. The kind of clean feeling that came after releasing weight you'd been carrying too long.
"Good," I whispered. "Really good. Like I can breathe again."
His arms tightened around me. "You scared me yesterday. When I couldn't reach you. When I didn't know where you were."
"I know. I'm sorry." I lifted my head to look at him. "But I'm glad you came after me. Glad you cared enough to find me."
"Always," he said. The promise in that single word made my chest ache. "I'll always come for you, devotchka. Always."
His hand continued stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. Long motions from my shoulders down to my hips. Then up again. The repetition was hypnotic. Calming. Each stroke smoothed away more of the jagged edges I'd been carrying.
His other hand played with my hair. Tucking strands behind my ear. Running his fingers through the honey-colored length. Twirling pieces around his fingers then letting them fall.
I felt floaty. Soft. Like all my sharp edges had been smoothed away by discipline and tears and care. Like I was made of something gentler than flesh and bone. Something that could bend without breaking.
Little space. I was hovering at the edge of it. Not fully regressed—I was still aware, still thinking in adult sentences. But younger. Softer. The walls I usually kept up were down. Gone. Unnecessary.
Safe.
"How do you feel?" he asked quietly. His voice was a rumble in his chest under my ear.
I considered the question seriously. Wanted to give him a real answer, not just what he wanted to hear.
"Good," I said finally. "Really good." I paused, searching for words. "Like I can breathe again. Like something that was wound too tight inside me finally loosened."
His arms tightened around me briefly. "That's what I was hoping for."
"My bottom still burns," I admitted. Half complaint, half observation.
"It should. For a few hours at least." No apology in his voice. Just matter-of-fact. "That's part of the consequence. You'll feel it when you sit. When you move. A reminder."
The reminder would keep me anchored. Keep me from forgetting why rules mattered. Why trust mattered.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"For what?"
"For following through. For—" My voice caught. "For holding me after."
His hand in my hair stilled. Then resumed its gentle stroking. "Always, devotchka. I'll always hold you after. That's part of my job as your Daddy. Discipline and comfort both."
The word Daddy in his voice made my core clench. Made heat bloom low in my belly despite the lingering burn.
I shifted slightly in his lap. Adjusted my position. My hip pressed against his thigh and—
Oh.
He was hard. Unmistakably hard. I could feel him through his jeans, pressed against my body where I was draped across his lap.
He'd been aroused probably since he started spanking me. Maybe before. But he'd held it in check to focus on my discipline and aftercare. Had put my needs before his own desire.
The realization made something warm and liquid pool between my legs. Made my breath catch. Made me hyperaware of every point of contact between our bodies.
I pressed my hip against his hardness. Watched his jaw clench. Watched his eyes go dark. Watched his control fracture at the edges.
"Sophie." My name came out as a warning.
I did it again. Shifted. Pressed. Let him feel exactly what I was doing.
His hand on my hip tightened to the point of pain. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to communicate. Stop. Don't. We can't.
But I could feel how much he wanted to. Could see it written in every line of tension in his body.
"We don't have to—" he started.
I kissed him.
Cut off whatever he was going to say with my mouth on his. My hands sliding into his dark hair. My body pressing against his with clear intent.
He resisted for half a heartbeat. Stayed rigid. Controlled.
Then he groaned and kissed me back.
His hand fisted in my hair. His other arm banded around my waist. He pulled me tighter against him, angled my head so he could deepen the kiss, claimed my mouth with an intensity that made my brain shut off completely.
His tongue swept inside when my lips parted. Tasting. Exploring. Claiming. I melted into him. Let him take control. Let him kiss me like he was drowning and I was air.
My hands tightened in his hair. Pulled slightly. He made a sound deep in his chest that vibrated through me. Made my core clench. Made me arch against him seeking friction.
His hand slid from my hip to my ass. Squeezed the sore flesh through my leggings. I gasped into his mouth. The sensation was sharp—pleasure and pain mixing together until I couldn't tell the difference.
"Daddy," I whimpered against his lips.
The title seemed to undo him. He stood with me in his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. I could feel him hard against my core now. Could feel exactly how much he wanted this.
Wanted me.
He walked us toward the leather sofa against the far wall. Each step made me aware of the burn in my bottom, the ache between my legs, the way my body was singing with need.
"Are you sure?" he asked between kisses. His voice was wrecked. Barely controlled. "We can stop. We can wait. I don't want you to think you have to—"
"I'm sure." I kissed him again. Fierce. Claiming. "I want this. Want you. Please, Daddy."
The please broke something in him. I watched his eyes go from grey to nearly black. Watched his careful control shatter completely.
He laid me down on the leather sofa. Followed me down. His weight pressed me into the soft cushions, his body covering mine, his hardness exactly where I needed it.
"Please," I whispered again.
And he gave me what I was begging for.