Nikolai (Underworld Daddies #4)

Chapter 18

Sophie

Family.

The word meant so much to me now.

Over my life, my idea of family had shifted and morphed. Losing my mom, then my dad. Feeling alone and then, recently, discovering links to the Volkovs and the Belyaevs.

But none of that was real family.

Real family was Nikolai. Was Kostya. Was Maks.

Real family was the family you chose. The people who accepted you just the way you were.

The people who didn’t bat an eyelid when I needed Little time. When I needed to be with my stuffies and drink from a sippy cup. The people who comforted me when I was stressed, who helped me color when I felt gray.

But that wasn’t who I was right now.

I stood at the head of the war room table in my gray blouse and tailored trousers, my tablet connected to the projection screen, my voice clear and professional as I walked three of the most dangerous men in Brooklyn through financial forensics that would have made my college professors proud. Both versions were me—the little girl who needed Daddy to make her breakfast, and the analyst who could track money through shell corporations faster than Maks's algorithms.

Morning light slanted through the bulletproof windows, catching dust motes that drifted past the mahogany table where Nikolai, Kostya, and Maks sat like judges at a very dangerous dissertation defense. Except they weren't judging. They were listening.

That still felt strange. Powerful.

"Anton Belyaev's assets weren't just in shipping." I tapped the screen, bringing up the first spreadsheet. My photographic memory had the numbers burned into my brain, but showing the evidence made it real for them. Made it actionable. "My analysis of his hidden ledgers shows he was also routing money through three offshore art galleries."

I pulled up the next image—a web of connections I'd mapped out over the past week in the library that had become my office. The room where I'd once hidden from the world now held my desk, my files, my carefully organized system for tracking the pieces of Anton's empire that the families were still absorbing.

"Here." I circled the first gallery name with my stylus. "Galerie Rousseau in Monaco. Established 2019, two months after Anton took control of Belyaev operations. The ownership documentation lists it under a French holding company, but if you cross-reference the incorporation dates with these shipping manifests—" I swiped to show the correlation. "—you'll see containers arriving in Monaco on the same days the gallery reported major acquisitions."

Maks was leaning forward, his tablet out, fingers already flying across the screen to verify my work. He did that every time. Not because he didn't trust me, but because he couldn't help himself. The man thought in code and data streams.

"The container contents were listed as industrial machinery," I continued, pulling up the customs forms I'd found buried in Anton's files. "But the weights don't match. A crate marked as containing textile equipment shouldn't weigh eight hundred pounds unless—"

"Unless it's full of something a lot denser," Kostya rumbled from his position against the wall. He'd stayed standing for the whole presentation, arms crossed, looking like violence waiting to happen. But his eyes were sharp. Tracking. "Weapons?"

"Or gold." I brought up the final correlation—auction records from Galerie Rousseau that showed pieces selling for amounts that made no sense unless you were laundering money. "These paintings sold for three to five times their estimated value. Always to anonymous buyers. Always with payment processing through the same Cayman Islands bank that handled Anton's shipping accounts."

The room went quiet. Not the bad kind of quiet where men were deciding whether to believe a woman who'd walked into their world through an auction and chaos. The good kind. The kind where strategic minds were processing information and seeing the implications.

I risked a glance at Nikolai.

He sat at the opposite end of the table, positioned so we faced each other like we were playing chess. His three-piece suit was immaculate—charcoal gray, crisp white shirt, burgundy tie that I'd straightened for him this morning before the softness had faded and I'd needed to be Big Sophie instead of his malyshka. His Pakhan mask was fully in place. The controlled expression that gave nothing away, the still posture that made him look carved from marble, the gray eyes that assessed without revealing.

But those eyes met mine across the mahogany, and everything changed.

I saw it. The pride. Raw and fierce and absolutely certain. His expression didn't shift—couldn't shift, not in front of Kostya and Maks, not when he was being the leader who'd made the hard calls and paid the brutal prices. But his eyes softened just slightly. Warmed in ways only I could read after three months of learning his tells.

His chin dipped. Maybe half an inch. So subtle that if I'd blinked I would have missed it.

But I didn't miss it. That tiny nod was everything. Was the "Good girl" he couldn't say out loud in this context, in this room, when I was Advisor Sophie presenting intelligence instead of Little Sophie coloring in her nursery. It was acknowledgment that I'd done well. That I'd earned my place at this table. That both versions of me—the analyst and the little girl—made him proud.

My chest did something complicated. Warm and tight and absolutely right.

"So we have three galleries." Maks's voice pulled me back to the presentation. His fingers were still moving across his tablet, probably already hacking into Galerie Rousseau's systems to verify everything I'd said. "Monaco, and where else?"

"Singapore and Cape Town." I pulled up the documentation for both. "Same pattern. Established within months of Anton taking power. Same shell company structure. Same impossible auction prices for mediocre art. The Singapore location moved forty-three million dollars in eighteen months."

Kostya let out a low whistle. "That's not money laundering. That's a fucking car wash."

"It gets better." I brought up the final image—the one that had made me actually gasp when I'd found it yesterday. "All three galleries share the same art appraiser. A woman named Irina Sidorova."

The name landed like a grenade.

Nikolai's eyes sharpened. Kostya straightened from his casual lean against the wall. Maks's fingers froze mid-type.

"Sidorova," Nikolai said quietly, and his voice carried weight that meant this mattered. "Viktor Sidorov's daughter. The man who ran The Settling before Anton killed him during the attack."

I nodded, my heart kicking up speed because this was the part that had kept me awake last night cross-referencing dates and documentation. "Anton didn't just use her. He had her trapped in the same system that trapped me. She's been appraising his acquisitions for four years, signing off on valuations that let him move money freely. If she refused—"

"He would have killed her like he killed her father," Maks finished, his voice tight with anger that surprised me. Maks didn't usually show emotion beyond mild amusement or analytical interest. But this—this had struck something personal.

"We need to bring her in," Kostya said, already moving toward the door like he was going to personally extract her from whatever gallery she was currently trapped in. "Get her statement. Use her testimony to seize the galleries and freeze the accounts before Anton's remaining people can move the assets."

"Already working on location," Maks confirmed, his fingers flying again. "Give me twenty minutes."

Nikolai stood, his movement drawing every eye in the room. When he spoke, it was pure Pakhan—command that expected obedience and would accept nothing less.

"Sophie's intelligence is solid. We move on all three galleries simultaneously. Maks, coordinate with our contacts in Monaco and Cape Town. Kostya, you handle Singapore—you have people there. I want seizure orders filed by end of business today."

He paused, his eyes finding mine again across the table.

"Good work, printsessa."

The endearment in this context—professional, formal, with his brothers present—made my breath catch. He'd called me that during the presentation to the Council. Had used it when I was Big Sophie, Advisor Sophie, the woman who stood at war room tables and tracked money through criminal enterprises.

It wasn't just a Little name anymore. It was my name. The one that encompassed all of me.

Kostya and Maks were already moving, gathering tablets and phones, coordinating the next steps of the operation my intelligence had triggered. But Nikolai stayed still, watching me with an expression that made my professional composure wobble dangerously.

"You've come a long way," he said quietly, meant only for me even though we weren't alone. "From the frightened woman at the auction to this. To standing here commanding this room with your brilliance."

"I had a good teacher." My voice came out softer than I intended. "Someone who showed me I could be both. That being small and safe with you didn't mean I couldn't also be strong and capable here."

His eyes held mine, and in them I saw everything we'd survived. The auction. The Belyaev compound. The cathedral where he'd destroyed sacred protocols to save me. The three months since, where we'd rebuilt something better than what we'd lost.

Where I'd found my place. Both places. The little girl who needed raspberry jam and stories, and the analyst who could track criminal assets through offshore galleries.

Both versions mattered. Both versions were loved. Both versions had family.

"Meeting adjourned," Nikolai said, his Pakhan voice returning as Kostya and Maks headed for the door. "Sophie, stay. I need to discuss the Singapore timeline with you."

The door closed behind his brothers, and the war room transformed. Not physically—same mahogany table, same bulletproof windows, same chess board sitting unused in the corner. But the energy shifted. From formal to intimate. From professional to personal.

Nikolai crossed the distance between us in four long strides, and his hands found my face with the gentleness that never failed to make my chest tight.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered, and his Pakhan mask cracked completely. "So fucking proud I can barely breathe around it."

I leaned into his touch, letting Advisor Sophie fade just slightly. Not all the way to Little—I couldn't go there yet, not when I was still wearing my tailored trousers and thinking about offshore accounts. But enough to be just Sophie. Just me.

"Did I really do good?" The question came out smaller than I meant it to.

"Baby girl." His thumbs stroked my cheekbones. "You did perfect."

Heat rolled through me. Fast. Sharp. I felt the shift in my body the way I felt music in my bones—one beat, then another, then the rush that meant I was about to fly.

“Show me?” I asked, voice smaller. Not Little. Just soft. Wanting.

His eyes darkened. “What do you want me to show you?”

“That I did perfect.” I swallowed. “That you’re proud.”

His hand slid down my throat to the first button of my blouse. He paused. Waiting. I gave him a tiny nod. Permission. The button slipped loose. Then the next. His fingers were steady. Precise. He opened me like a present he already owned.

“You stand there, command a room, break a syndicate with a spreadsheet—” His mouth brushed my jaw. Not a kiss. A claim. “—and then you ask so sweet.”

His fingers parted the last button and the gray blouse fell open. Cool air kissed my skin. His gaze tracked down, slow and deliberate, like he was reading a page he’d authored.

He tugged the blouse from my shoulders. It slid down my arms and pooled at my wrists, caught by the cuffs. He didn’t remove it. He left me bound by my own clothing, sleeves tugged high so the fabric pinned my elbows back just enough to make my chest lift.

“Hands on the table,” he said.

I flattened my palms on the mahogany. The wood felt warm from the sun. Solid. Real. My tablet still glowed beside my fingers, numbers frozen mid-cell like they were holding their breath for me.

He stepped behind me. I felt him before I saw him—heat and authority, the weight of his attention like a hand between my shoulder blades. His knuckles skimmed down my spine, stopping at the waistband of my trousers. He unhooked them with precise hands, slid the zipper down, and dragged the fabric over my hips. They caught on the curve of my ass and then dropped to my ankles.

And then, to my horror, there was a knock at the door.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “We have to wait. More meetings.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” I said. “We’ll have time.”

Somehow, I came down from my lusty high.

I was in the library. It smelled different now—like my lavender hand cream and the specific brand of tea I kept brewing in the corner, not just old books and Nikolai's sandalwood cologne. I'd claimed this space over three months of organizing files and tracking assets, turning it from a room where I'd hidden into a room where I worked. Where I built something that mattered.

I’d just heard that my cousins had arrived at the compound.

Cousins.

The word still felt strange. Foreign. Like trying on clothes that fit perfectly but you'd never expected to own.

Alexei Volkov entered first, his ice-blue eyes scanning the library with the same tactical assessment he probably applied to everything. He'd shed his suit jacket, his white shirt rolled to the elbows in a concession to the warm afternoon. Behind him came Ivan, leaner and quieter, carrying a laptop that was probably running seventeen different programs simultaneously.

"Sophie." Alexei nodded, his gruff voice still sounding weird when he used it to greet me instead of threaten someone. Three months since the cathedral, and I still wasn't used to him saying my name like I was family instead of a problem to solve.

"Alexei. Ivan." I stood, smoothing my blouse even though it didn't need smoothing. Nervous habit. "Thanks for coming. The files I mentioned are pulled up on the main screen."

Nikolai appeared behind them, his hand finding my lower back immediately. The touch was automatic now—his way of grounding both of us, of reminding me he was here, of showing anyone watching that I was his. I leaned into it without thinking, without the self-consciousness that would have made me freeze three months ago.

Ivan claimed one of the leather sofas, his laptop already open, fingers flying across keys. "Show me the discrepancies you found."

We fell into work like we'd been doing this for years instead of months. Like it was normal for the daughter of an exiled Volkov to sit with the current Pakhan and his brother, tracking the remains of Anton Belyaev's empire through financial records and shipping logs. Like family.

"The final Belyaev warehouses need to be cleared," Alexei said, settling into the other sofa with the kind of stillness that suggested he could explode into violence at any moment but was choosing not to. "Our people have been cataloging inventory, but there are questions about three shipments that came in the week before Anton disappeared."

Disappeared. The polite fiction for what had actually happened—Alexei leading Anton away from the cathedral, the man's hands zip-tied behind his back, his expensive Italian shoes leaving scuff marks on the marble floor. The last anyone outside the inner circle had seen of him was the back of his head as the heavy wooden door closed. Three days later, his passport had been used at a border crossing. A week after that, his accounts in the Caymans had been emptied. Every few months, a postcard from somewhere exotic arrived at his former residence. Life went on as if he still existed somewhere in the world.

"I have the manifests pulled up." I gestured to the screen, where my photographic memory had already organized the relevant documents. "Shipments arriving March eighth, eleventh, and fourteenth. All marked as industrial components, but the weights are wrong again."

Nikolai moved to the screen, his Pakhan mask sliding into place as he studied the data. We'd developed this rhythm—me presenting, him analyzing, both of us thinking through implications before speaking. It worked. We worked.

"More weapons caches?" Kostya's voice rumbled from the doorway. I hadn't heard him approach, but that was normal. The man moved like a predator despite his size.

"Possibly." I pulled up the correlating documents. "Or more laundering infrastructure we haven't found yet. The timing suggests Anton knew the families were moving against him. He might have been establishing escape routes."

"While we're all here, Alexei said," he said slowly, like the words cost him, "we should discuss the wedding arrangements."

The topic shift was so abrupt I blinked. Wedding arrangements. My wedding. To Nikolai. The engagement that had been formalized six weeks ago with a ring that probably cost more than my father's debts, with a proposal that had involved Nikolai getting down on one knee in our nursery while I'd been Little, asking both Big Sophie and his malyshka if she'd marry him.

I'd said yes before he'd finished the question.

"The traditional Russian ceremony at the cathedral will be public," Alexei continued, his discomfort making him sound even gruffer than usual. "Families need to witness it. Need to see the alliance formalized. But the private ceremony—" He paused, and something in his expression gentled. "That's for family. For us."

Us. The word hit differently than it should have. Alexei Volkov, the man who'd exiled my father twenty-five years ago, was claiming me as family. Was planning to attend my wedding not as political necessity but as my cousin. As someone who cared.

"We were thinking the compound gardens," Nikolai said quietly, his hand still on my back. "Small ceremony. Mikhail officiating. Just the people who matter."

"That sounds perfect." Ivan looked up from his laptop, his expression carrying warmth I was still learning to recognize. "Clara wants to help with the planning, if that's okay. She's been asking."

Clara. Alexei's wife. The woman I'd met briefly at a family dinner two weeks ago, who'd hugged me despite my frozen surprise and whispered "I'm so glad you're here" like she meant it.

I had a cousin-in-law. Had family who wanted to help plan my wedding. Had a life that extended beyond Nikolai and survival, into something that looked almost normal if you ignored the criminal enterprise funding it.

"I'd like that," I managed, my throat tight with emotions I couldn't name.

We returned to work then, but the atmosphere had shifted. Become softer. Ivan moved from the sofa to my desk without asking, pulling up his own data to compare against the shipping manifests I'd been analyzing. His shoulder bumped mine as we both leaned toward the screen—casual contact that would have made me flinch three months ago but now just felt like family.

"Your memory really is faster than my algorithm," he said after pulling up his analysis. "Look at this."

He'd run a program tracking the same shipping patterns I'd identified manually, but his results had taken three hours to compile. I'd done it in forty minutes.

"You were right about these manifests," Ivan continued, pointing to the discrepancies. "The weight differences led me to a hidden arms cache in the Red Hook facility. Twenty crates of weapons Anton had marked as machine parts." He looked at me with something that might have been awe. "How did you see that?"

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise despite having earned it. "Numbers tell stories if you know how to read them. The weights were wrong for the declared contents. After we found the first pattern with the galleries, I started looking for the same discrepancies in other records."

"Brilliant," Ivan said simply. "We need to loop Maks in on this. His systems can automate the search across all remaining Belyaev records."

We worked for another hour, falling into an easy collaboration that shouldn't have been possible between people who'd been strangers four months ago. But here we were—analyzing criminal operations like a very dangerous study group, occasionally interrupted by Kostya's observations or Alexei's tactical questions.

The light was starting to fade when Alexei finally stood, stretching with the careful movements of someone whose body had taken too many hits over too many years.

"We should head out," he said, reaching for his jacket. "Clara's expecting us for dinner."

Ivan packed his laptop with the same efficient movements, but he paused at the desk. "Thanks for this, Sophie. Your work today probably saved us months of investigation."

"Family helps family," I said, and the words came out steadier than I felt.

Alexei's expression did something complicated—surprise and approval and maybe the smallest hint of guilt for all the years my father had been alone. "Yes. We do."

Nikolai walked them toward the library entrance, his hand never leaving my back. The touch had become constant whenever we were together in "Big Sophie" mode—his way of maintaining connection even when I couldn't be Little, when I needed to be the analyst and the advisor instead of his malyshka.

"We'll see you at the engagement dinner, then," Alexei said at the doorway, and he actually clapped Nikolai on the shoulder. A gesture of brotherhood, of alliance, of family ties that ran deeper than business.

"Looking forward to it," Nikolai replied, and he sounded like he meant it.

The door closed behind them, leaving us alone in the library with the dust motes and the fading light and the comfortable silence of people who didn't need to fill every moment with words.

"That was good," I said quietly, turning back to my desk to start organizing the files we'd spread across every surface.

Nikolai's arms came around me from behind, his chin resting on top of my head. "You're good. Watching you work with Ivan—watching you be brilliant and confident and exactly who you're supposed to be—" He paused for a moment, and I could feel the change in him.

“—makes me want to take you apart and put you back together the way only I can.”

Heat surged low and fast. I curled my fingers around his forearms and let my head tip back against his chest.

“Do it,” I whispered. “Please.”

He turned me and kissed me like he was sealing something holy. Slow at first. Then not. His mouth took mine, his tongue stroking deep, claiming. The library fell away. It was just his breath, his taste, the slide of his palm under my blouse.

“Use your words,” he murmured against my lips. “What are you asking for, printsessa?”

“Reward.” My cheeks burned. “For doing perfect.”

He smiled against my mouth. Wolfish. Daddy and Pakhan and man, all in one. “Then present.”

The command went through me like an electric chord. I stepped from his arms and faced the desk. My hands went to the top button of my blouse, but he caught my wrist.

“No,” he said softly. “Let me.”

He undid each button with precise fingers, eyes on my face the whole time. Fabric opened. Cool air kissed my skin. My bra was soft dove gray, and his pupils blew dark when he saw it.

“Hands on the desk,” he said.

I planted my palms. Leather mousepad under my left hand, the edge of a neat stack of manifests under my right. The wood was warm from the sun. He pushed my blouse off my shoulders and it caught at my elbows again, pinning them just enough to arch my back.

He dragged my zipper down. The sound was loud in the quiet room. He peeled my trousers down and I stepped out, kicking them aside. My heart was in my throat. The window glass threw late gold across the floor, catching dust like glitter. I felt exposed. Displayed. My pulse kicked hard at my throat.

“Panties,” he said.

I hooked my thumbs and slid them down. Soft cotton. Damp. They stuck to the inside of my thigh for a second and then fell. Cool air hit slick skin and I shivered.

“Wider.” His palm nudged the inside of my knee with that quiet authority that made my brain go fuzzy. I opened. My heels planted. Ankles apart.

He stepped in close. The heat of him at my back, the careful way he didn’t touch me except where he wanted. Fingers traced the edge of my collar where it lay against my throat. His leather. His claim. I pushed back into the touch like a cat.

“Good girl.” He kissed the nape of my neck and I melted even though the desk was digging into my hip bones. “Count for Daddy. Ten. Reward spanks.”

I made a helpless sound. “Yes, Daddy.”

His hand disappeared and then came back as heat. The first slap landed on my right cheek—sharp, clean, a sting that bloomed into warmth.

“One,” I breathed. My fingers tightened on the desk edge. Wood bit my palms. Good.

He rubbed where he’d hit, soothing the sting with his big warm hand. Then the left. A little harder.

“Two.”

He worked them like a metronome. Smack, stroke, praise. The rhythm put me under. Numbers were anchors when I floated. By four my thighs were trembling. By six I was rocking into his palm, chasing pain into pleasure because that was what my body did when he had me like this.

“Six,” I gasped.

“Seven.” My voice shook. Need and heat. The sting settled into a glow that spread low and wet.

“Atta girl.” His palm smoothed across both cheeks, possessive. “Back down.”

He didn’t warn me. The next one landed square across the center. Sharper. Sound cracked in the room, echoed off wood and glass. My knees wobbled.

“Eight.”

His fingers trailed down and parted me. I went silent. Couldn’t breathe. He stroked once, a slow glide through slick that made my eyes flutter. He didn’t give me friction. Just proof. How turned on I was bent over my own desk, blouse cuffed around my elbows like makeshift restraints, numbers and manifests under my palms.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping on Daddy’s floor from a few little smacks.”

“Not…little,” I whispered.

He laughed against my shoulder. Dark and soft. “Nine.”

The slap landed lower, sharper and meaner but so good. The soreness sent heat to my clit and I thought I might come just from the pain and the sound of his voice.

“Ten,” I choked, finishing the count I’d started in my own head.

He didn’t let me up. Just stepped closer, pressing against my back so I could feel his cock already hard through his suit pants. He kissed the side of my neck. His arms banded around my waist, and the cloth of my blouse was still caught at my elbows. He ran both palms down my stomach and under my bra, squeezing and lifting until I was arching involuntarily.

“You did perfect,” he said. “And all this—” He moved one hand lower, between my legs, stroking me with practiced precision. “—belongs to me.”

“Yours, Daddy,” I whimpered, voice cracking.

It wasn’t just possessiveness, though I knew how much he liked seeing me this owned. The warmth that radiated from my ass. The slick high between my thighs where his fingers played with me like a toy designed for his pleasure. "Yours."

He growled and bit my shoulder, just hard enough to leave a mark. His other hand circled my wrist in the bunched sleeve and pinned both arms together at the small of my back. I floated, half-standing, cheek pressed to laminated spreadsheet printouts that had my own highlights and notes in the margin. My world had shrunk to the burn on my skin, the tight grip of his hand, and the obscene slick sounds while he worked me open.

He spanked me again—just once, a little sharper than before—and I jerked against his hold. His fingers circled my clit. I sobbed.

"Not so professional now, are you," he said, but his voice was fond.

I was gone. I didn’t know if I was even saying words. My cheeks burned.

He pushed two fingers inside. No warning, just a slow unyielding stretch that made me rise on my toes, my whole body arching. He curved them up, catching the spot that made my brain white out. My elbows were locked behind me, my chest pressed to the desk, and I moaned, not caring if the whole fucking compound heard.

“After all that data work, you still sound so helpless for me,” he crooned in my ear. “You started wet, but now? You’re about to come on my hand like a slut, aren’t you, printsessa.”

I nodded, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the noise that left my throat as he fucked his fingers in and out, thumb circling my clit with ruthless control. He didn’t give me a chance to catch my breath. My legs trembled. My hair fell in my face and caught in my mouth, but all I could do was cling to the desk and take whatever he gave me.

I was going to come right there, over my data and my desk, and I wanted it so bad I almost told him. But I didn’t have to. He knew. He always knew.

“You look so pretty bent over your own spreadsheet,” he said. His teeth grazed my neck, his fingers never stopping their motion. “You want to make a mess for Daddy? Want to come for me here, where you’ve been so smart and brave all day?”

“Yes,” I whimpered.

“Then do it. Make a mess, right now. Show me how much you need it.”

He pinched my clit, not hard but so perfectly calibrated to my nerves that the orgasm took me to my knees. I shuddered and sobbed, my thighs shaking, my vision spattered with bright little fireworks as I came hard on his fingers and collapsed against the desk.

“Now,” he said, “I’m going to take what I need.”

His hand left my wrists, and I twisted up for air, pulse still jack-hammering in my throat. My face was hot, my eyes blurry, my thighs sticky with sweat and slick. I heard him unzip as he stepped back, heard the tiny rattle of his belt buckle, and then he was behind me again, one palm hot on the small of my back, pressing me down so I arched for him—offering, open, desperate.

He lined up and pushed in without hesitation, thick and hot, muttering a low Russian curse that I felt in my bones. I whined, back arching, feeling every inch as he filled me, so deep it almost hurt. The delicious ache, the stretch, the sense of being taken—my brain shorted out, my world collapsing to the spot where he met me and the sharp drag of my nipples against the cool wood.

I moaned, loud and unselfconscious, not caring if the soundproofing was good enough or if the guards outside heard. I was so full, so perfectly pinned between the desk and Nikolai’s grip that I couldn’t move, couldn’t even think, just feel. The fabric of my blouse trapped my arms in a tight bundle behind my back, elbows twisted upward, making my tits push out as he rutted into me hard and deep. His hand anchored my wrists, and his body caged mine, and I sobbed his name into the open-air silence because I didn’t care if the whole world knew I was his.

“Fucking perfect,” he gritted, and his free hand slid around to cup my jaw, turning my head so he could see the desperation in my face. “Look at you, printsessa. So smart, so fucking sharp, and this is what you needed all along, wasn’t it?”

The sound that left me was part sob, part “Daddy, please.” The world was just wood and heat and the scrabble of my own nails over the spreadsheets, trying to ground myself when everything else was coming apart.

He fucked me relentlessly, nothing careful, pushing every inch inside like he was staking his claim over and over. I arched, desperate, the edge of the desk digging into my hips while his palm stayed locked on my wrists, holding me in place, making me feel so small and so safe and so absolutely ruined.

My pussy spasmed, greedy, still clenching from the first orgasm when the next one started to build. I fought it—wanted to last, wanted to savor—but he didn’t give me the option. He stroked deep and hard, the fingers of his other hand pressing into my face, holding my jaw so I had to look at him, had to see the possessive fury in his eyes.

“Mine,” he said as I felt him unload in me.

“Yours,” I whimpered, and came again, the aftershocks so violent my vision spattered white, my knees finally giving out. He held me up, fucked me through it, his cock swelling as he emptied himself in me with a low groan so hungry and broken I almost came a third time just from hearing it.

We stayed like that for a minute—his body draped over mine, his chest shuddering at my back, his hand still locked around my wrists. Beyond the sweat and effort and heat, I felt the edge of something else: want. Love. The ache of being seen and needed and owned by a man who would destroy the world with his bare hands if I asked.

After, he drew out slowly, catching me as I sagged, and scooped me into his arms with a tenderness so at odds with what he’d just done to me that I almost cried from the whiplash. He carried me to the worn leather club chair.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Every part of you.”

My heart pounded.

Family.

I felt it deep inside, in each person who made up the being I was.

“I love you too.”