Page 98 of Bratva Bride
"Just girl talk," Sofia said, winking. "The kind men never understand."
And in that warm room, surrounded by chosen family, with my husband's hand in mine and our daughter growing beneath my heart, I finally understood what safety actually meant. Not the absence of danger—danger would always exist in our world. But the presence of people who'd help you survive it.
People who'd remind you that surviving was its own form of victory.
Thepenthousedoorclosedbehind us with the soft click of expensive locks engaging, and immediately my body started demanding regression like a debt that had come due. I'd been "big" all day—testifying, socializing, managing conversations about legitimate futures while my father was exiled to Russia. Every muscle ached with the effort of maintaining adult composure when my nervous system wanted soft things and small spaces.
"Little time?" Ivan asked, already reading my body language—the way my shoulders curled inward, how my fingers had started their unconscious counting pattern.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Sometimes the need hit like this, sudden and overwhelming, my mind retreating to where it felt safest. Ivan's hand found the small of my back, guiding me toward our bedroom, then to the regression room he'd built with the same precision he brought to destroying my father.
The purple walls welcomed me like an embrace. Ivan helped me change—fingers gentle as they worked buttons, careful as they slid soft pajamas over skin that felt too sensitive for the world. Pink with stars tonight, the fabric worn to impossible softness from washing. He knew to avoid the new ones, the stiff ones. In little space, textures mattered more than appearance.
"Where the Wild Things Are?" he asked, already reaching for the book while I settled on the floor with my coloring supplies.
I nodded, pulling out the pencils Clara had given me—seventy-two colors arranged in perfect spectrum order because chaos was the enemy of calm. The blank page waited while Ivan's voice started the familiar cadence: "The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another . . ."
My hand moved without conscious thought—blue for water, purple for Max's boat, green for the wild things' terrible eyes. But tonight the coloring wasn't enough. The story wasn't enough. Ivan's voice wasn't enough. My body needed something else, something more, something that would reconnect all the pieces that felt scattered after performing competence all day.
I looked up at him, and he stopped mid-sentence, recognizing the shift in my expression.
"What do you need, kotyonok?"
The words stuck in my throat at first. We'd talked about this, negotiated it over careful conversations and established protocols. But asking for it still felt like stepping off a cliff.
"Daddy," I said, and my voice had already gone smaller, softer. "I want you. Not just cuddles. I want... intimacy. While I'm little. Is that okay?"
He set the book down with deliberate care, then moved to kneel beside me on the soft rug. His hand cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone while he studied my eyes.
"Always okay to tell me what you need," he said, voice dropping to that register that made my stomach flutter. "We'll go slow. Safewords active. The moment anything feels wrong, you yellow or red. Understood?"
"Understood," I whispered, already feeling my body responding to his proximity, his promise of safety wrapped in desire.
He kissed me first, gentle and searching, letting me set the pace. My hands found his shirt, fingers clumsy with the regression that made everything feel bigger, more intense. He helped me with the buttons, never rushing, checking my face between each one.
"Color?" he asked when his shirt was gone, my palms pressed against his chest.
"Green," I breathed, then pulled him down for another kiss, deeper this time.
He undressed me like unwrapping something precious—each star-covered inch of fabric removed with reverence. When his mouth found my breast, I gasped, the sensation shooting through me like electricity. Everything felt more in little space—touches bigger, pleasure sharper, connection deeper.
"So perfect for Daddy," he murmured against my skin, and the praise made me whimper. "My good girl. My brave girl."
His hand traveled lower, finding me already wet, already ready. One finger, then two, moving with the careful precision of someone who knew exactly what my body needed. I wasfloating, that perfect space where little and arousal merged into something transcendent.
"Please," I whispered, pulling at his belt with fingers that couldn't quite manage the buckle. "Need you."
He helped me with his clothes, then positioned himself over me, weight on his forearms, his face inches from mine. "Look at me, baby. Stay with me."
I held his gaze as he pushed inside, slow and careful and perfect. For a moment, everything was exactly right—the fullness, the connection, the safety of being small and held and his.
Then he shifted, adjusting the angle, and suddenly his weight felt different. Heavier. His hand moved to my hip, gripping just a little too firmly, and memory crashed through me—Viktor's control, being positioned like a doll, having no say in what happened to my body.
"Yellow!" The word ripped from my throat, and immediately—immediately—Ivan froze.
He didn't pull out, didn't move at all, just held himself perfectly still while searching my face. "What do you need? Should I pull out?"
"Don't move yet," I managed, my chest heaving with panic that was already starting to recede because he'd stopped. He'd actually stopped. "Just—the angle. Your hand. It felt like—"
