Page 54 of Bratva Bride
But his gray eyes were bright with something that wasn't bad news. Excitement, maybe. The kind of energy I'd only seen when he talked about particularly elegant financial solutions. He had his tablet in his hands, holding it like an offering or a shield—hard to tell which.
"I'm taking you away," he said, words tumbling out faster than his usual measured pace. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can be little without worry. Without looking over your shoulder or wondering who might see."
The crayon slipped from my fingers, rolling across my journal to land on the floor. Neither of us moved to retrieve it.
"Away?" My voice came out small, confused. "Where? When? I don't—"
"Look." He turned the tablet toward me, and the screen showed paradise wrapped in pixels. Crystal water so blue it hurt to look at. A bungalow suspended over that impossible ocean, connected to an island that looked like someone had dreamed it into existence. "Velaa Private Island Resort in the Maldives."
I stared at the screen, unable to process what I was seeing. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. People like me didn't get whisked away to private islands. That was for other people, whole people, people who hadn't been traded like currency between criminal organizations.
"They have a program," Ivan continued, swiping through more photos with barely contained enthusiasm. "Discrete, professional, understanding. Other couples like us go there. The staff is trained to support DDlg dynamics without judgment. Complete privacy, complete safety."
A new image filled the screen: the interior of what must be our bungalow. A bed that looked like clouds had been given physical form. Windows that turned the ocean into living wallpaper. And through a doorway, a glimpse of something that made my breath catch—soft purple walls, toys arranged on shelves like treasures.
"That's—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
"The regression room." His voice gentled, recognizing my overwhelm. "Every accommodation in their program has one. Decorated based on preferences we discuss with their coordinator. I told them purple, based on your journal covers. We can change it if—"
"You already talked to them?" The question emerged as barely a whisper.
"I've been planning for three days." He swiped again, showing me more impossible details. A pool with a slide that looked like it belonged in a five-star resort, because it did. A menu with elegant presentations next to items like "star-shaped sandwiches" and "dinosaur nuggets—gold standard, not the weird ones." A reading nook with floor-to-ceiling windows where morning light would turn pages golden.
My hands had started shaking. He'd been planning this for three days. While I'd been coloring and reading and trying to figure out how to be his Little, he'd been architecting paradise with the same precision he applied to million-dollar developments.
"When?" I managed to ask.
"Tomorrow morning." He watched my face carefully, tracking for signs of panic or resistance. "Private jet from Teterboro at nine. Seven-hour flight. I've cleared my calendar for two weeks."
Two weeks. Fourteen days of no Brooklyn, no proximity to my father's reach, no pretending to be functional when I was still learning what functional meant.
"I don't have clothes." My brain had latched onto logistics because emotions were too big. "Swimsuits. Summer things. I don't—"
"Already handled." He swiped to a new screen—a shopping list in Clara's handwriting. "She helped me shop for you yesterday while you were reading. Little clothes, big clothes, swimthings, sun protection. Everything you need. It's being delivered tonight. All you need to pack is Peanut and your journal."
The tears came without warning. Not the violent sobs from the shop with Clara and Eva, but something quieter and somehow deeper. The kind of crying that happened when your body couldn't contain the size of what you were feeling.
"You planned all this?" My voice broke on the words. "For me?"
"For us," he corrected gently, setting the tablet aside to pull me against his chest. "You're not the only one who needs this, kotyonok. I need to see you feel safe. Need to watch you play without looking over your shoulder. Need to know what you're like when the world can't reach you."
I pressed my face into his shirt, breathing in his scent while tears soaked the fabric. This was what being chosen felt like. Not claimed or collected or acquired, but chosen. Someone looking at all my broken pieces and deciding to build something beautiful around them. Someone thinking my happiness was worth three days of planning and private jets and overwater bungalows with regression rooms painted purple because he'd noticed my journal covers.
"What if I'm bad at vacations?" The question came out muffled against his chest. "What if I don't know how to relax? What if—"
"Then we'll be bad at vacations together." His hand stroked my hair in that four-count rhythm. "We'll color on the beach and worry about sand in the crayons. We'll swim for exactly fifteen minutes before you need to research marine life on your phone. We'll eat ridiculously expensive dinosaur nuggets and call it fine dining."
I laughed despite the tears, wet and ungraceful but real.
"Look at me," he said softly, and I pulled back enough to meet his gray eyes. "This is what I want to give you. Because youdeserve beautiful things. Deserve to be spoiled. Deserve to have someone plan perfect moments for you."
"It's too much," I whispered, even as my heart hammered with want.
"It's not enough," he countered. "But it's a start."
He picked up the tablet again, swiping to a new photo. This one showed the beach at sunset, empty except for a picnic setup that looked like something from a movie. Soft blankets, paper lanterns strung between palm trees, the ocean painted gold and pink and impossible.
"That's for our second night," he said quietly. "If you want. Dinner on the beach. Just us and the ocean and whatever you feel safe sharing."
