Page 61 of Bratva Bride
I bit my lip hard enough to hurt. "I needed to know if you'd still want me if I wasn't perfect. When I deliberately did something wrong. My father only valued me when I was useful, compliant. I needed to know if you—if this—was different."
"It is different," he said simply. "Breaking a rule doesn't make me want you less. It makes me want to help you understand why the rule exists. To reinforce the structure that keeps you safe."
My breathing had gone shallow, and not from anxiety. The way he said "reinforce"—clinical but with weight behind it—made everything below my navel clench with want.
"Our contract," he continued, pulling out his phone where he'd saved photos of our handwritten agreement. "Screen time limits exist because your anxiety weaponizes research against you. You agreed to these limits because you recognized that pattern."
I nodded, unable to form words. He swiped to another image.
"Consequences for deliberate rule-breaking include corner time, writing lines, or—with explicit consent—spanking." His eyes found mine, steady and serious. "You broke the rule deliberately, by your own admission. You haven’t lied or tried to hide anything from me. So the question is: which consequence do you choose?"
The word "spanking" hung in the air between us like a physical thing. My pulse was definitely exceeding medically recommended rates. Every nerve ending in my body had suddenly developed consciousness and opinions, most of them focused on the possibility of Ivan's hands on my—
"I need verbal consent, kotyonok." His voice had dropped lower, and was that anticipation in his eyes too? "What consequence do you choose?"
My throat had forgotten how words worked. I swallowed, tried again, managed to whisper: "Spanking."
"You're sure? We've never done this before. We can start with something else—"
"I'm sure." Louder this time, more certain. "I want—I choose spanking."
The admission sent heat flooding through my entire body. Not shame—something else entirely. Want mixed with anticipation mixed with the electric feeling of standing at a precipice knowing you're about to jump.
"Okay." His voice was steady but I could see his pulse jumping in his throat. He was affected too. "We'll go inside. You'll position yourself over my lap on the sofa. We'll start with ten, over your clothes. If at any point you need to stop, you say red. Yellow if you need to slow down. Green means continue. Do you understand?"
"Yes." The word came out breathier than intended.
"Repeat them back to me."
"Red stops everything. Yellow slows down. Green continues."
"Good girl."
Those two words in that tone—approving but with an edge of something darker—made my knees weak. I stood on legs that felt disconnected from my brain, following him inside on autopilot while my body hummed with anticipation.
The living room felt different now, charged with potential energy. The sofa where we'd had our first conversations about dynamics had transformed into something else, a stage for consequences that were really about care, discipline that was really about desire.
"One more thing," Ivan said, and his hands were perfectly steady while mine shook like leaves. "This is discipline for breaking a rule, but I need you to know—if you're aroused by this, that's okay. Normal. Nothing to be ashamed of. Physicalresponse to spanking is common and doesn't diminish the disciplinary aspect."
My face burned with heat that had nothing to do with the tropical climate. He'd seen right through me, recognized the want underneath the anxiety, and was giving me permission to feel it.
"What if—" I stopped, started again. "What if I like it?"
"Then we incorporate it into our dynamic in whatever way feels good to you." He sat on the sofa, patting his lap with a gesture that shouldn't have made my mouth go dry but absolutely did. "But first, we address the rule breaking. Come here, malyshka."
Chapter 12
Anya
Mylegscarriedmeforward on autopilot, each step toward Ivan feeling like crossing into new territory. The distance between us—maybe six feet—stretched like an ocean and collapsed like a heartbeat, both endless and instant. My bare feet whispered against the tile, barely audible over my pulse hammering in my ears.
Ivan sat perfectly still on the sofa, watching me approach with those storm-gray eyes that saw everything—my shaking hands, the flush spreading down my neck, the way I bit my lip hard enough to leave marks. He'd positioned himself deliberately in the center, thighs spread just enough to create space, to make room for what was about to happen. The morning light streaming through the windows painted him in gold and shadow, turning him into something mythical. A god of consequences. A deity of careful discipline.
When I reached him, I stopped, suddenly unsure of the mechanics. How did one gracefully drape themselves oversomeone's lap? Was there a protocol? A proper way to surrender your body for punishment that was really permission, discipline that was really desire?
"Here," Ivan murmured, and his hands found my waist—gentle but firm, guiding without forcing. "Across my thighs. Let me support you."
The first contact sent electricity through my entire nervous system. His thighs were solid beneath my stomach, muscle and warmth that made me hyperaware of every place we touched. My hands found the sofa cushion on his other side, bracing myself, while my feet barely touched the floor behind me. The position was vulnerable in ways I hadn't anticipated—my back arched naturally, presenting myself, offering myself up for whatever came next.
