"Sleep, little one," I whispered, brushing hair back from her face.
She caught my hand, pressed her cheek against my palm for just a moment, then let go. Already sliding back into dreams, trusting me to keep her safe while she was vulnerable.
I stood there too long, watching her breathe, memorizing the way she looked when she wasn't fighting or frightened or fierce.Just Eva, twenty-two and exhausted, finally somewhere safe enough to actually rest.
The workshop called to me—my sanctuary when thoughts got too heavy, when planning required more than pacing. Coffee first, black and strong enough to strip paint, then down the hallway to the room that held my secrets.
The overhead light revealed organized chaos: workbenches covered in half-restored music boxes, tools arranged with military precision, the leather journal I'd started keeping the day Alexei brought Clara home. I'd watched my brother transform from cold control to something softer, witnessed the way having a Little to care for had given him purpose beyond the bratva.
The journal fell open to pages I'd read a hundred times. Articles printed from forums, conversations transcribed from memory, research on dynamics that went far beyond sex into something deeper. Trust exercises. Communication techniques. The psychology of age regression. How to be a Daddy Dom when your entire life had been violence and control.
I'd been preparing for something I'd never thought I'd have—a Little who needed me, who'd trust me with their vulnerability, who'd call me Daddy and mean it. Every woman I'd met had wanted the bratva prince, the dangerous enforcer, the man who could break bones with his bare hands. None had wanted the part that remembered lullabies in Russian, that restored music boxes because delicate things deserved care, that had been waiting to be someone's safe place.
Until her.
I opened to a fresh page, wrote "Contract provisions for Eva" at the top in careful Cyrillic. Below it, the categories I'd memorized from months of research:
Daily routines—morning coffee together, meals at set times, bedtime by eleven unless otherwise negotiated. She needed structure, consistency, the opposite of the chaos she'd known.
Rules—no self-harm (including denial of food), no running without telling me, no lying about needs or wants. Basic safety, building trust.
Rewards—new books, bubble baths, trips to the bakery. Small things that showed I paid attention.
Punishments—corner time for minor infractions, writing lines for defiance, spankings for anything that endangered her. Scaled to the offense, always followed by aftercare.
Hard limits—no public humiliation, no sharing, no permanent marks. Mine to protect, not damage.
Soft limits—to be discovered, discussed, negotiated as trust built.
My pen hesitated at the next line. Duration.
Most contracts had them—thirty days, ninety days, six months with option to renegotiate. Clear end dates that protected both parties, allowed for graceful exits if the dynamic didn't work.
But I couldn't imagine an end date with Eva. Couldn't envision a moment where I'd willingly let her go, where she wouldn't be my Little, where I wouldn't be her Daddy. The thought of her leaving, going back to the streets or worse, made something in my chest seize painfully.
I'd have to ask Alexei. He'd understand—he'd made Clara his permanently, no contract end date, just forever. But his situation was different. Clara had been leverage first, love second. Eva had been mine from the moment she'd looked at me with those heterochromatic eyes and called me Daddy like a challenge.
Setting the journal aside, I opened my laptop, searched for self-defense instructors in the city. If Eva was going to be mine, really mine, she'd need to be able to protect herself when I wasn't there. I wanted to take her out there, wanted her to see the world. But all of that built risk. Self-defense would mitigate that slightly.
The first instructor's website showed a man built like a refrigerator, all harsh commands and military bearing. Too rough—Eva would shut down or fight back, neither productive. The second specialized in women's self-defense but asked too many questions, required background checks, documentation Eva didn't have. The third was perfect on paper until I recognized him from a territory dispute last year. Too connected to our world.
I closed the laptop harder than necessary, decision made. I'd teach her myself. I knew her triggers, her strengths, her tendency to go feral when cornered. I could work with that, channel it into technique that would keep her alive.
The thought of it—my hands on her body, positioning her stance, correcting her form—sent heat straight through me. Christ. I was supposed to be planning her protection, not imagining the way she'd feel pressed against me during a defensive demonstration, the sounds she'd make when I pinned her to show her how to escape.
This was exactly why we needed the contract first. Clear boundaries, established rules, structure that would keep me from taking advantage of her trust. She deserved better than my hunger, deserved a Daddy who could control himself long enough to give her what she needed rather than just taking what I wanted.
But God, I wanted everything.
Breakfastwasscrambledeggswith too much butter, the way Eva liked them, though she'd never admitted it out loud—I'd learned by watching, cataloging the way her eyes lit up when the eggs were rich and creamy rather than dry. She sat across from me at the kitchen island, barefoot and wearingone of my t-shirts that hung to her knees, looking younger than her twenty-two years.
Bear stationed himself by her chair, tail thumping against the floor in hopeful rhythm. She'd already snuck him two pieces of bacon when she thought I wasn't looking, though we both knew I saw everything when it came to her.
"You're spoiling him," I said, not really disapproving.
"He's a growing boy." She tore another piece of bacon in half, holding it just out of Bear's reach. "Besides, we're working on tricks. Aren't we, baby?"
The puppy's entire body wiggled with excitement, eyes locked on the bacon with laser focus. Eva made him sit first, then held her finger like a gun, pointed at him.
