I felt him go still. Completely still. Every muscle freezing. His breathing stopped. His heart seemed to skip a beat.
Oh no.
I'd said too much. Too soon. We'd only known each other a week. Only been together like this for an hour. And I'd just confessed love like some desperate girl who couldn't tell the difference between great sex and real emotion.
I'd ruined this. Ruined this perfect moment. Ruined—
"Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu."
The words were Russian. Whispered against my neck. His voice rough. Wrecked. But certain.
I love you too.
He lifted his head. Those grey eyes found mine. Held them. And he said it again. In English this time. Clear. Unmistakable.
"I love you, Sophie." He cupped my face in his hands. Thumbs wiping at tears I hadn't realized were falling. "My devotchka. My Little girl. Mine."
The last word came out possessive. Final. Like he was declaring ownership. Like he was claiming me not just physically but emotionally. Completely.
He kissed me then. Gentle. Reverent. Nothing like the fierce claiming kisses from before. This was tender. Worshipful. Like I was something precious that needed to be handled with care.
I kissed him back. Poured everything into it. All the gratitude and relief and overwhelming emotion that I couldn't put into words.
When he finally pulled back, we were both crying. Silent tears streaming down both our faces. The intimacy of it was almost more than I could bear.
He shifted carefully. Withdrew from my body. The loss made me whimper. Made me feel empty. But he was gentle about it. Mindful of my sensitivity. Mindful of how tender I must be after everything.
He reached behind him for something. The blanket draped over the sofa back. He pulled it down and wrapped us both in it. Cocooned us together.
Then he shifted our positions. Moved so he was sitting with his back against the sofa arm. Pulled me against his chest. My head on his shoulder. His arms around me. The blanket tucked around both of us.
I curled into him. Made myself small. Let myself be held. Protected. Cared for.
His hand stroked my hair. Long soothing motions from crown to ends. The same way he'd comforted me after the spanking. The same way he'd grounded me during my panic attack about Sergei.
"You're safe," he murmured against my temple. His voice was soft. Gentle. Pure Daddy. "You're loved. You're mine. Always."
Always. That word again. The promise that went beyond contracts and obligations. Beyond four years of service. Beyond anything practical or reasonable.
Always meant forever. Meant he was committing to more than he probably should. More than was wise after only a week.
But I believed him. For the first time in three years—since watching Sergei die in my arms—I believed that someone could promise me always and mean it.
"Always," I whispered back. Agreement. Promise. My own commitment.
His arms tightened around me. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. Then just held me. Let me rest against him while my body recovered. While my mind tried to process everything that had just happened.
We'd crossed so many lines in the last hour. Had gone from negotiating a contract to discipline to this. To love confessions and promises of always. To being bound together in ways that went far deeper than any legal document.
The practical part of my brain whispered that this was too fast. Too much. That I should be scared of how quickly I'd fallen. How completely I'd surrendered. How deeply I already needed him.
But I couldn't be scared. Not when I was wrapped in his arms. Not when I could feel his heart beating steady and strong under my ear. Not when every gentle touch and whispered word told me I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
"Rest, devotchka," he murmured. "I've got you."
And I did. Closed my eyes. Let myself relax completely. Let myself trust that he'd keep me safe. Keep me protected. Keep his promises.
The leather sofa was comfortable beneath us. The blanket was warm. His body was solid and real. The burgundy study with its chess sets and leather-bound books felt like a sanctuary.
