The door opens without warning. Alexei fills the doorway in a black suit that makes his pale eyes look like winter ice. His gaze travels my body slowly, and I feel it like hands on my skin.
"Turn around," he commands softly.
I comply, letting him see how the dress barely exists from behind. I hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the weight of his stare on my exposed spine.
"The collar," he says, voice rougher now. "Come here, kotyonok."
His fingers brush my hair aside, exposing my neck. The collar's weight settles against my throat, cool metal that immediately begins warming to my skin. The lock clicks with finality.
His hands linger at my nape, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just below my hairline. Each touch sends sparks down my spine, making my nipples tighten beneath the thin fabric.
"Perfect," he murmurs, breath hot against my ear. "You look exactly like what you are."
"And what's that?"
His thumb traces where metal meets skin. "Owned."
The word makes my stomach clench, empty and aching.
In the car, his hand claims my thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the silk. His thumb traces maddening circles, each rotation sending heat straight to my core.
"Remember the rules," he says, eyes forward but attention entirely on me. "You speak to no one unless I allow it. You look at no one directly. You're a broken Rosetti princess, thoroughly conquered, understanding her place."
"And if someone speaks to me?"
His hand tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh. "They won't. They know better."
"But if they do?"
He turns then, and something predatory in his expression makes my breath catch. "Then I'll handle it."
The way he says 'handle' makes me think of blood on marble, of bones breaking under his hands. My thighs clench at the thought of him turning on his own men for me.
"Why display me publicly?" I ask, genuine curiosity breaking through. "After suspecting I'm hiding something, why risk it?"
His smile is sharp as winter. "Because sometimes the best way to reveal someone's secrets is to apply the right pressure in public. You control yourself when we're alone, sofiyushka. But surrounded by my people, wearing my collar, playing my possession, how long before that perfect control cracks?"
He's not wrong. The collar's weight, the dress that makes me feel naked, his hand on my thigh all work to keep me off-balance. My nipples are hard, visible through the thin dress, and I know he notices.
The estate's opulence drowns the senses: crystal chandeliers fracturing light across marble floors, men in suits conducting business in corners. The air reeks of Cuban cigars.
Conversations die as we enter. Every eye tracks to my collar first, then the obscene dress, then Alexei's hand possessively splayed across my lower back. They see exactly what he wants: Sofia Rosetti, conquered, wearing the Volkov mark at her throat.
I stand silent beside him as he conducts business, playing the perfect ornament while memorizing every detail. Names, any locations mentioned, who talks to who. The collar shifts when I breathe, constantly reminding me of my role. Other women wear jewelry, but none wear ownership quite so blatantly.
I catch whispers in Russian:his pet, completely broken, look how she doesn't even fight.I have to focus on keeping my expression blank, on not letting them see I understand every word. Each comment makes my pussy wetter, shame and arousal tangling together. If they knew I could understand them, if Alexei suspected… My Russian comprehension is a secret I must guard as carefully as my combat skills.
Three drinks into the evening, everything shifts.
A lieutenant approaches, drunk and swaying. His eyes travel my body like I'm meat at market, lingering on where my nipples press against the silk.
"The famous Sofia Rosetti," he slurs, moving closer than appropriate. His breath reeks of vodka. "Alexei, you lucky bastard. When you're done breaking her in, maybe we could discuss sharing arrangements?"
His hand grabs my ass hard, fingers digging into flesh through the fine material.
My body reacts on pure instinct. My hand snaps toward his wrist, fingers finding pressure points for a joint lock that would drop him screaming. I'm a heartbeat from breaking bone when my brain catches up, forcing my hand to go limp instead.
But Alexei saw. His pale eyes track from my positioned fingers to my face, noting the precise angle I'd chosen, the perfect form. He's recalculating everything.
