"Little bird." His voice had dropped to something low and rough and terrifying. "Would you like to try that again?"
My whole body flushed.
Heat flooding from my chest to my cheeks to somewhere much lower, somewhere that clenched at the authority in his voice. The particular tone that said I see exactly what you're doing, and you're not going to get away with it.
I knew what I was supposed to say. I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean it. Please forgive me.
But my mouth had other plans.
"Make me," I whispered.
The words came out small. Defiant. A challenge wrapped in submission, begging for consequences I was too overwhelmed to ask for directly.
For one suspended moment, nothing happened.
Maks just looked at me. Those warm brown eyes gone dark with something that looked like hunger and patience and the particular anticipation of a predator who'd just been given permission to hunt.
Then he smiled.
The expression transformed his face. Not the gentle warmth of Lis, not the controlled competence of the Fox. This was something else entirely. Pure predator. The smile of someone who had been given exactly what he wanted and intended to take his time enjoying it.
"Oh, I will," he said softly. "When we get home."
The promise hung in the air between us. Heavy. Inevitable. A guarantee that what I'd just started, he would finish.
My knees went weak. Actually weak—I had to grip the edge of the display case to keep from sliding down it. The arousal that had been building all afternoon spiked into something desperate, something that made me want to press my thighs together and whimper and beg him to skip the waiting and just—
But he was already moving.
He turned to the display case, dismissed me entirely, and began examining the collars with the focused attention of someone who had made a decision and was simply selecting the best tool to execute it.
I stood there trembling. Watching his hands move over the options. Leather and velvet and chain, all those possibilities I'd been too overwhelmed to consider, now being considered for me.
"This one," he said finally.
He held it up for Ms. Laurent, who had materialized at some point—discreet and professional, giving no indication that she'd witnessed what just happened in her alcove.
The collar was beautiful.
Delicate black leather, soft and supple, barely half an inch wide. Simple enough to pass as a choker if you didn't know better. But at the front, centered perfectly, a small silver ring caught the light.
A ring meant for attaching things. A leash. A chain. Whatever the owner wanted.
Whatever Maks wanted.
"We'll take it," he said. His voice was calm. Controlled. The voice of someone making a routine purchase, not someone who had just promised consequences that made my entire body shake.
He didn't ask my opinion. Didn't check if I liked his selection. Didn't give me any input at all.
He'd told me during our negotiation—I won't discipline when I'm angry. But this wasn't anger. This was something else. Measured. Deliberate. The particular patience of someone who understood exactly what I needed and intended to give it to me.
On his terms. In his time.
Ms. Laurent wrapped the collar in tissue paper, placed it in a small velvet bag, handed it to Maks with a smile that suggested she saw versions of this scene play out regularly. "Enjoy," she said simply.
Maks took the bag. Took my hand. His grip was firm—not painful, but inescapable.
"Come, Ptichka."
