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He pushed a single, thick finger inside me and I gasped, my inner muscles clenching around him. He began to move, setting a slow, gentle rhythm that stole my breath away in an instant. Then he proceeded to take me apart, piece by piece.

“You came so hard for Daddy,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my sore bottom hole again, sending a jolt of electricity through me. “But we’re not done yet.”

He added a second finger, stretching me, filling my pussy. The sheer pleasure built and built until I was whimpering and panting. Then he curled his fingers inside me, finding that spot that made me see stars, and stroked.

I came again with a shattered cry, my body arching, my pussy clamping down on his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me. This orgasm was different, softer and deeper. I moaned, pleasure rushing through me like the tide. When I finally came back to myself, Sergei simply lifted me up and cradled me against his chest, settling me in his lap. The position put my sore bottom directly against the hard muscle of his thighs, and I couldn’t help but wince and cry out.

“Shh,” he murmured, shifting me slightly. One strong arm banded around my body, holding me securely against him, while the other came up to stroke my hair. His fingers were gentle, combing through the damp strands, a slow, repetitive motion that was strangely calming. “Easy now, little pet.”

The words should have enraged me, but they didn’t. I was too tired to fight. Too drained to pretend. All the adrenaline, the anger, the terror that had fueled me for days—years, if I was honest—had burned away, leaving behind a hollow, aching space, and I didn’t know what to do with that.

I rested my head against the solid warmth of his shoulder. I told myself it was the lingering aftershocks of the orgasms that made my body relax into his, that made me feel… protected. Told myself it was the exhaustion, the sheer mental and physical drain of the last twenty-four hours.

But it wasn’t just that.

It was the solid, steady beat of his heart against my ear. It was the way his large hand spanned my ribs in a possessive hold that felt more comforting than restrictive. For the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t the one in charge. I wasn’t the one watching the exits, cataloging the threats, and planning my next move.

I could just… be.

And that was terrifying.

A sob tore out of me, raw and ragged. Then another. They weren’t dainty, quiet tears. They were ugly, gasping things, wracking my body, shaking me to my core. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, clinging to the fabric of his shirt, and let all of my grief pour out. Grief for a mother I’d lost too young, for a father who had never truly been mine. Grief for the girl who had to grow up too fast, who learned to fight after learning she could not trust.

Sergei just held me. He didn’t tell me it would be okay. He didn’t try to shush me or offer empty platitudes. He simply sat there, a rock in the storm of my emotions, letting me cry. His hand continued to stroke my hair, somehow tethering me to him, to this room, to this moment.

When the storm finally passed, I went limp against him, my body a leaden weight. My throat was raw, and my eyes were swollen, and my nose was running. I should have been mortified. I should have pushed him away, gathered my tattered pride around me, and retreated to the safety of anger.

But I didn’t.

I just stayed.

“That’s a good girl, my little pet,” he whispered.

Little pet. The nickname felt different now. Intimate. Possessive. A dark secret whispered in the space between us.

And then there was the Daddy thing.

My body tensed at the memory as a fresh wave of embarrassed arousal washed over me. He had called himself that, and some deep, broken part of me had responded. Had arched its back and purred.Had come harder than I ever had in my entire life.

I pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face was in shadow, the moonlight from the window carving it into harsh planes and angles. I couldn’t read his expression, but I could feel the steady, sure rise and fall of his breaths against my palm.

He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t need to. He simply looked at me, those green eyes seeing far more than anyone else had ever seen of me before.

“That’s my pet,” he’d said.

His thumb came up to brush away a tear. The touch was so very gentle, which was a startling contrast to the man who had held me down and spanked my bare ass until I was sobbing and begging.

He terrified me, but at the same time, he also made me feel safe.

CHAPTER 8

Sergei

She felt good in my arms.

Too right.

Her body was soft against mine, which was a warm and welcome feeling. Her scent, vanilla and oranges and the faint, musky scent of her arousal, filled my senses and went straight to my cock. I was hard. I’d been hard ever since I’d carried her from the alley into the townhouse, bared her ass, and spanked her.