Page 129 of Dark King Daddy

“The rule,” I said. “You said you want to break one. What rule?”

“I want you to choose it. Something simple. Something I can break easily and deliberately.”

I considered. The rule needed to be clear, specific, and breakable in a way that was obviously intentional rather than accidental.

“You wait for my invitation before approaching me,” I said. “You stand across the room. You do not come closer until I tell you to. If you approach before I invite you, the rule is broken.”

Her mouth moved. A small, controlled curve. “And the consequence?”

“Over my knee. Ten strokes. By hand. You count each one.”

“The same as our standing limit.”

“For tonight. Yes.”

She looked at the armchair. Then at me. Her fingers were still at her sides, but I could see the tension in them — the anticipation, the readiness. She was already thinking about breaking the rule. She was already planning it.

“There’s something else,” she said.

“Your earlier request.”

“Yes.” She held my gaze. “Anal sex. I asked for it. You agreed. But I want to be clear—that’s separate. Tonight’s game is the spanking. The other is a separate choice. Not a reward for being good. Not a consequence for being bad. A separate decision we make on its own terms.”

I nodded. “Agreed. The game and the request are independent. One does not trigger the other.”

“And if I want both tonight?”

“Then we finish the game. We take care of each other.”

She was quiet for a moment. The lamp hummed. The house was still.

“You make it so safe for me,” she said. “You make it possible to want things I’ve been afraid to want.”

I looked at her. The green dress. The gold pendant at her collarbone. The woman who had walked into a room full of Bratva captains and recited shipment numbers from memory and was now standing in my library asking me to spank her for fun.

“Go change,” I said. “Whatever you’re comfortable in. The game begins when you come back.”

She turned toward the door. She paused.

“Daniil.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to break your rule the second I walk back in.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to enjoy it.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She left. I heard her bare feet on the stairs. I sat in the armchair. I waited.

She came back in bare feet.

A grey t-shirt. Black underwear. Nothing else. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders, and she had washed her face — the makeup from dinner was gone, and her skin was clean and faintly pink from the water. She looked younger without the polish. She looked like herself.

She walked straight toward me.