Punish Me, Daddy: Chapter 30

Sloane

I didn’t leave right away.

I waited. Watched him walk out the door with the same cool, collected energy that made my pussy clench and my toes curl. I studied his broad shoulders under his tailored shirt, belt still looped through his slacks, thick leather that I couldn’t stop looking at.

Couldn’t stop thinking about.

The door shut behind him with a soft, final click, and for a moment, I just stood there in the kitchen, heart pounding as his threats echoed inside of my head.

Don’t leave the penthouse.

The command echoed in my head like it was already tattooed there, written in the low growl of his voice and the heat of his mouth on my throat.

If you walk into that gym again without me, baby girl, I’m going to take my belt to that pretty little ass.

My stomach twisted. Not with fear. Not exactly.

I pressed my thighs together, trying not to shiver at the image: me bent over the edge of his bed, my bare bottom striped from his belt, tears streaming down my face, arousal dripping down my thighs.

Could I take that?

Did I want that?

I’d been through worse than a spanking. He’d spanked me hard before and I’d survived it. I could certainly survive a session with his belt.

I slipped into his office and pulled up the app I’d installed on his computer. For a moment, I stared at the blinking cursor, like it was waiting for my command and I cleared my throat and started to type.

A pause. Then:

I stared at the screen for a second longer, then closed the app and deleted it. For good. It was like a symbol of the old me fading out.

I changed quickly into black leggings, a fitted jacket over a thin green silk top. No jewelry. I pulled my hair back and left the penthouse like I’d been doing it for years.

It was almost too easy.

I figured I was being watched, but I didn’t care. Let them watch. Let him see that he couldn’t control me.

By the time I reached the building where the fights were held, I was buzzing with adrenaline. I gave the code word and the door opened. I slipped inside and lifted my chin, looking around.

There was a group of fighters practicing in the ring.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of fists hitting pads filled the room. Someone grunted and barked commands in Russian. A dozen men—Nikolai’s men, I guessed—were moving around the floor, training. Practicing footwork. Running drills. Taped fists. Bruised knuckles. Sharp eyes.

They didn’t notice me at first.

I stayed in the shadows, watching.

One of them—broad-shouldered with a shaved head—threw a left hook that cracked against a punching bag like a gunshot. Another man took a knee beside the ring, rolling his shoulders as another guy inspected a shallow split across his brow.

I stepped further into the room, my boots echoing faintly against the concrete. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. One of them—tall, lean, and sweating through a black tank top—straightened as he spotted me.

“Kingsley?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

I just lifted my chin. “I’m not here to start trouble.”

He snorted. “Then you’re in the wrong fucking place.”

Someone muttered something in Russian. I didn’t know what he said, but I knew the tone: cautious, but with curiosity. Not hostility.

Interesting…

I walked toward the edge of the ring, keeping my pace even, my posture relaxed. A few of the guys slowed their drills. A couple stopped altogether, wiping sweat from their brows with rough hands and snapping towels at each other as I walked toward the edge of the training floor. I kept my steps even, shoulders squared. I didn’t flinch when the closest one dropped a heavy punching bag with a grunt and turned to face me.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” one of them said. He was tall, and lean, with cropped blond hair. “Your fiancé said you were off limits.”

“Yeah?” I said, folding my arms and letting my weight shift to one hip. “I don’t recall asking for his permission.”

That earned a couple of laughs. Not warm. Not cruel either. Just that rough, street-edged amusement that said they weren’t sure whether to fuck with me or start respecting me.

“Can’t believe Nik is getting married,” one man called out from the far end of the mat. He was dark-haired, tattooed, and had more ink than skin down one arm. He leaned against the ropes like he was watching a Broadway show, sweat gleaming on his arms, voice rough with amusement. “Man doesn’t share shit. Can’t imagine him letting someone sleep in his bed unless he’s fucking the attitude out of her every night.”

A second one barked out a laugh. “Bet he holds her down, makes her beg for it. Or maybe he skips the begging. That the kind of thing he’s into, sweetheart?”

The third chimed in, chuckling as he tossed his towel aside. “Hell, with a mouth like yours, I’m surprised you’re not gagged twenty-four/seven.”

This was the kind of crude, testosterone-drenched bullshit I expected in a boy’s locker room, but I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t smile, either.

I just stepped toward the one who said it—brown eyes, busted lip, still grinning like he thought he was clever—and looked him dead in the face. I knew enough about him from my research into the underground fights to take him down.

“That’s funny coming from someone who hasn’t lasted more than two rounds since Nikolai stopped sparring with you. Maybe you want to be held down, huh?”

The room cracked open.

Laughter exploded, deep and loud. Not at me—with me. One of the men actually bent over from laughing so hard, while the one I’d snapped at just shook his head, grinning through his bruises.

“I see why Nik wants to marry a girl like her,” someone muttered.

“Maybe that’s what the boss likes: A smart-mouth girl who puts him in his place. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s putting him over her knee every night,” another added, louder this time.

Laughter rippled through the gym again, and one of them whistled. My own backside tensed as I remembered his threat to belt me this morning and I lifted my chin, feigning false bravado.

“She’s got that look,” someone else chimed in. “Bet she ties him up and makes him beg.”

Another snorted. “Or maybe she just makes him say please before he gets to come.”

“Cute,” I said, stepping forward. “But if any of you think for a second that Nikolai Morozov would let someone tie him up without snapping the cuffs and breaking their jaw in the same breath, you clearly don’t know him at all.”

The laughter started to die.

“And if you think I’m the one doing the begging,” I added, slower now, “you’re fucking delusional.”

Silence rippled outward like a dropped stone.

Then, from somewhere behind the bags: “Damn.”

One of them stepped forward. He was taller than the rest, lean muscle and intelligent eyes, short blond hair plastered to his forehead from sweat. A towel hung around his neck and he grabbed it, wiping his face. He didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk, just studied me with curiosity and maybe a hint of respect.

“I’m Mikhail,” he said, voice quieter than the others, but carrying more weight. “You’re brave,” he added. “Or reckless. Maybe both.”

I lifted a brow. “That’s not a secret.”

“No,” he said. “But the thing about girls like you is you don’t always know the difference.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just jerked his head toward the far end of the gym, toward a hallway that led to the side storage rooms. Empty, shadowed, away from the rest of the fighters.

“Come on. Talk’s better off the main floor.”

I hesitated for half a second and then followed.

He didn’t touch me or crowd me, just moved with that same unwavering confidence that all of Nikolai’s men seemed to carry like a second skin. Once we were out of earshot, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like he was still deciding if this was worth it.

“I’ve seen your name before,” he said finally. “In the news, online, even in magazines. You bring trouble.”

I gave him a dry smile. “Must’ve made for good reading.”

“You run toward the fire instead of running away from it.”

I tilted my head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” he corrected. “And this time, it’s different.”

I folded my arms. “You gonna tell me what you mean or keep speaking in fortune-cookie riddles?”

He exhaled, long and slow. “It’s about your father. And Stillwell.”

That hit me like a glass of cold water right to the face.

I stepped closer. “What do you know?”

He held up a hand, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not saying shit unless he’s here.”

“Nikolai?”

Mikhail nodded once. “Yeah, I’ve got no interest in watching you go rogue and walk straight into something you don’t understand.”

I stared at him, jaw tight. “You’re afraid I’ll get myself killed.”

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m afraid I’ll get you killed. And then he’ll kill me with his own bare hands.”

My voice dropped. “Would he really kill you?”

Mikhail didn’t blink; he just looked at me with that flat, serious stare. No hesitation, no bravado.

“When it comes to you?” he said. “He wouldn’t hesitate.”

I hated how much of that rang true.