29. Ana

TWENTY-NINE

Ana

T he moodiness doesn't leave when we get back to his house. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from telling him to go to the toilet because it's rude to talk about people's bathroom habits according to the shows I watched. Dima walks ahead of me, his back muscles rippling through his t-shirt with how tense he is. I want to press my finger against it and see if he's still real, but I manage to keep my hands by my sides.

His back is to me as he takes a seat in the lounge, and I've only just picked my foot up when the gentle authority leaves his mouth.

"Come here, lisichka."

The TV acts as a mirror and his eyes are locked on mine, telling me not to leave. That fluttering in my stomach comes back as I walk towards him, and he widens his legs when I get within arm's reach. His hands go to my hips, pulling me to stand between his thighs and he looks from my eyes to his thigh in silent instruction.

When I don't move, he pulls me to sit down and holds the side of my neck, his thumb pressed under my jaw, and he slowly traces below the bone until my head is tipped back. This isn't remotely sexual, he's organizing his thoughts and examining me, but his hands are gentle, and he presses his lips to my cheek, breathing out his anger.

I don't want it to come back and try to fix it.

"Why are you pissed off?"

Stroking across my jaw so my head falls back to its natural position, he clenches his teeth then says into my ear, "I can't stand the thought of anyone touching you."

His hand flexes on my neck before he flattens it and strokes down my chest. He wraps his other arm around me, holding my hip and pulling me into his body. His chest vibrates against my arm as he declares in the deepest voice I've ever heard.

"Ty moya." 1

It doesn't feel like the same ownership I've heard from other people's lips, this is warmer, with care woven into the possessiveness.The skin over the three marks currently on my body itch with the memories and I swallow around the reminder of the pain.

"Are you going to brand me?"

My voice is weak as fuck, my skull radiating in pain while my back and stomach burn. Wrapping both arms around me, he kisses my crown and there's no deceit in his voice.

"Never, lisichka, I don't want your pain."

There's more to come, a but, some caveat or circumstance that will dictate when it's acceptable for me to be hurt.He presses his lips anywhere he can reach before straightening and turning me to face him as my brain blares a warning with every syllable leaving him.

"Can you do something for me?"

I nod. I don't know why, but I do it. Everything inside me is telling me to run away. Except there's no sadistic gleam in Dima's eye saying he'll hurt me. I know people get off on it, some do it consensually, safely. But all I've ever seen are the ones who need it to be forced, need to pervert their torture on the most innocent to feel powerful and feed their egos.

He slowly brushes my hair off my forehead with the tip of his finger and tucks it behind my ear as he holds my jaw.

"I need you to tell me anything I say or do that forces something out of this filing cabinet."

All the warning sounds fall silent at his request. He presses a chaste kiss to my lips and stares into my misplaced soul with a promise.

"I won't hurt you, physically or mentally, tell me whenever it happens, okay?"

He's not asking me for the why, only what he has control over, and I relax.There's a list in my head but I don't give him every item and I only focus on the larger ones that fuck with my head.

"You said I wouldn't be able to speak."

It's dumb that it messes with me when I taught myself how to speak again, and he didn't say it with a threat. Yet that one thing is the hardest to get over, I can still remember way my mouth would open but nothing would come out and I'd have the words in my head as my tongue laid heavy and unused.

His smile touches my cheek, and he acts like I've achieved something rather than fucked up.

"Thank you for telling me, I won't say it again."

I knew he was nice, and my smile is genuine. I'm about to shuffle away to wash the fight and smoke off me when he leans forward, keeping me in place with an arm banded across my back. He opens a drawer at the front of the coffee table and comes back with a velvet box in his hands.

He places it in my hand and opens it revealing a string of diamonds, they're not huge, each one is a different shape making up a flower vine and there's an odd flat-top six dangling in the middle. He softens and gently kisses between my collar bones where the pendant would sit before he asks, "Can you wear this for me?"

I nod and my voice comes out weak, unsure if I'm doing the wrong thing. "Yeah." But he smiles from ear to ear and gently lifts the delicate chain until it's draped around my neck.

He hesitates clicking it into place and his lips are by my ear when he says, "I don't want you to take it off, but you can at any time."

It's a collar, not leather or solid metal like other ones I've seen, it's still a collar. I should feel outraged, instead it's protective and I focus on the deformed number.Does that mean there's five more?

I don't like the thought of there being any others and my voice hardens with the sinking feeling in my chest.

"Why is there a six?"

He kisses my cheek as he secures the clasp and sits back, staring at the charm. "It's not a six, it's a B in Cyrillic for Balandin."

I can't read Russian and tilt my head, trying to catch the letter and work out what Balandin means.He strokes up my thighs, distracting me and pulls me closer until our lips are nearly touching.

"Our family name," he says softly.

There's no time for the thought to sink in because his soft lips are touching mine and he hugs me to him with his arms wrapped around my waist. Stroking up my back, he rests his palm over the mermaid, and I grind down, feeling him harden under me.I like being collared by him, it's not brutal ownership, it's gentle possession full of safety and luxury.

1 ? You're mine.