Page 172 of Merciless Daddy

I left her there because Pietro had called from the garage and because I believed I could return in ten minutes.

I did not know that by then, she would have written terms for giving herself back.

That evening, Yelena sat on the rug between my feet with her coloring book open in her lap and did not color a single page.

The pencils were arranged beside her in a neat row.

Red. Gold. Black. Green. Blue.

She picked up the red pencil. Put it down.

She picked up the gold one. Rolled it between her fingers until the lacquer warmed beneath her thumb.

Olimpo lay nearby with Gianni-the-wolf under one paw. The dog had decided the ugly toy belonged to him now. Yelena normally would have made a comment about hostage negotiations.

Tonight, she only watched the fire.

I set aside the report I had been pretending to read.

“What’s wrong, little one?”

“Nothing.”

I waited.

Her shoulders rose with a slow breath. Then fell.

“I keep thinking,” she said, “that maybe I should go back.”

Every muscle in my body went still.

Not because I was angry. Not because I intended to stop her. Because I knew what those words cost her to say.

She stared at the uncolored page.

“Not because I want Lev,” she continued. “Or Gianni. I would rather throw myself into the lake than marry that smug little parasite.”

“That would be inconvenient,” I said.

A thin sound left her. Not quite a laugh.

“I know.”

“Have you contacted anyone?”

Her head came up fast.

“No.”

“Has anyone contacted you?”

“No.”

“Have you sent a message? Made a call? Drafted anything? Set up a secret meeting?”

Her eyes flickered.

Not enough for proof. Enough for concern.