Page 38 of Hush, Little Baby

“I want it,” he whispers.

“Then you’ll keep it. But I can’t say the same for the rest, especially those socks.”

A shuddering breath leaves him, but he nods.

I help him into the robe. He doesn’t fight me this time, lifting one arm, then the other, letting the thick fabric swallow him whole. When I tie the belt, he looks down at himself with stunned uncertainty.

“It’s heavy,” he murmurs.

“Too heavy?” I frown.

“No.” His fingers rub at the sleeve. “A good heavy. I like it.”

“Good. I’m sorry, I don’t have more options for you here. That’ll change once we get home.”

His brows twitch down just slightly before he forces his face to relax. “This is more than enough.”

“It’s really not, but it’ll do for the night.” I guide him onto the bed and pull the covers over him before he can protest. The mattress seems to swallow him almost as thoroughly as the robe does. He lies there stiffly, doe eyes wide, with his clean, damp hair fanned across the pillow as he holds the covers up to his chin with a death-grip.

I bring a bottle of water from the sitting area, twist the cap loose, and hold it out to him. “Drink.”

Charlie’s nose wrinkles. “I’m not thirsty.”

“You’ll get a headache if you don’t drink some after all those tears, baby boy.”

His mouth pinches in offense, but he takes the bottle anyway, both hands wrapping around it because the thing is cold and his fingers are still a little unsteady. The first sip is barely enough to wet his tongue, so I simply stand there and wait, expression mild and brows raised in expectation. He glares at me over the rim, understanding very quickly that I will not be satisfied by performance, and takes three proper swallows before lowering it again.

“Good boy,” I say, then bring him a small glass bowl of grapes. “Now, eat something.”

His eyes go wide with a different kind of alarm. “I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t have to eat them all.” I pluck two green grapes from the cluster and hold them in my palm. “Start here.”

He looks at the grapes as if they are another trap, then at me, then back again. “I’m not hungry,” he repeats.

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.”

A faint spark of irritation returns to his face, which pleases me more than it should. Still, he takes one grape, places it in his mouth, and chews with exaggerated misery, like I have asked him to swallow poison rather than fruit. The second follows only after I clear my throat pointedly. By the third, his resistance has faded into exhaustion again, and I decide not to push for more.

For now, water and a few grapes are enough.

I set the rest of the grapes and the water bottle on the nightstand within his reach, then move to the other side of the room and begin unbuttoning my shirt.

Charlie goes rigid.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice thin.

I pause, two buttons undone, and look over at him. Poor frightened thing. He is trying to make himself smaller again, shoulders hiked, chin tucked, the robe’s collar nearly swallowing half his face. “Getting comfortable for bed.”

His gaze flicks down my chest at the hint of exposed skin, then away so quickly it would be comical if he were not so genuinely scared. “You’re sleeping here?”

“Yes.”

“There are other rooms.”

“There are.”

He waits, clearly expecting that to become a concession.