Page 111 of Dark King Daddy

I love you.

I almost said it.

The words were right there.

She looked at me, and there was a feeling, a sense that she knew, that she understood I’d held something back. She bit her lip and her lips widened a touch. For some reason, breathing became harder, heavy, portentious.

The curve of her mouth softened. Her hand, which had been resting on the table beside her plate, moved. Her fingers found the edge of my sleeve and held.

She looked at the remaining cake on her plate. She looked at the ivy on the window. She looked at my hand on the table.

“One hour isn’t enough.”

“No.”

She picked up her fork and ate the rest of the cake. Her knee stayed against mine. I drank my coffee. The rear room held us in its warm, green quiet, and for thirty-seven minutes I did not think about security codes or assassination timelines or the six names on Nikita’s list.

I thought about her knee against mine.

Back at Dover street, I gave Nikita responsiblity for the routine calls at two-fifteen.

“The dispatch revisions, the Kozlov confirmation, the union follow-ups. All yours until tomorrow morning.”

Nikita looked up from his tablet. His green eyes narrowed. “You’re giving me union follow-ups.”

“I’m giving you everything that isn’t urgent.”

“You’re giving me all the boring shit to do.”

“That’s what little brothers are for.”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

“And yet, still my little brother.”

He took the list without further protest. I left him at the dining table with his tablet and his coffee and the expression of a man who suspected he was being managed but could not prove it.

I went to the kitchen.

Galina had left the space clean. The counters were wiped. The stove was cold. I opened the refrigerator and inventoried what was available—tomatoes, onions, garlic, butter, bread, three kinds of cheese, stock in a sealed container. Enough for soup and grilled cheese. Enough for what I had in mind.

Ksenia was still stressed. The break had helped but I had a feeling she needed more.

I set the tomatoes on the counter. I found the cutting board. I began quartering them, and the kitchen filled with the sharp green scent of fresh stems and the acid tang of cut flesh.

I heard her before I saw her. The soft sound of slippers on the hallway floor—the ridiculous purple ones, fleece-lined, too large. Then her footsteps slowed. She stopped at the kitchen doorway.

I looked up.

The animation from the café was gone. The woman who had pressed her knee against mine and smiled over apple cake and said one hour isn’t enough had retreated somewhere behind her eyes. What stood in the doorway was quieter. Smaller. Her coat was still on. Her bag hung from one shoulder. She held the strap with both hands.

She looked at me. I set down the knife.

“Daddy?”

She needed me. Somehow I’d known it. I put my phone on the counter, screen down. I gave her my full attention.

“Yes, Ksyusha?”