Page 79 of Dark King Daddy

“You mean the wedding? Or what happened after?”

I felt the blush spread.

“After.”

He paused for a moment.

“Until you decide otherwise.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is. You decide what this becomes. Not me.”

I pressed my thumb against the rim of the cup. The ceramic was warm. The small pain of the heat kept me anchored.

“How did you recognize it?”

He considered the question. Not because he was deciding whether to answer—because he was deciding how much to answer.

“I have experience with that world.”

The words landed and sat between us. No elaboration. No follow-up. No careful explanation of how or why or with whom. He offered the fact the way he offered the coffee: plainly, without ceremony, and without expecting anything in return.

“You’ve been a Daddy.”

I did not know why I said it in those terms. The directness felt necessary. If he could stand in my doorway and watch me hold a stuffed rabbit, I could say the word.

“Not exactly—but I know those that have. I’ve spent time with Littles. I’m fascinated by the dynamic. The mindset.”

“And you recognized it in me.”

“Yes.”

“Because of the pajamas? The cartoon? The rabbit?”

“Because of all of it. And none of it.” His eyes held mine with fierce attention. “There’s something about you. Separate from all the rest of it.”

I set down the cup. My hands needed to be empty for what came next.

“Do you think I’m weak?”

He did not answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair. The morning light caught the edge of his jaw, the hard line of his nose, the pale color of his eyes.

“I watched you bury your father,” he said. “I watched you protect your brother at Volna — not with a weapon, with your mind. You stood between two organizations that were ready to tear each other apart and made them listen. You married a stranger three days after putting flowers on your father’s grave, and at your own wedding reception you remembered which captain’s wife had recent surgery and which client needed reassurance about his freight contract. You are the opposite of weak.”

I said nothing.

“But . . . I do think you were tired.”

The word cracked something behind my ribs. Not because it was gentle. Because it was accurate. I had been tired for years. Tired since before Papa died. Tired since before the Voronins.

Daniil continued.

“Wanting submission does not mean you have submitted to me. You wanted something last night. You needed rest, and comfort, and someone to make sure you ate. I did that. It does not give me ownership of the part of yourself you showed me. It does not give me the right to expect it again. And no one will ever hear about it from me.”

He picked up the report.

I stood.