I turn my head while my hands are still under the running water.
Look directly at Valerie.
Hold her gaze.
This is what I do. This is who I am. And I don't give a fuck if it terrifies you.
Her breath quickens. I watch her chest rise and fall faster, watch her eyes drop to my bloodstained hands and linger there despite the horror on her face.
There it is again. That twisted arousal you don't understand.
I turn off the water and dry my hands on a kitchen towel. The white fabric comes away red.
"Milaya." I keep my voice soft for Mila's benefit. "Nightmare?"
She nods, not trusting her voice.
"The same one?"
Another nod.
The nightmare where her mother dies. Where she hears gunshots and screaming and can't do anything but hide.
My fault. All of it.
I move toward her slowly. She doesn't bolt. Just watches me with those too-old eyes.
When I'm close enough, I crouch beside her chair.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
She shakes her head quickly.
"That's okay." I reach out carefully and brush a curl away from her face. "But I'm here now. And nothing's going to hurt you. Okay?"
"Okay, Papa."
"Do you want me to sit with you until you fall back asleep?"
"Can Valerie stay too?"
The question catches us both off guard. Valerie's eyes widen, and I notice her weighing whether she wants to be in a room with me after what she just saw.
But she nods. "If your papa says it's okay."
I should say no. Should send her away.
But Mila's looking at me hopefully, and I've denied her too much already.
"She can stay."
Relief floods Mila's face. "Can we go to my room?"
"Yes. Come on."
I stand and offer my hand. She takes it without hesitation—small fingers wrapping around mine—and doesn't seem to notice or care about the blood still under my nails.
She trusts me. Even covered in someone else's blood, she trusts me.
