Page 55 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

Potato, who spent years redistributing my things to the floor regardless of their breakability, now spends his afternoons on the nearest windowsill like a small brown gargoyle. I think he likes supervising the gardeners. And he adores Pasha. I’ve never seen him warm up to a man before, so it’s odd that he happily weaves around the guard’s legs.

And Galina feeds him from her hand now, which I’m not supposed to know about. He escorts her on her evening rounds, hall by hall, tail up, a furry deputy. Two months ago, he was an anarchist.

The house absorbs everyone eventually, regardless of species. I’ve been feeling it, too. Absorbed. Assimilated. It’s almost the way I felt when I came to the city in the first place.

Back in Pennsylvania, I never fit. It was like wearing the wrong size clothes for the first two decades of my life. But when I came to Queens, it fit me the moment I put it on. At my old apartment, there’s a bakery around the corner, a diner on the other corner that doesn’t mind if patrons linger, a few random shops that I always find a reason to frequent… it was home.

Here, it took a little while due to the possibility of a torturous death, but now it feels like home. And that should bug me, shouldn’t it?

Things are weird. But I don’t hate it.

This morning is a good example of why, because this morning Maxim didn’t leave for the city until midmorning. He rolled me onto my side, gripping my hip as he licked the nape of my neck and murmured, “You’re going to make me late again.”

And then I felt the hard press of him against me.

I grinned into the pillow, because my face was half smooshed there. “And whose fault is that?”

His large hand skimmed over my hip to my ass, pulling me open. “Yours. Entirely yours.” His fingers explored me until he found the right spot to make me shudder. “You like that, don’t you, bratty girl?”

His touch stole my breath, and when I could manage words again, I whispered, “Yes.”

A simple yes, and suddenly, I felt his cock replace his fingers in one smooth thrust. He bit my shoulder as he pounded me from behind like a man half his age and possessed. The pain and the pleasure sent me somewhere else, somewhere deep inside, until I was dizzy on him.

He warned, “Soon.”

“That’s not like you,” I teased.

He grabbed my hips and pulled me onto my knees, so I had to prop myself up on my hands. Then he swelled inside of me just as he reached around for my clit. He worked me in time with his thrusts, and the tension built and grew and took over everything as we came together in a sweaty heap.

In the gasping quiet, he said, “Round Two,” and made good on that. Thorough is the only word for it. Afterward, I came downstairs walking carefully and humming, and I saw Maxim out with a kiss on the cheek. Normally, he’s not big on public displays of affection.

Today, he grabbed my ass for it.

Every night now, after the light goes off, he slides down the bed and talks to my stomach. In Russian. His hand spreads warm over skin that looks exactly the same as it did a month ago, because there’s nothing to see yet.

Little bean, he calls her. I’ve decided she’s a her. The house is warm, he says. Your mother’s stubborn and eats nothing, so you must work on her from the inside. We are partners in this.

I don’t mind them conspiring to feed me. There are worse fates.

I lie in the dark, pretending to sleep with my chest aching, while he believes the Russian keeps the secret. I allow him to think so because if he realized I understood, he might stop—something I can’t let happen.

So that’s the state of things. And I don’t know how to feel about any of it.

I’m sitting by the window with tea, rain streaking the glass, Potato on my feet, a blanket, and a book I’m not reading. Suddenly, I realize—like stepping into a puddle in socks—that I have no plans.

Not one singular escape plan. In fact, I haven’t thought about running in days. Weeks?

When the thought hits, I make myself plan an escape out of habit. The laundry van comes twice a week for the sheets and other large linens. Usually sometime around eleven in the morning, and the gate guard logs it in and out. Nobody checks the back.

But I don’t want to use the plan. There’s no pull toward it in my heart. Instead, I’m repulsed by the thought. Leaving this mansion puts a target on me and the little bean. It’d be foolish to flee now.

I should be fighting this. I shouldn’t give in to captivity.

My sister thinks I took a work sabbatical for an overdue vacation. She always said I worked too hard for Klaus, so I said the new CEO agreed and insisted I take time off. It’s in the realm of reality. Sort of.

A man controls when I leave. Two months ago, I threw a sugar bowl about it. Now I realize I forgot to clean up that mess. My rent is paid for the year by Maxim, so no one will notice.

At some point, between the orchard, the clinic, and the Russian in the dark, I let go of my outrage. This situation no longer feels like captivity. Instead, it feels comforting, like being looked after.