Page 76 of Hush, Little Baby

Or more…

I’m sure what I want, but unsure of what I need.

“Can I ask another stupid question?” My voice sounds younger than it should.

“There are no stupid questions,” Nikolaus says, but his mouth twitches like he’s holding in a joke.

“Do you, like… hurt people?” I’m not sure if I mean physically or something else.

He’s quiet for a moment, looking out the window where the sky’s gone dark. “Sometimes,” he says. “If they deserve it.”

I wait, but that’s all he says. Like, “if they deserve it” is the full explanation, and maybe it is for him.

He must see my confusion, because he adds, “Most of the time it’s just numbers. That’s the world, Charlie. Money and the people who want more of it. I’m very, very good at making it, and better at keeping it.”

I nod, even though I don’t really get it.

I yawn after a few minutes of comfortable silence. His mouth pulls into a fond smirk, like he’s been waiting for this moment all evening.

“Someone’s sleepy. Time for bed,” he announces, not as a suggestion but a verdict.

I glance at the crib, already planning to curl up there again, bundled and small and safe in my own little pen.

But Nikolaus shakes his head. “No crib tonight,” he says. “That’s for naps, and when you need to feel extra small.”

“Where do I sleep, then?” I ask, and immediately want to take it back, because obviously he means his bed, with him, like at the hotel, but something in me wants to be sure, to have it said out loud and not just implied.

“You’ll sleep with me, baby, in my bed.”

I burrow my face into his chest so he doesn’t see the quickly spreading blush.

14

Nikolaus

My bedroom occupies most of the eastern corner of the upper floor, larger than some entire townhouses, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, an exorbitant master bathroom, and gilded sconces lighting the walls. The bed itself is custom-made, wide enough to comfortably sleep four adults.

I wake to a spill of light inching across the bed. My phone glows with three silent notifications, but I ignore them. For the first time in weeks, my head is neither throbbing nor spinning, and I have the rare luxury of a full hour before I’m expected for breakfast.

I roll onto my side; the bedsheets are exquisite cotton and cool, and beside me, curled up in the crook of my right arm, lies Charlie.

He’s still deep asleep, mouth slightly open, faint lines creasing his brow as if the burden of dreaming is too heavy to release. Even in unconsciousness, he’s knotted, spine tight, knees drawn up, and arms wrapped around himself.

Charlie’s pajama top is cartoonish, covered in faded dinosaurs, and has ridden up in sleep, exposing a wide strip of pale belly where the diaper peeks above the waistband of the matching pants. There are faint impressions on his skin from where the fabric bunched and twisted in the night.

I shift my hand to stroke his hair, thumbing the messy strands. He stirs at my touch, not quite waking. I spend a minute just watching him—memorizing, as Constantine would say, the subtleties. The way his lashes stick together at the corners, the sleep-warm flush along the tips of his ears, and the way he looks so soft, almost cherubic, if you can ignore the dark circles and the way his hands clench at nothing, even now.

I peel the blankets back, careful not to wake him yet. His knees press together, legs angled inwards, the left ankle hooked over the right in a pose that manages to be both defensive and unconsciously trusting.

Most mornings, I like to start my day with an orgasm, and now that Charlie’s here, it only makes sense for that to extend to him as well.

I slip my fingers beneath the elastic of his pajama pants and gently tug them down, inch by inch, exposing first the diaper, then the soft roundness of his thighs.

He doesn’t stir.

I let the pajamas puddle at his knees, then set about unbuttoning his top, slowly revealing his bare abdomen and chest.

I run a hand down the outside of his thigh, cupping it. The skin is warm, smooth in some places, and textured with faint stretch marks in others. My thumb finds the line at his hip where the diaper ends, stroking the rise and fall of muscle beneath. His body is still, but the quality of his breathing changes, a drift from deep sleep toward the surface as I press my palm more firmly against his thigh.