Page 107 of Dark King Daddy

I took the glass. I drank. The water was cool and clean and tasted like nothing and everything.

He knelt beside me.

On the floor. On the same carpet. His knees beside mine. He took the glass from my hand and set it on the table. Then he reached down and examined my knees—pressed his thumb against the joint, turned my leg slightly, checked the skin for abrasion. The care was methodical. Practical. The care of a man whose aftercare protocol had been written into a contract and who intended to honor every clause.

“Fine,” I said.

He looked at me, a smile playing at his lips.

“Nice try,” he said. “But that word is in the contract, Ksyusha. You’re not allowed to use it to protect me.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

“My knees are fine. Actually fine. The carpet is thick.”

He examined them anyway. Satisfied, he drew me upright. My knees straightened. I stood in front of him, and he stood in front of me, and the fire was low and the room was warm and we were two people who had just done something that changed the shape of the space between them.

He kissed me.

His hand came to my jaw—the same position, the same grip, his palm warm against my cheek. This kiss was slower than the one on the promenade. I opened my mouth to him.

He pulled back. His hand stayed on my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.

“Good girl,” he said.

I had trusted him enough to tell the truth about what I wanted.

My eyes burned. I pressed my forehead against his chest. His hand moved from my jaw to the back of my head, cradling it, and he held me against the warmth of his body while the fire burned low and the signed agreement sat on the table and the word Daddy—spoken, written, enacted, chosen—settled into the room like something that had always lived there and was only now being allowed to breathe.

Chapter 9

Daniil

Iread the agreement twice before dawn.

The leather folder lay open on my desk. Ksenia’s signature at the bottom — Ksenia Mikhailovna Orlova — each letter formed with incredible precision. My name beneath hers.

Three rules. Ten strokes. Green, yellow, red.

Service offered in desire is received in gratitude. Service offered in fear is rejected and replaced with care.

Nothing in the language explained why I had not slept.

I had walked her to the door of her suite. She had turned, the ivory blouse catching the hallway light, and said good night. I had said good night. She had closed the door. I had stood in the hallway for four seconds too long, listening to the lock turn, and then I had gone to my own room and lay in the dark and replayed every moment of the evening.

The folder sat on my desk. I closed it.

At seven-fifteen, I poured coffee and opened the security folder Nikita had left for me. I couldn’t take in a word.

Ksenia appeared at seven-twenty-two.

She wore sensible, well-cut black pants. A fitted sweater in deep burgundy, soft at the neckline. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders. She had pinned nothing. Pulled nothing back. She wore the ring on her left hand and small gold studs in her ears and nothing else.

She was beautiful. Perfect. Understated. Gorgeous.

My gaze went to her mouth.

I could not stop it. The movement was involuntary and immediate—my eyes found her lips before she had crossed the threshold, before she had said good morning, before she had reached the table. Her mouth was faintly pink. I wanted her so badly it almost hurt me.