Page 76 of Dark King Daddy

She went still.

Complete stillness. Not the composure she wore in public—the managed, polished stillness of a woman who chose what to show. This was the stillness of an animal caught in open ground. Every muscle locked. Every breath held.

I spoke immediately.

“You don’t have to answer. I will not touch you. And no one will ever hear about this from me. Not Anton. Not Yelena. Not anyone.”

She stared at me.

I did not move closer. I kept my hands visible at my sides. I kept my voice low and even, the same register I used with Kiryl when he was frightened and trying not to show it, though the circumstances were entirely different.

My gaze moved to the dinner tray.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“Not hungry.”

“But you need to eat something.”

She pressed her lips together. The blanket shifted. Beneath it, I could see the shape of the rabbit still clutched against her.

“I’m going to make you a choice,” I said. “Grilled cheese or macaroni.”

A pause.

“Macaroni,” she said. Very quietly.

“Tea or hot chocolate.”

Another pause. Longer.

“Chocolate.”

I nodded.

“I’ll be back.”

I went to the kitchen. I turned on the light over the stove. I found a box of macaroni and cheese in the cabinet—the kind with powdered cheese, which I had bought for Kiryl’s visits and which Kiryl had never eaten because he preferred takeout. I boiled water. I cooked the pasta. I mixed in the powder and the milk and the butter and stirred it until it was the right consistency.

I heated milk for the hot chocolate. I found the cocoa powder and the sugar and mixed them in a saucepan. I poured it into a mug.

I carried both back to the sitting room on a tray.

Ksenia was still on the floor. The blanket was still around her. The rabbit was still hidden. She had not moved.

I set the tray on the coffee table beside the greenhouse pieces. I moved the armchair so that it faced her from across the room — not beside her, not close enough to crowd. Far enough that the space between us was clear and deliberate.

I sat.

She looked at the macaroni. She looked at the hot chocolate. She looked at me.

“Eat,” I said.

She reached for the bowl. Her fingers emerged from the blanket — the striped socks visible now, the lavender sleeve riding up her wrist. She held the bowl in her lap and ate with the spoon I had brought, slowly at first, then with less hesitation.

The hot chocolate steamed beside her.

We did not speak while she ate. The cartoon played. The girl was trying to fly again. The cat was making observations about her technique.