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I slide my hand around the nape of her neck and gently draw her closer to me. “Dandelion. Beautiful girl. You’re allowed to cry.”
“I’ll do it later,” she whispers thickly. “I’ll set the baby off if I do it now. Distract me, please?”
I go on stroking the nape of her neck while she rocks the baby in her arms.
“You’ll make a wonderful mother one day,” I murmur, trying not to sound too interested in the idea. At thirty-four, it’s about time I fathered a few children. Too bad the woman I want to be the mother of my children is my niece and only sixteen years old. Too bad she can never actually be mine.
Not that I haven’t thought about it. God, she’d be perfect as a mother. She’s already a little tigress around all these children.
She gives me a tired smile. “I hope so. I feel like I’ve had a lifetime of experience with babies already.”
I run my thumb slowly along Zenya’s jaw. “Whereas I have no idea about children.”
“You’re not so clueless. You looked after me sometimes.”
My eyebrows lift in surprise. “You remember that?”
Troian and Anna would occasionally drop her off at my house for me to look after while they went out in the city.
Zenya rocks the baby slowly in her arms as she talks softly. “Of course I remember. We would play hide-and-seek. When we went out, you’d let me steer your car while I sat in your lap. My first memory is of you. I must have been three, or even younger. Mom or Dad said you were on your way over, and I stood on the sofa so I could see out the front window, waiting for your car to pull into the driveway. I remember it was red.”
I think for a moment, trying to remember a red car. Then I laugh because I do remember it. “The Mustang. I took you to a diner and you drew horses in crayons because you liked the horse on my car.” I only had that car for a few months because it got rear-ended.
Zenya smiles up at me. “You remember.”
“Of course I remember.”
Whenever I came to the house, Zenya would shriek with pleasure and run into my arms the moment she saw me. Troian would scold me for playing favorites with his children, and I would insist that I wasn’t while secretly giving her another present.
“You took me to a shooting range for my sixth birthday. Mom and Dad were furious with you.”
“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” I say ruefully, rubbing my hand over my jaw. It’s rough with stubble because I didn’t have time to shave this morning. I remember Zenya in a Little Miss Messy T-shirt wearing safety goggles and ear protectors. I didn’t actually let her hold a weapon, but she sat on the barrier between my arms as I fired a Glock 17.
“I’m glad you did. I’m a very good shot now. You set off my competitive instincts because you were always perfect.”
I give her a smug smile. “Well, I wouldn’t say perfect.” Who am I kidding? Yes, I would.
Speaking of perfect, I stroke Zenya’s cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into my touch.
“You’ll make a wonderful father one day,” she whispers.
I nearly groan and cover her mouth with mine. Zenya shouldn’t say shit like that while she’s holding a baby and so very obviously enjoying my touch. I need to stop thinking about fucking my sixteen-year-old niece and getting her pregnant like a goddamn psycho.
But I can’t help myself. Zenya has a plush mouth that was made for kissing. I just know that she sinks her teeth into that full lower lip while she’s touching herself. What I wouldn’t give to see her in that state. Tits bare. Fingers working her clit. Flushed and breathing hard, her beautiful eyes sparkling with pleasure.
“A good father? Maybe I will,” I murmur, tucking a loose strand of her silvery hair behind her ear.
I want to go on standing here with Zenya and talking to her for much longer, but Troian calls for her, and then her brother does as well. Everyone always needs Zenya for something. Don’t they understand that I was here first?
A few hours later, Zenya takes the youngest children upstairs for a nap, and I can tell I’m not needed here anymore. I wait for her to come back downstairs and then ask her to walk me out to my car.
Outside, it’s overcast and breezy, and we watch heavy clouds scud across the sky.
Zenya wraps her arms around herself as the wind cuts through her thin dress. “Yesterday Dad was talking about teaching me more of the family business. He’s seen how good I am at coordinating the Silo.”
The Silo is our stock of illegal goods, though the location often changes. Zenya’s been tracking incoming and outgoing merchandise for the last year using a series of encrypted spreadsheets on a hidden server. She’s so efficient at it that she can keep on top of it alongside going to school and doing her homework.
“Finally. I’m glad to hear it.” I’ve been telling my brother to get her more involved since she started asking him to include her.
