Page 49 of Ruthless Daddy
“Better than last time,” I said.
Sal’s voice had no edge, but it cut anyway: “Don’t fuck this up, Pi.”
The line went dead.
I pocketed the phone and checked the clock. Midday. I was supposed to ping Angela at noon, make sure she’d drunk her water, make sure she wasn’t burning the rules down already. I sent the text.
No answer.
I waited five minutes, then another five. I walked the perimeter—kitchen, living room, terrace. Her phone was on the island, face down. Her shoes by the door. I checked the bathroom. Empty.
I found her in the nursery, legs folded under her, back against the baseboard. She was reading, one of the old Christie paperbacks, a pen between her teeth. There was a bottle of water on the carpet beside her, untouched.
I stood in the doorway, watching.
She didn’t look up right away. She was waiting for me to say something first.
I didn’t.
After a while, she lifted her eyes. They were the color of grey glass, flat and shining.
“You missed your check-in,” I said.
She shrugged. “I was a little busy, Daddy.”
I stepped in, closed the door behind me. The room was warm, the air heavy with wool and paper and the faint chemical sharpness of her body. I sat down on the rug, cross-legged, not quite facing her.
I picked up the water bottle and set it between us. The rules were clear, but I wanted her to reach for it herself.
She did. She picked it up, turned it once in her hand, then took a long, slow pull. The water moved in the clear plastic, the level dropping, the line of her throat working with each swallow. She finished half, then set it back down, slow, like she was doing a demonstration.
She watched my face for a reaction. She wouldn’t get one.
She said, “Are you going to punish me?”
I said, “Is that what you want?”
She smirked, all calculation. “Maybe.”
I took the bottle and held it out. “Finish it.”
She took it from me without breaking eye contact. Then she looked down at it, slow, like she was considering something. She wrapped her lips around the mouth of it, tilted it up, and drank—not tipping her head back, but keeping her chin down, hereyes up, her throat working in long, deliberate pulls. When she finished, she drew it back slow, lips dragging along the rim.
I didn’t move. Didn’t give her an inch.
She smiled. “Is that what you were hoping for, Daddy?”
I stood. “We’re done here, brat,” I said.
She watched me leave, the look on her face somewhere between disappointment and a dare.
At the door, I braced my hand on the frame for just a second. The wood was solid, cold under my palm. I could have punched through it. Instead I let the moment pass, then let myself out.
In the hall, I put my forehead to the wall and breathed, steady and slow, until the urge to go back in there and break every rule in the contract faded to a manageable ache.
She was going to destroy me, one drop at a time.
Just one thing for it. I needed to sweat.
