“That’s okay, sweetie.” I should have known she would only do something like that by Zachary’s order, and it doesn’t surprise me much.
But then I almost jump out of bed when I remember I probably don’t have any clothes on. How am I going to explain that to a child? What the hell is Zach doing anyway? Does he have a habit of introducing his bed partners to his daughter?
Only then do I notice, glancing under the blanket, that I’m wearing a clean dress, and I even have panties on.
Zachary must’ve put it all on me when he woke up. And I slept through the whole thing. How in the hell is that possible?
I barely resist groaning into the pillow just thinking about his gloating face knowing he wore me out so much that I passed out from exhaustion.
Emmaline’s one more poke into my cheek snaps me back to present. “Daddy is calling you for breakfast.”
“Is he now?” I start to wonder if they have some kind of strict regimen here where they won’t let you do shit until you have breakfast?
Or generally it’s eaten when he so wishes? So any other time you can’t cook anything in the kitchen because it’s forbidden?
“Yep. So we have to hurry.” She leans closer and kisses me soundly on the cheek. “Good morning, Phoenix!” With this, she crawls out and rushes out of the room.
Shaking my head in amusement, I throw away the blanket and swing my legs to the floor, stretching my arms wide before padding to the bathroom. I quickly brush my teeth and pin my hair on top of my head as it gets in my face too much.
Sighing in relief that this time there are no fresh hickeys on my neck, I go downstairs mainly due to Emmaline, because the child came all this way to get me.
Otherwise, Zachary could suck it. I may have accepted that I’m unable to resist him in the sexual sense, but I’ve never promised obedience, even with the truce.
Flying down the stairs, I walk toward the kitchen, my feet soundless on the marble, and I hear a loud giggle once again.
How awesome it must be to be a three-year-old; everything makes you happy, and the world is full of possibilities. Or maybe it’s only the case when a child is surrounded with love?
I don’t remember myself laughing so much during my childhood.
“Again, Daddy?” she asks, and I see her sitting by the table, her ankles crossed as she swings them back and forth with her hands clasped together.
“No more, baby girl, until you put some food in your stomach.” His husky voice washes over me, reminding me of how he whispered illicit words to me last night, and I dig my nails into my palms, willing myself to snap out of it.
The desire for him can show its ugly, betraying head during the night, giving me reprieve from the nightmares, but during the day, I have to be myself and keep my distance, not letting it affect our investigation and mutual goal.
To catch the sick unsub who thinks our lives are his playground, and he can move us around like rag dolls, commanding us to do despicable deeds at his heart’s desire.
Zachary comes into view, placing a plate full of eggs and toast on the side in front of Emmaline and gives her a light kiss on the top of her head. “Eat your breakfast.”
She pouts. “But what about waffles?”
“You’ll get waffles once you eat this.”
She opens her mouth to protest but then grins at him, resting her chin on her hand, and sighs. “I love you, Daddy.” No way will Zachary not cave under such cuteness. The man played tea party in a tiny chair, for God’s sake.
However, I blink in surprise when he ruffles her hair and says, “I love you too, sweetie. You are still gonna eat eggs if you want waffles.”
They face off for some time, and then Emmaline mutters, “Okay.” And she digs her fork into the plate, quickly shoveling the eggs inside her mouth.
She waves at me, and Zach turns his head in my direction, his green eyes showcased by the sunlight, but I don’t miss how he scans his gaze over me, a satisfied smile curving his mouth along with the possessive flash in his orbs.
Inwardly growling in frustration and having no one but myself to blame for his cockiness, I announce, “You called me for breakfast. Here I am, sir.” I salute him, sarcasm coating my voice, and then I look around to greet Patience, only she is nowhere in sight.
Zachary guesses my thoughts as he goes to the stove, throwing over his shoulder. “She’s running late, should be here soon. She had to visit her sister last night.” He cracks two eggs in the pan and then asks, “Do you have any specific preferences?”
“No,” I reply absently, taken aback by the picture greeting me as he’s the one cooking breakfast for everyone. He’s wearing low sweatpants along with a white T-shirt that is almost see-through, so every ripple of his muscles is visible to my eyes.
While he is cooking by the stove, I see a bowl with a brownish-white mass in it and a waffle machine on the other counter, plugged into the outlet so it can heat up before he starts preparing them.
Zachary King cooking in his kitchen? Am I still dreaming or just woke up in a different dimension?
“I’d close that mouth if I were you.”
I snap it shut, and instantly annoyance zaps through me at how right he was once again.
“Well, you’ll have to excuse me for my shock. It’s not every day I see—”
“A man cook?”
“Oh, I’ve seen that plenty.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention how Sebastian is great at it and always spoiled my ass with some new recipes, but by how he half turns to me with warning in his gaze, I decide not to.
Of course, whatever we have doesn’t equal a relationship, but throwing my past in his face is a low blow. Not to mention I don’t want to know anything about his women either.
Ever.
Oddly enough, the idea of him with someone else drives me mad, which is such a contrast to when I think about his late wife. Jealousy is absent then, and instead, there is a deep sadness for a woman who lost her life so young due to someone’s insanity.
“I learned how to cook when Mom got sick.”
My heart pangs painfully at this. “You didn’t have servants?”
“Mom loved to cook herself, so that’s what we did when she couldn’t leave the house to attend all those important functions as a King.” He picks up the pan and puts the eggs on the plate nearby before turning off the stove and going back to the table and placing it on the opposite side of Emmaline who eats silently, her eyes darting between us. “Sit.”
I do as he says, mainly because of the way his voice changes whenever he mentions his mother, so it must be hard for him to share about it.
Deciding to break the tension, because Emmaline shifts uncomfortably, not understanding why Daddy’s mood suddenly soured, I tease, “I also can’t have waffles if I don’t eat my eggs?”
He grabs his own plate and sits at the head of the table, with me and Emmaline on either side of him. “No one can.” He digs his fork in. “Otherwise, what’s the point of me forbidding it from Emmaline?” He changes the subject, and thank God for that. “Did you sleep well?”
I quickly shove eggs into my mouth and nod, chewing long so I won’t have to give a verbal reply, and he smirks, finding it freaking hilarious.
Emmaline taps loudly on the plate, scooping up the last bite of egg, and swallows it. “All done, Daddy. Now can I have the waffles?”