Camilla is still sleeping in her crib when I enter her nursery, and I give myself a few minutes to simply watch her sleep. She is so angelic in this state, it’s hard to believe she’s the same naughty girl I was forced to punish so harshly this same morning. My heart leaps at the sight of her, at the knowledge she is finally where she belongs.
I glance at the clock, calculating how long she’s been asleep and decide to give her a little while longer. After all, we did have a very eventful morning and we’re likely to have an equally eventful afternoon if she remains half as stubborn as she’s been so far.
Leaving her to sleep, I settle in the rocking chair at the far end of the room. And I do what I’ve been doing since she first walked into my office.
I wait.
Chapter Twelve
Millie
Being Doctor D’s Little girl is both exactly what I imagined it would be and nothing like what I imagined it would be.
He’s just as strict as I expected, and after two full days as his baby my bottom aches like a bad tooth. It seems as though every time I turn around, I’m either over his knee or in the corner or sucking on a pacifier coated with that godawful potion he made.
At the same time, he’s so much…softerthan I ever would have thought. Every now and then when I’m playing, I catch him watching me out of the corner of my eye. And I’ve come to learn he loves reading me stories. And he started calling me “sunshine” after I called him out for humming that song. Even Cobie is starting to think that maybe Donovan isn’t all that bad, and that maybe they could be friends after all.
Traitor.
If he was literally any other man in the world, he would be my perfect Daddy. But he’s not any other man. He’s Doctor D. The man who has made me feel awful about myself, both as a person and a competent nurse, for nearly a year. The man who hasstripped my choices from me and forced me into humiliating, painful situations for his own gratification.
Trying to reconcile the two sides of him makes my head spin.
Which is the state he finds me in when he comes to wake me my third morning back on the island. “Awake already, my little sunshine?”
“Looks like it.”
Stopping beside the crib, he looks down at me, one silvery brow raising in that look I’ve come to associate with getting my bottom spanked and I have to force myself not to whimper. “Someone is feeling cranky this morning. What’s wrong, little one?”
I meet his gaze head on. “The same thing that's wrong every morning. I want to gohome.”
“You are home, Camilla.”
There’s no point in arguing with him, so I stay silent as he lifts me up out of the crib and carries me to the changing table. “Have you used your diaper yet this morning?”
“No. And I’m not going to.”
Just like the “I want to go home” argument, the diaper discussion is the same one we’ve been having for two days now. It is the one thing I still have some semblance of control over, so we do this dance every time. He asks, I refuse. And like all those other times, he sighs and shakes his head before pulling a catheter kit from the cabinet beneath my changing table.
Staring up at the ceiling, I try to pretend I’m somewhere else.Anywhereelse while he inserts the catheter and drains my bladder into the cotton pad of the diaper.
“You haven’t had a bowel movement yet.”
There’s a hint of something that almost sounds like worry in his tone, but I tell myself it’s more likely disappointment. Because I can handle him being disappointed in me. I’ve been handling that for months.
But actual worry? I’m not sure I could survive knowing he cares that much.
Gentle but firm fingers press on my abdomen and I wince at the flash of discomfort. The truth is, I reallydoneed to go but my body is apparently in agreement that we are absolutely not messing in a diaper. Not for Doctor D, not for anybody.
So I continue to stare up at the ceiling silently as he continues his examination.
“Hmm. You are certainly a little constipated. Perhaps that’s why you’re feeling so cranky. No matter. We’ll take care of that after your bath.” Scooping me up in his arms, he carries me into the bathroom, where we begin yet another one of our rituals. He sets me on my feet beside the tub and turns the water on, still far too cold for my liking, and we wait in silence for it to fill.
Maybe I am crankier than usual, because irritation pricks at the base of my skull as the tub fills with plain, clear water. “Can’t I have some bubbles or something?”
Looking up from his spot kneeling beside the tub, he frowns. “You know bubbles aren’t healthy for a Little girl’s vagina. They cause all kinds of infections.”
“Oh, come on. This isn’t the eighties anymore. There are all kinds of safe options now. Isn’t there a shop in town that sells stuff like that?”
