“Perfect. I agree,” he says with a decisive nod.
Like the conversation has ended, he slips pale pink underwear from the dresser and holds it out for me to step into. The set is actually one of my favorites, because although it’s all pink with no black at all, the bra has ribbons and lace and is such a tease that it always makes me feel extra sexy when I wear it. The panties are a full brief that has a ribbon-laced corset detail at the back, and despite the very strange conversation I’m having with my husband, I can’t help sighing happily at my reflection in the mirror.
Turning back to the rail, Knight selects a dress that has a full tiered skirt. The right-hand side of the dress is pink with tiny black hearts on the fabric, and the left-hand side is black, with tiny pink hearts. It definitely leans more into the Lolita side of my gothic Lolita style because it’s incredibly cute, but it’s still edgy enough if it’s styled with the right accessories. Holding it out for me, I step in, and he pulls the dress over my hips, guiding my arms through the straps before he fastens the zip at the back.
Lifting me to sit on top of the dresser, he pulls out pale pink frilly socks and slides them onto my feet, then pairs them with my black Mary-Jane pumps with pink bat wings on the front.
Lifting me down, he leads me into the bathroom, then roots through the drawer he put all the bows and ribbons he bought me in, and pulls out hair clips with little pink bats and slides them into my hair.
“I really am a doll to you, aren’t I?” I question, wondering why that doesn’t upset me more.
“My perfect little doll that I get to take care of, love, fuck, and breed.”
“Why doesn’t that bother me more?” I ask.
“Why would it bother you?” he questions stoically.
“Because dolls are toys. They’re objects.”
“You’re my wife, not a toy or an object,” he says simply.
That oddly ambiguous statement shouldn’t console me, but it does. I’m learning that while Knight isn’t a simple man, his thought process is uniquely black and white. I’m his, so he’s mine. The moment he came to Rapid City, we entwined our lives together, and as far as he’s concerned, there’s no him or me anymore. We’re just an us now. Husband and wife. Mates, or whatever other description he’s used to describe the connection he thinks we share.
He calls me his doll, but it’s not an insult pretending to be a compliment. He wants to take care of me, to dress me, bathe me, and feed me. But it’s not because he thinks of me as a possession, but because I’m his and he’s mine, and you take care of the important things.
His way of thinking is odd, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. I like being cared for and doted on. I like that some days he picks my clothes, and others he stands back and watches what I pick. His style isn’t in any way alternative, but he’s researched my look and learned how to recreate it, so he knows how best to take care of me.
He’s a unicorn. A mythological creature that shouldn’t exist in real life, and yet he does. He exists, and he’s mine, and I’m incredibly lucky.
We head to the studio early and find it buzzing with people and the sounds of tattoo guns. Both Betty and Cyrus have clients in their chairs. Betty’s is an older guy I recognize from Rapid City, and I wave at him as I head toward my chair with my sketch pad in my arms and Knight following behind me, his palm on the base of my spine.
When I glance toward Cyrus’s chair, his lips are curled into a ferocious scowl while he tries to work on the back of a client who is so tense, he flinches every time Cyrus’s needle touches his skin.
“Oh my god, Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck are you doing, man? I thought you knew what you were doing, but it feels like you’re stabbing me,” the client squeals.
“I am stabbing you. Approximately six thousand times a minute. Or I would be if you’d stop fucking moving,” Cyrus snarls through gritted teeth, a black cap pulled down low over his forehead, hiding his eyes.
“Octy,” Etta calls, and I spin around and spot her coming from the break room carrying a steaming mug in her hands.
“Hey,” I call back, descending the stairs and pulling my bestie in for a hug.
“Hi, Knight,” Etta says, offering him a wave with the hand that’s not holding her drink.
“How’s the bump this morning?” I question, reaching down to pat her tiny baby bump.
“Well, I’ve only thrown up once this morning, so I’m calling that a win.”
“Does Oz know you’re drinking coffee?” Knight asks, his low rumbling tone hitting me right in the clit.
“It’s decaf,” Etta says, flashing my husband one of her rare scowls. Etta is usually a pretty easygoing person, but I know that she finds her husband’s overbearing nature a little…well, overbearing.
“Hmm,” Knight says.
“Did you meet Leo and Cyrus yet?” Etta asks.
“I met them yesterday.”
Leaning in, she lowers her voice. “Leo is a riot, but Cyrus is…”
