The skirt last.
She stepped into it and I drew it up, fastening the hidden zipper at her hip, letting my palm linger on the curve of her waist. The fabric fell in soft folds around her legs. Exactly as I'd imagined.
When I finished, I turned her toward the mirror.
We stood together, her back to my chest, my hands on her shoulders. The reflection showed us both: her in dusty rose and cream, flushed and beautiful, the collar dark at her throat. Me behind her, taller, darker, the particular satisfaction of ownership visible in every line of my body.
"Beautiful." My voice came out rough. Reverent. "My beautiful girl."
The flush I'd wanted crept up her cheeks. She met my eyes in the mirror, something vulnerable and fierce in her expression.
I kissed the back of her neck.
Just there, where the collar ended and her skin began. Let my lips linger, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my mouth. She made a soft sound—not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Something in between.
"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered.
I kissed her again. Her shoulder this time, through the cashmere.
The day was just beginning.
Thestudiowasasecret I'd been keeping since Auralia had started staying with me. It had been a long negotiation, but it was finally mine.
A converted loft in SoHo with windows that faced north. I'd signed the paperwork just two days ago, and I couldn’t wait to show my baby girl around.
Now she stood in the doorway, dusty rose cashmere catching the afternoon sun, her eyes wide as they tracked across the space.
"You rented a whole studio?"
"I wanted privacy." I guided her inside with a hand on her lower back. "No instructors. No classmates. Just us."
The space was simple but well-equipped. Two easels already set up, facing each other across an expanse of paint-splattered floor. Canvases primed and waiting. Brushes in jars, paints arranged by color, the particular organization of a working artist's space. I'd come here yesterday to set everything up, to make sure it was perfect.
She moved toward the window. Traced her fingers along the frame, looking out at the rooftops of SoHo below.
"I don't—" She stopped. Started again. "My art isn't for other people. I told you that."
"I know."
"It's private. It's messy. It's the one place I don't have to be good at things."
"I know that too." I came up behind her. Not touching, just close. "But this isn't a test, Ptichka. This is just us. Just play."
She turned. Her grey-green eyes held that particular uncertainty I was learning to read—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of being found wanting by someone whose opinion actually mattered.
"No judgment," I said quietly. "Just paint what you see."
She held my gaze for a long moment.
Then nodded.
We took our positions at the easels. Facing each other across maybe eight feet of space, enough distance to see the whole person but close enough to catch details. She picked up a brush, set it down, picked up a different one. Nervous energy making her hands move without purpose.
"How do we start?" she asked.
"Just look at me."
She looked.
