“What?” He cinches his forehead. “If you want her to succeed in this business, you need to show yourself out, otherwise, this tryout is over and she can go find a job teaching four-year-olds to curtsy at the community center downtown.”
“I’m gonna teach you to curtsy, motherfucker.”
He bolts out of the chair, tries to run, but he trips over his own pants as they fall to his ankles and slams face first into the dance floor of the studio with a crunch.
I’m on him a breath, dragging him up by the collar and then slamming him into the floor again.
“Mother. Fucker,” I repeat. “I told her what would happen to you. You think I don’t keep my promises? Fucking piece of shit. They’ll be finding bits of you in Alaska.”
I grab him, flip him over and slam my foot down between his legs, making him squeal in pain.
I punch his face, but it’s all too good. He needs to suffer, and he will.
“Daddy?”
Her little voice comes from behind me cutting through the noise.
The light pressure of her hand on my arm stalls me as I raise my fist.
“Daddy, stop… Please…”
“Time for lights out asshole—”
My knuckles land one last time, I draw back again but Elodie’s scent swirls around me.
She needs me too.
“Daddy, please… Don’t… I don’t want them to take you away. If you do this…I won’t have you.”
I pause, my heart cracking against my ribs. She doesn’t know this side of me. I could disappear this asshole with one phone call and no one would come knocking. But, not in front of her.
Not right now.
His body goes slack, eyes half closed.
I drop him to the floor, fire racing over my skin as I turn and find her wide eyed, blinking, swaying.
“I think he put something in my food. I don’t… I didn’t eat it all. That butler stopped me after a couple bites, switched my plate. It tasted funny…”
“Did he touch you—”
“He didn’t … I’m still yours, Daddy. Still yours.”
She puts her arms around my waist and everything else fades for a moment.
I kiss the top of her head, nuzzling her hair.
She's still swaying. Still blinking like she's trying to remember where the edges of herself are.
Her wide eyes find their focus. The flush working up her throat. Still here. Still mine.
"Daddy," she says again, and something in my chest that has been locked down since that phone call cracks clean open.
I walk her backward. She goes without question, hands finding my shirt, and when her back meets the mirrored wall, she tips her chin up and looks at me like I am the only fixed point in the room.
Behind us, Patrykov is beginning to stir.
Good.
