And, gradually, he’d started eating more.
Not just the smoothies I’d started him on in the beginning, but real food—actual meals and even snacks some days. Toast with honey. Yogurt with fruit. Pastries from the little bakery near Mark’s office. He still took small bites, but he finished his plates more often than not.
And God, he loved sweets. It was like he couldn’t get enough of them.
Chocolate pudding cups vanished from the fridge. Cookies didn’t last a day. I caught him one afternoon sitting cross-legged on the couch, licking frosting off his fingertip with an expression of pure awe, like he couldn’t believe somethingwas allowed to taste that good. I indulged him every chance I got—picked up candy bars at the checkout line, brought home cupcakes just because. I watched the way his eyes lit up every single time, like it was a miracle I’d performed just for him.
He was filling out again, too.
The sickly, hollow look he’d had when he came home from the hospital was gone. His cheeks were softer. His collarbones didn’t jut so sharply anymore. I noticed the extra weight first when I held him—how there was more of him to hold, how he started to fit against me like he used to. It made me both proud and aroused. I couldn’t deny that I loved the way my fingers sank into the soft skin around his hips and the way his ass jiggled when I slammed into him from behind.
So fucking hot.
His eyes were always bright now, wide and curious. His skin had a glow to it that hadn’t been there before, like his body was finally getting what it needed.
I’d bought him a whole closet full of clothes—not the drab, shapeless things he’d arrived with, but things he never would’ve chosen for himself. Soft fabrics, pastels, lace at the edges—delicate and pretty, just like him. Sweaters that slipped off one shoulder. Shorts with silly little patterns. And my personal favorite: silky, expensive underwear. He’d blushed the first time I laid them out on the bed, fingers hovering over them like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.
“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to,” I’d told him.
He’d looked up at me then, eyes shining. “But you picked them out for me, Daddy.”
So he wore them.
Seeing him like that—colorful, cared for, clearlycherished—did something to me. There was a deep satisfaction inside of me that made me want to beat my chest every time I saw him. He was my prized possession, and his looks reflected that.
I adored how radiant he’d become under my direction, but there was a downside to it. One that was becoming increasingly concerning.
At first, I told myself it was nothing, that I was imagining it.
But it kept happening.
A lingering glance from a cashier, a smile from a woman passing us on the sidewalk, or the man at the coffee shop who had watched Elior stir sugar into his drink a second too long.
They saw him.
They saw how sweet he was, how open, how trusting. How easily he smiled when someone was kind to him. They saw the way he clung just a little closer to my side in unfamiliar places, and the way his hand sometimes found the hem of my shirt to rub between his fingers without him even realizing it.
And it made something ugly coil in my gut.
Elior didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t question it.
He was doing so well.
Thriving.
Healing.
Because ofme.
And the thought that someone else might see him the way I did—might think they had any right to him at all—set my nerves on edge. I told myself it was just protectiveness. That after everything he’d been through, it was natural to be vigilant.
But the reality was, the more he opened himself up to the world, the more I wanted to tie him to our bed and leave him there forever, completely reliant on me for survival.
My thoughts were spiraling when Elior’s soft voice cut through them.
“Daddy?” he asked. “What do you want to do today?”
I blinked, realizing I’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, jaw clenched so tight it ached. I looked up at him and felt my breath catch.
