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She startles and looks up at me. Her eyes are watery and red. If someone hurt her, I will fucking end them.

“It’s nothing.” She closes her hand around it and sets it down beside her, trying to act like she wasn’t just crying on my floor.

She’s a terrible liar. She has been since I met her.

I walk over and lower myself to the floor beside her. She watches me like she’s not sure what I’m doing. I don’t sit on the fucking floor. But she’s down here, and seeing her upset her isn’t something I can let go.

I pick up the doll from beside her. She tenses but doesn’t stop me. The paint is worn smooth in spots, and when I twist it open, there’s a smaller doll inside.

“This means something to you.”

“Yes.” Her voice is tight. “It was my mother’s.”

I wait. Silence pulls more truth out of people than questions do.

“She died when I was sixteen. She was the only person in that house who ever gave a shit about me. She used to let me play with this while she got ready. It was always next to one of her jewelry boxes. I’d take all the little dolls out and line them up. She and I made up silly names for each one.”

She stops, swallowing hard.

“After she died, my father packed up everything that was hers. Donated it or threw it away. I stole this before he could get rid of it. He never noticed because it wasn’t worth anything.”

I hand it back. Her fingers wrap around it tight enough that her knuckles go white.

“It’s the only thing I have of hers. This was the only thing on my list I actually cared about getting back.”

I reach for her and pull her into my lap. She resists for a second, and then she lets me. She settles against my chest with the doll still clutched in her hand, and I feel her exhale, slow and shaky.

“You keep that wherever you want in this house.”

She nods against my chest. Her free hand finds my shirt, and her fingers curl into the fabric. She holds on to me like she’s afraid I’ll let go.

I let her sit there. I should be working. I have contracts to review and calls to make. Instead, I’m sitting on my living room floor holding my son’s future wife while she grips her dead mother’s nesting dolls. My arms tighten around her. The weight of this girl curled into my chest hits something I buried a long time ago, and I lock it back down before it gets anywhere near the surface.

After a few minutes, her breathing evens out. She tilts her head up and looks at me. I can see the immediate shift in her expression.

She scrunches her nose. “Don’t look at me like that.”

There she is. That bratty attitude. My cock was already hard with her in my lap, but now it’s throbbing.

“Want to check that mouth, little one?”

“I don’t need your pity, Mr. Bradley.”

This girl is going to pay with her ass. “I don’t pity you, Laine. So save the tough girl bullshit and stop calling me Mr. Bradley.” I grip her chin and tilt her face up. “You know what to call me, baby. And last night it came out of that pretty mouth quite easily while you were tied to my chair.”

Her jaw tightens and her face goes red. “That was—I couldn’t think with all those forced orgasms. Doesn’t mean I’m going to walk around calling my future father-in-law Daddy.”

She’s lying to both of us. The expression on her face and the flush on her cheeks tells me she’s thinking about me playing with her right now.

“That is exactly what it means.” I run my thumb across her lower lip. She stops breathing. “Fucking say it.”

“No.” She crosses her arms like a child.

Such a fuckable little brat.

“Laine.” Last warning.

“Fine.” She holds my gaze, defiant even as her pupils blow wide. “Daddy.”