Chapter 15 #3
That was a lie. Part of me enjoyed it. Not the wound.
The correction. The moment she was forced to stop and reassess because I had found the exact place her argument could not hold.
Kit needed that. She needed someone who would not be dazzled by her intelligence into letting her hurt herself.
Someone who could say no and survive the look she gave afterward.
She needed a daddy, my mind supplied again, dark and satisfied.
Yes.
That was it.
She needed a daddy with patience enough to wait her out and a hand firm enough to make waiting unnecessary when danger came too close.
I would be both.
“Twenty-four hours,” she said finally.
I exhaled slowly.
“Yes.”
“I hate you a little.”
“That’s alright.”
“I might hate you a lot by tomorrow.”
“Likely.”
“You sound calm for a man who’s about to be hated.”
“I have brothers. I have experience.”
That surprised a laugh out of her. A small one.
Quick. Barely there. It cut through me the same way it had at the conference.
I wanted to earn another. I wanted to make her laugh from my bed, from my lap, from the safe side of fear.
I wanted to hear it after she had yelled herself hoarse and found I was still there.
“Stay inside,” I said, softer now. “You will lock the door. You will not open it for anyone you do not verify. You will not go to the café in the morning. You will not take the fire escape unless there is smoke in the building or I tell you to.”
“Excuse me?”
I almost smiled at the outrage returning. “You heard me.”
“I’m sorry, did you just give me a fire escape protocol?”
“Yes.”
“That is impressively controlling.”
“You have no idea.”
“Ivan.”
“Kit.”
Another silence. This one was warmer, and full of things neither of us could name yet without changing the entire shape of the night.
Finally, she said, “What happens if I don’t listen?”
My hand tightened on the pen until the plastic creaked.
“Then tomorrow,” I said, “we will discuss consequences.”
Her breath caught again and there was no mistaking it this time.
For one second, I let myself imagine it fully.
Kit standing in front of me, chin high, eyes blazing, daring me to prove I meant what I said.
My hand closing around her wrist, not cruelly, never cruelly, but with enough certainty to make her understand the game had changed.
Her body over my knee. My palm on her ass.
One stinging smack. Then another. Her anger turning into stunned arousal, her careful mind briefly short-circuiting because Daddy had finally taken the decision out of her hands.
I was hard enough that it hurt, but I kept my voice steady.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“A promise I am trying very hard not to keep too soon.”
Silence. Then, very quietly, “You are dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“To me?”
“Yes,” I said, because she deserved at least that much honesty. “But not the way Orlov is.”
She inhaled slowly.
“Stay inside,” I said again. “Please.”
That last word cost me more than every command before it.
“All right,” she said, her voice changing just the slightest bit.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“I wasn’t thanking you for obedience.”
“Careful, Morozov.”
“I am.”
“No,” she said, and there was something almost soft beneath the steel. “You’re thorough. Not careful.”
I closed my eyes. My own words, thrown back at me.
Beautiful girl.
“Go to bed, Kit.”
“Good night, Ivan.”
“Good night.”
She did not hang up immediately and neither did I. For three breaths, we stayed there, connected by silence, danger, and the first piece of truth between us.
Then the line went dead. I lowered the phone slowly.
On the monitor, her apartment window remained dark.
I had bought a smaller window and given her a partial truth.
It would not be enough. Not for long. Kit would test the edges of it the moment the shock cooled.
She would ask better questions. She would dig in places I had not yet prepared to expose.
She would come at me with everything she had, and if I handled her badly, she would run straight toward the threat just to prove she still could.
She needed more than warnings.
She needed more than information.
She needed a line.
She needed consequences.
She needed someone who would not let her turn grief into a suicide note with better formatting.
I picked up her pen and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Then I opened a clean channel to Sergei.
Me: She knows enough. Orlov has been redirected. Keep two men near her block. Invisible. No contact.
His reply came quickly.
Sergei: Does Maxim know?
Me: Not yet.
Sergei: That window is getting smaller too.
I stared at the message and almost smiled.
Yes. Every window was getting smaller. Orlov’s. Maxim’s. Mine. Kit Calloway’s most of all.
I looked once more at her dark window and let the truth settle fully, cold and certain and inescapable.
She would not obey me easily, but I did not want easy.
I wanted Kit Calloway exactly as she was, brilliant, furious, impossible, and alive. But if she thought I would let her walk herself into Mikhail Orlov’s hands because she disliked being managed, then my clever girl was about to learn something important.
Daddy could be very patient.
Daddy could be very kind.
And when necessary, Daddy could be very, very firm.