Chapter 2 #3
“Wait, you made this for me?” Beyond that I didn’t even like yogurt, I was not eating any food when there were females present who hadn’t eaten yet.
Caroline reached for the fruit container that was filled with a variety of berries. “Of course.”
We stared at each other, and I saw the same confusion on her face that was likely on mine. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “You and Samantha eat first.”
The expression that came over her face made older movies where the lady clutched her pearls in aghast horror. Normally with a Bible in her other hand. “But, sir—”
I stopped her right there. “The only people who call me ‘sir’ are telemarketers and corrupted politicians who think politeness will buy my vote. You are neither. Call me ‘Tangaloa’.”
Her cheeks flushed again. “Tangaloa.” Lesū Kristo, my name should not sound so good on her tongue. “Men are served first in the household.”
My jaw ticked in annoyance. “In many households, I’m sure they are.
The tradition derives from the man being the breadwinner while the woman takes care of the home.
” I was starting to get a feeling like I knew who had been keeping this mansion of a house so clean when there were no household staff.
Why would Weatherby Dalton-Jones IV need to pay someone to clean his home when he could just kidnap women to be his slaves, both in the bedroom and out of it.
“But it’s also a tradition that is meant to show respect, and I highly doubt you ever respected Jones.
” From the look on her face, I was right.
“Additionally,” I added, reaching across the island for the smaller bowl she’d pulled out for Samantha, “no woman or child will ever not eat in my presence while I sit back, gorging my face.”
I took the spoon from the bowl she’d given me, and put a giant dollop of yogurt and fruit into Samantha’s. “Another thing, I hate yogurt.”
Caroline’s eyes lit up, making them appear more green than blue. “I can make you something else. I never offered you a drink either.”
“I’m fine,” I pressed. “Do you have anything else for Samantha to eat? I’m not that familiar with kids, but I think PBJ sandwiches are universally loved.”
“PBJ?” With the amount of yogurt that had already been scooped out, she put the lid back on the container.
I watched as she cleaned up everything as she went, leaving the kitchen as immaculate as when we’d first walked in here. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” I clarified.
Caroline called Samantha over to the counter to eat.
There was a bar stool that looked far too tall for her, so I easily bent down and lifted her onto the round seat.
Both Samantha and Caroline looked surprised by my action, but thankfully Caroline did not scold me for touching her child.
I hadn’t asked permission before doing so, which was wrong of me.
As Samantha ate, Caroline and I moved down the island to continue our conversation. I couldn’t help but notice how still Samantha sat. What four year old ate so neatly while sitting like she had a board strapped to her back?
I also saw the little wrinkle of her nose before every bite. “She doesn’t like yogurt, does she?”
“She used to,” Caroline answered softly, “but I think it’s the repetitiveness of the meal. There’s only so much yogurt anyone can eat before they’re sick of it.”
I scowled. “Then why give it to her?”
Caroline’s cheeks blazed, and I instantly regretted my question. “It’s what I’m allowed to give her.”
I cursed myself for putting my foot in my mouth. Of course there would be restrictions. A man like Weatherby Dalton-Jones IV wouldn’t be caught dead in a McDonald’s drive-thru picking up a happy meal for his kid. If she was even his kid. Fucker.
“I’m sorry,” I told Caroline. “For more than speaking out of turn.” The reassuring smile she gave me did not reach her eyes, and I felt like the biggest asshole in the universe right then. I needed to make it up to her. To both of them.
Marching over to the fridge, I opened it, searching for anything else to feed them.
“No! Wait, there are rules—”
The raised-eyebrow look I gave her over my shoulder stopped her protest mid-sentence.
She blinked, seeming to realize what it was she was starting to say.
“That’s right,” I smiled down at her. “Welcome to the world of anarchy, where rules are made to be broken. Now, what in here do both of you want to eat?”
Hell, I’d Doordash her a meal if what she wanted to eat wasn’t in here.
Caroline approached the fridge like she thought it might bite. I kept the door open, allowing her to see inside. Let it try to bite her. I’d unplug the bastard and throw it out the goddamn window.
She reached inside and pulled out a tray of smoked salmon. “This was his dinner last night. I was planning on making omelets for him with the leftovers.”
I ignored the implication that she was Weatherby Dalton-Jones IV’s cook, as well as housekeeper. “Do you like smoked salmon?”
“I’ve never had it,” she answered, staring down at the tray. “But it has always smelled so good.”
Well, fuck this shit. “Then eat it,” I told her. And if she loved it, I would buy her all the smoked salmon she wanted for the rest of her life.
There was still some hesitation on her part, and while I didn’t want to push her, I also wanted to see her break free of the mental hold Weatherby Dalton-Jones IV clearly had over her. The way she talked and acted, the man had clear views of what a woman’s role in the household should be.
I pulled what looked to be an apple pie out of the fridge. The top crust was solid with eight perfect slits in the center like a snowflake. “Would Samantha like this?”
Caroline put the tray of smoked salmon on the island. “Yes. Would you… I mean, I’d like to give her some milk.”
“You never need to ask my permission to feed your child,” I told her bluntly. I pulled out a jug of milk from the door. “Where are glasses?” Since my hands were full of milk and pie, I used my ass to close the fridge.
I froze mid-step. The look of hope on Samantha’s face as she sat ramrod straight on her bar stool was like a kick to the balls.
Her bowl of yogurt was forgotten in front of her as she stared at the pie in my left hand.
Yet, she made no sound, no screaming or yelling for the pie, no shout of excitement.
She sat straight as an arrow, quiet as a mouse, as she waited to see if she would indeed get the pie.
It wasn’t normal. I wasn’t around kids that often, and even I knew that. Fuck, she should be creating so much noise that Caroline would have to constantly ask her to quiet down while we had our adult conversation. No child should ever have to learn to be quiet so they would be forgotten.
My heart bled for her. And I ended up cutting a larger piece of pie than a four year old probably should have been given. But I didn’t give a fuck. She could have eaten the whole pie if she wanted it.
I watched with a crooked smile as Samantha dug into the pie with silent gusto. I took the partly eaten bowl of yogurt and tossed it into the trash.
A moan from down the island caught my attention. I was a scoundrel of the highest order, but that sound went straight to my dick.
I shouldn’t have looked. I really, really should not have. I should have kept my eyes on the little girl who was eating a giant piece of pie like she’d never tasted the combination of apples and cinnamon before.
But I did. I looked.
Caroline was standing at the edge of the island, a slice of salmon in each hand and a third obviously in her mouth. Her eyes were closed as she chewed—and fuck me—moaned. She barely swallowed before she was biting the next slice.
I was dirt. I wasn’t the pretty dirt that is bought in gardening stores.
No, I was the slimy shit that worms cast out of themselves that other worms then ate.
There was no fucking excuse, no fucking reasoning, that my dick should be getting hard right now.
Beyond where we were, even forgetting her age and the daughter who was sitting across the island from me, Caroline was a trafficking victim.
She might be dressed prettily in that kimono with her hair done up like she was going out on the town, but it was all for show.
Some sick, twisted fetish of a man who would get what was coming to him.
She might not be harmed right now, not like Ayame currently was and Nishi had been, but that didn’t change the fact that Caroline was a rape victim.
She’d at least been here five years, because that was how long Ayame had said she had been held captive for, and Caroline had been here when she arrived.
And here I was, staring at her like I was a starving man and she the only food in sight. It didn’t matter that I liked her as a person. Thought she was beautiful, courageous, and so fucking strong for having survived what she had. I had no business, none, getting an erection.
I owed her more respect than that.
Clearing my throat, I kept myself planted where I was. Not daring to approach her. “You never told me how old you are.”
Caroline froze with her fingers in her mouth. Because Māui clearly was just getting a kick out of my torment right now. She popped her fingers from her mouth, and I was the one who had to stifle my groan. “Oh.”
Oh? That seemed an odd response. “Do you know?” I asked, thinking that perhaps she didn’t even know what day or year it was. Just in case I told her.
Caroline chewed slowly, but her enjoyment at tasting the food was gone. I felt even worse for having taken that away from her.
When she still didn’t reply, I said, “You seem young. Sixteen, maybe seventeen? Does that sound right?”
She swallowed, and then nodded.
“Seventeen?” I prompted, needing verification.
She nodded again, her eyes still downcast.