Page 21 of Enforcer Daddy
"Malnutrition, dehydration. Three different infections I can identify without blood work. She's been living rough for at least a year, probably more."
"Can you fix it?"
"The physical damage? Most of it. The rest . . ." Yankov had paused, and I'd felt his fingers on my wrist, taking my pulse with practiced ease. "The rest is not my department."
They'd discussed me like I wasn't there, which I suppose I wasn't really. Last night, consciousness had been a sometimes thing, flickering in and out like a broken bulb. But I remembered Dmitry's hand on my forehead at some point, checking for fever with a gentleness that didn't match anything else about him.
Now I stood in this perfect prison, clean and medicated and cared for like I mattered, and somehow that was more terrifying than violence would have been. Violence I understood. Violence had rules. You fought or you ran or you endured, but you always knew where you stood.
This—this comfort with bars, this medical care from a man who'd zip-tied me to a chair—this I didn't know how to fight.
Bear made another small sound, and I went to him, kneeling beside the pen. He looked so much better already. Still tiny, still fragile, but like an actual puppy instead of a breathing tragedy. Someone had cared for him. Actually cared, with real medicine and proper treatment, not just good intentions and prayer.
The same someone who'd got me medical care last night.
I mean, sure, it had been from a veterinarian, but it was still more than I’d had for years.
So I sat beside Bear's pen, watching him breathe steadily in his medicated sleep, and tried not to think about the dream that I’d woken from. About rough hands that hadn't hurt, about being held down by someone who knew exactly how much pressure to apply, about the way Dmitry's voice had sounded when he'd told Yankov I was a person.
Like it mattered.
LikeImattered.
The lock turned with a soft click that sent me scrambling away from Bear's pen like I'd been caught stealing. Which was stupid—I wasn't doing anything wrong, just watching a sick puppy breathe—but my body didn't care about logic.
Dmitry entered carrying a tray that made my stomach cramp so hard I almost doubled over. Eggs, scrambled and steaming. Bacon, crispy enough that I could hear it sizzle. Toast, golden brown with butter melting into the surface. Orange juice in an actual glass, not gulped straight from a stolen bottle.
The smell almost floored me. My mouth flooded with saliva so fast I had to swallow hard to keep from drooling. When had I last eaten actual home-cooked food? Not scavenged, not stolen, not pulled from trash. Food someone had prepared on purpose, with care.
"Morning," he said, like this was normal. Like he hadn't kidnapped me, treated me, imprisoned me in a room that cost more than I'd ever see in my lifetime. He set the tray on the nightstand, movements efficient and practiced. "Bear's responding well to treatment. Yankov says he'll make a full recovery."
The words should have made me happy. I was grateful that Bear would be okay. I should have said thank you. Should have shown some kind of gratitude for the veterinary care that had saved him.
Instead, I grabbed the plate and hurled it at his head.
My aim was good—street fighting had taught me that much. The plate flew straight and true, would have connected with his temple if he hadn't stepped aside at the last second. Casual, like avoiding flying crockery was part of his morning routine.
The plate exploded against the wall behind him. Eggs splattered across exposed brick, leaving yellow streaks thatwould stain if not cleaned quickly. Bacon scattered across the hardwood floor. The toast landed butter-side down, because of course it did.
"Feel better?" he asked. No anger in his voice, no surprise, just mild curiosity like he actually wanted to know if destroying breakfast had improved my mood.
"Fuck you."
"That's not an answer." He studied the mess on the wall with the same detachment. "Though I suppose the action itself is answer enough."
"I'm not eating your food."
"Then you'll be hungry, Brat." He pulled the upholstered chair from the corner, positioned it between me and Bear's pen, and sat down. "Clean it up."
The order was so simple, so matter-of-fact, that it took me a second to process. "What?"
"You threw it, you clean it. There are towels in the bathroom, cleaning supplies under the sink."
"Clean it yourself."
"No." He pulled out his phone, started scrolling through something that looked like spreadsheets. "I didn't make the mess."
"You kidnapped me!"
