Page 22 of Enforcer Daddy
"And you destroyed property." He didn't even look up from his phone.
I stared at him, waiting for the real response. The backhand, the grabbed wrist, the violence that would make sense in this situation. But he just sat there, thumb moving across his screen, occasionally typing something with one hand.
"I'm not your fucking maid."
"No," he agreed. "If you were my maid I could fire you. No, no. You're someone who threw a plate of food at my head andnow needs to deal with the consequences. Very simple cause and effect."
The calm logic of it made me want to scream.
"And if I don't?"
"Then we wait." He shifted in the chair, getting comfortable. "I have all day. Several days, actually. The beauty of my life is that I’m my own boss. I’m basically everyone’s boss, in fact."
My stomach chose that moment to cramp again, loud enough that we both heard it.
"I could order lunch instead," he offered, still not looking up from his phone. "Thai food. There's a place nearby that does excellent pad Thai. But first you clean up breakfast. And promise not to do it again."
"Go to hell."
"Already been there. Wasn't impressed."
An hour passed. My stomach had moved from cramping to actively eating itself, acid burning up my throat. The smell of eggs had faded but bacon grease still hung in the air, taunting. I tried to distract myself by looking out the barred window, counting the decorative swirls in the metalwork, but my body had its own agenda.
Bear whimpered from his pen. A soft, questioning sound like he was wondering where I'd gone. I started toward him, but Dmitry shifted slightly, not blocking exactly but making it clear I'd have to go around him, close enough to touch, to reach the puppy.
"He needs—"
"He needs his medication in two hours," Dmitry interrupted. "Which I'll handle if you're still being stubborn."
"You don't know how—"
"Subcutaneous injection of antibiotics, oral pain medication hidden in wet food, topical antibiotic for the eye wound. Yankov left very detailed instructions." He held up the paper with theCyrillic writing. "In Russian, which I can read. But I presume you can’t?"
Two hours passed. My hands had started shaking—low blood sugar combined with the stress of the situation. The comfortable bed I'd woken in now felt like a trap, too soft to stand from easily, too far from both the door and Bear. Dmitry had picked his position perfectly, controlling the room without seeming to try.
"The offer stands," he said eventually. "Thai food. Or Chinese. Or pizza, though all of that seems excessive for breakfast."
"It's not breakfast anymore," I pointed out through gritted teeth.
"No, it's lunch. Which you also don't get until you clean up breakfast."
Three hours. Bear needed his medication. I could see him moving in the pen, more alert now, probably hungry. His little whimpers had gotten more frequent, calling for the only person he trusted, and I couldn't get to him without accepting proximity to Dmitry I wasn't ready for.
"This is abuse," I said.
"This is consequences." He finally looked up from his phone. "You want to know what abuse looks like? I can show you. But I don't think either of us wants that."
The threat should have strengthened my resolve. Instead, it reminded me that this—sitting in a chair while I threw a tantrum—was him being gentle. Him choosing patience over violence. And somehow that made it worse, because I couldn't predict him, couldn't slot him into the categories I'd built for violent men.
By hour four, I broke.
Not because I was weak, but because Bear's whimpers had turned into soft cries, and Dmitry wouldn't let me near him until I cleaned up the mess I'd made. The puppy needed me, and I was sitting here in a battle of wills that was only hurting him.
I stood on legs that shook, went to the bathroom, found the towels he'd mentioned. They were plush, expensive, the kind of towels I'd only touched in department stores I was stealing from. Using them to clean up eggs felt like sacrilege.
But I did it. Kneeled on the floor, mopping up congealed eggs, picking up bacon with my fingers, gathering toast that had somehow scattered everywhere. The smell made my stomach cramp worse, my body screaming for the food I was throwing away.
"Good," he said when I finished, standing in one smooth motion. "Lunch will be here in twenty minutes."
