Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Her moan about the smooth goodness infiltrating her taste buds schedules another unexpected meeting between my cock and my zipper.
Panic blisters across Camille’s adorable face, but like the blonde, she quickly and subtly plucks a chocolate from a dish and pops it into her mouth.
The blonde’s grin when she taps Camille’s nose, telling her to keep quiet, is deviant. It doesn’t belong to someone anywhere close to innocent, and it coils heat low in my stomach.
The stranger winks at me, and the rules that usually regulate my moods loosen.
People think I’m rigid and unyielding. A man of rules and consequences. They’re not wrong. In my world, rules keep you alive, your enemies buried, and your family breathing. But I’ve always believed rules are tools, not chains.
You bend them when you need to.
Break them when you must.
Watching Camille steal a moment of rebellion feels right. Six months ago, when Anna showed up on my doorstep with nothing but the clothes on her back and our daughter in her arms, Camille was a different child. She was unnaturally quiet, and her belief that being seen but not heard wasn’t healthy. She flinched at raised voices, even humorous ones, and froze whenever she made a mistake.
I swear, for the first two months, she waited for permission to breathe.
Anna raised Camille with rules, but there were too many of them. The control suffocated her rather than shaped her into the individual she was meant to be.
Camille is only four, yet her mother expects her to know which fork to use at a dinner party. My brothers don’t even know the difference between a salad and a dessert fork, so why does a four-year-old need to?
Every aspect of her life was designed for her. How to sit, how to speak, how to exist without offending anyone.
A four-year-old had more rules than any adult I’ve known.
I didn’t realize how deep it went until Camille panicked over choosing the wrong crayon color. She wasn’t experiencing childhood. She was in captivity.
So, although I will eventually teach her that stealing chocolates in a candy store is still theft, it isn’t something I need to dwell on right now. She needs this snippet of freedom, and with it, she’ll learn that the world won’t end if she steps out of line.
She’s allowed to live.
The blonde doesn’t know the weight of what she’s giving Camille. She thinks she’s helping Camille be a kid, leading me to realize something I should have seen sooner.
Camille isn’t drawn to her because she’s kind. She’s drawn to her because she’s brave. That truth further proves that Camille needs someone like her in her life. Camille needs someone who will show her that the world isn’t built of rigid lines and punishments. Someone who will teach her that courage can be quiet. Strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s shown through small acts of rebellion.
Although I’ve been trying to do that since Anna left without a trace, I only now realize I don’t have everything Camille needs.
Camille spent her first four years with her mother, but watching how she absorbs every ounce of attention the blonde gives tells me everything I need to know.
Whatever Anna gave her wasn’t this. It wasn’t softness and safety. Camille craves the love only a mother can provide, and this stranger is giving it to her without even realizing it.
With the shopkeeper’s attention back front and center, the stranger straightens up, brushing chocolate dust from her fingers on the way. She doesn’t look at me as she guides Camille toward candy more suitable for her age. She doesn’t need to. I can read her body language. She’s still hesitant, but the fact that I didn’t balk at their petty theft means she isn’t as wary as she should be.
From a distance, I watch them select their candy, and for the first time, I feel something far more dangerous than hope.
It’s longing, and it isn’t solely about ensuring my daughter lives her best life.
That’s fucked to admit, but it’s honest.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when an attention-grabbing cough rings through the store. Camille and the blonde have completed their selections, and the cashier is ringing up their purchases.
As I approach the counter, the cashier announces the total.
The blonde’s head ricochets as if she were slapped. “Eighty dollars?” Silently, she weighs the three small bags full of goodies in her hands. “Eighty dollars for barely three pounds of candy is highway robbery.”
Camille doesn’t react. She’s too busy eyeballing the treats that will see her returning to Dr. Baglio’s practice earlier than anticipated.
The stranger, on the other hand, looks seconds from fainting. She glances at me, then at the register, then back at me again, waiting for me to protest.
I don’t.
I hand over my card without blinking.
Money is the least of my concerns. I’ve spent more on a glass of wine at my favorite restaurant. Eighty dollars is nothing, though it seems bank-draining to the stranger.