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“Kat,” Christian said with a warning. She looked up at him and deadpanned, “Papa.” “Breakfast table right now.” “Is there pancakes?” she challenged. Christian narrowed his eyes. His daughter held the eye contact. An intense, silent father-daughter battle was happening before me, and it was mesmerizing. “Toast and porridge make my tummy hurt, Papa,” Kat said softly. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, and that seemed to be when her papa waved the white flag.
As he turned to leave, Kat wrapped her arms around his shoulders and said, “I really want chocolate chips in my pancake. And Fruit Woops. It would make me so happy, Papa!” It was clear by Christian’s enamored expression, there’d be chocolate and rainbow-colored cereal in his daughter’s pancakes come hell or high water.
Ronan dropped his head against the headboard and chuckled at—I could only assume—how whipped his brother was. Christian gave him a dark look, glanced at me, then looked back to his brother. Ronan’s eyes narrowed. A subtle smile touched Christian’s lips, and then he carried Kat out of the room.
“You’re truly the worst kidnapper I’ve ever met.” His eyes flashed before he looked away to continue washing off the priest’s blood on his chest. “Coming from the girl who gives all captives a bad name. Spreading your sunshine all over my house, apologizing every step of the way. Let’s not forget the part where you came to your kidnapper’s room and begged him to fuck you. At least you’re not a cliché.” Heat washed up my back. “It’s called Stockholm syndrome. What’s your excuse? Mobster Decency Disorder?”
