Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

My eyes ping-pong between the high chair and my daughter. My hands shake as I bend to grip her around her waist, lifting her. I’ve never held a child, and I’m terrified of dropping her or unintentionally hurting her somehow. As carefully as I can,I place Lucia into the chair and throw a frantic glance toward Nera’s door. Now what? Should I go wake her up? Or should I—Ouch.

“I want to eat, Rapunzel-boy.” Lucia grins at me while tugging on my hair.

“Okay. What do you want to eat?”

“Cookies!” Her smile widens. “And ketchup.”

“Um . . . Those two don’t go together. And I don’t think there’s enough nutritional value in cookies. I mean . . . they aren’t good for babies.”

Lucia furrows her eyebrows at me, her eyes narrowing into crinkled slits.

“I’m not a baby.” Another tug on my hair. “I’m a girl.”

“Yes, well . . . Um . . . Do you want scrambled eggs?” I ask. It’s one of the few things I know how to cook.

“No.”

“Sausages?”

She shakes her head, disgust written all over her cute face. “Yucky.”

“A sandwich?”

“I want cookies, Rapunzel-boy. And ketchup. And pickles.”

I look at Nera’s closed door again, but there’s no help coming. “Okay. I’ll have a gander.”

I find a box filled with honey cookies in one of the cupboards and get the ketchup and a jar of pickles from the fridge. A couple of small plates with cartoon characters are drying on the rack next to the sink. I take one and place a few cookies on it, setting itand the ketchup in front of Lucia on the breakfast bar. The pickle jar I leave sitting on the side of the counter.

Lucia opens the ketchup bottle and squeezes at least half of the contents over the cookies. Then, she fishes one of the wafers from the mess and starts nibbling on it. I take a seat on the other side of the breakfast bar and stare at my baby girl. Her chair is covered in red stains and so is the top of her pajamas. Ketchup is smeared all over her face. Cub is going to kill me.

I grab a paper towel off the holder on my left and start cleaning the disaster around Lucia while she follows my every move with her inquisitive eyes. Once I’m done with the chair, I rip off another few sheets of paper towel to clean her face. My hand is halfway to her before I stop myself. The texture of the towel seems too harsh for her soft skin. Without a better alternative, I drop the sheets and very slowly extend my hand, intending to wipe away the smear of ketchup from her little cheek with just my thumb.

Lucia stills. I freeze, as well. Panic explodes in my system.

I’ve scared her.

“I’m sorry, I . . .” I start to pull away, while an ache, sharper than anything I’ve ever felt, pierces my chest.

“You forgot my pickles,” Lucia grumbles, snatching my hand with both of hers. She holds my index finger and my pinkie, pulling them toward her face. My heart stops beating as she presses my hand over her mouth, rubbing her face on my palm as if it’s a towel to wipe away the ketchup stains. When she’s finished, she looks worse than she did before, with red splotches all over her nose and some even on her forehead.

“Mommy doesn’t like me do that,” she declares and flashes me a toothy grin. “I like it very much.”

I swallow and look down to where she’s still holding on to me. So tiny. How can her fingers be so tiny? I move my thumb and stroke her teeny fist.

My daughter.

Gingerly, I turn my hand to capture one of hers in mine, caressing the now sticky little fingers.

“Wanna play hairdresser?”

Not moving my eyes off the precious treasure in my palm, I lean over and kiss the ketchup-covered tips. And nod.

I’m floating in that incorporeal void between wakefulness and slumber until a faint draft invades the room from where the balcony door was left slightly ajar. A chill skims over my exposed flesh. As I blink away the sleep, for a moment, my mind is blissfully blank, but then yesterday’s events crash down on me all at once.

I roll over and glance at the other side of the bed. The sheets are wrinkled, but Kai isn’t there. Panic grips me in its icy fist and, for a few seconds, the only thing I can do is stare at the indent on the pillow. A moment later, I’m scrambling out from under the covers and running across my bedroom. I pull the door open, nearly letting it crush against the adjacent wall, and rush through only to stop short at the threshold.

Kai is sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, his back leaning against the cushioned edge. One of his arms is raised at an awkward angle, holding up a round wicker basket overflowing with Lucia’s elastics, clips, and other hair accessories. My daughter is perched behind him, on the same sofa’s edge, worrying her bottom lip with her cute baby teeth as she tries to secure an oversized pink silk flower at the top of her father’s head. Meanwhile, the bulk of Kai’s hair—with the exception of a skinny, clumsily tied together ponytail hanging in a skewed mess at the back—has fallen free over his face. My poor heart flutters at seeing my demon, holding absolutely still while his wide-open eyes, peering through the strands, are wildly flitting around the room.