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“I’ve been here five minutes, and you’re already giving me the boundaries talk? Come on, Mommy. I thought you were cool.”

“I’m…” My mouth hangs open a moment. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m not supposed to be cool . I’m your foster mother.” I nearly cringe at the word ‘mother.’ I never considered it to be dirty before, but suddenly, I don’t like it. “My job is to keep you safe, and?—”

He laughs. “I’m a good six inches taller than you. Who are you protecting me from?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have an answer.

“Look, it’s okay,” he says as he creeps toward me. I don’t fight the impulse to back away this time. “You don’t have to protect me. You didn’t order a teenage boy so you could protect him, anyway.”

Goosebumps break out over my flesh as the distance between us shortens. I stand still and try to make sense of his words. He can’t be insinuating what I think he is.

“I didn’t order anyone. That isn’t the way it works.”

“Really?” He humphs. “I guess you got lucky then.”

“Lucky?” The word nearly catches in my throat. I don’t know that I want to hear his answer. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He tilts his head as he smiles. “Yes, you do.”

Hairs raise on my arms, and I fight the urge to rub the bumps away. He’s scaring me. I shouldn’t show him that.

“I’m thirty years old, and you are a child . What you’re insinuating is not appropriate nor?—”

“Thirteen years isn’t even close to the biggest age gap between me and one of my rapists.”

When my eyes pop, he laughs.

“ Kidding . You’re my first. If that makes you feel special.”

“ Excuse me?”

He holds up his hands. “I’m not complaining.”

I blink several times before answering. “I don’t know what would give you the idea that I would?—”

“That big sign on your forehead that says Down to Fuck .” He points to the invisible sign.

“I am not … I would never… Jesus, I’m not a pedophile . I didn’t even want a boy, let alone a teenager. I was hoping for a young girl I could help , not…”

He puts his hand over his heart. “Are you saying you didn’t want me?”

I uncross my arms. “No. No , that isn’t what I meant. I just meant?—”

“Oops, now you’re backtracking. Lying doesn’t cultivate trust, and the most important part of making a foster feel safe is proving to them that they can trust you. You took the classes. You know that.”

His lips, lifted on one side of his devilishly handsome face, both settle me and make me squirm. They settle me because, finally , I realize he’s just fucking with me. They make me squirm because I shouldn’t be considering him devilishly handsome.

“I think I need to call Angela,” I say before brushing away the cold sweat on my forehead. I turn to go to my kitchen where I left my phone but gasp when Arseni grips my shoulders and forces my back against the wall, caging me in with strong arms that make me question who the adult is.

My breaths come out erratic, my chest rubbing against Arseni with each inhale.

His body heat makes my skin feel impossibly hot, as if he’s on fire, and the whole thing feels so terrifyingly erotic that I stare at his lips, certain they’ll move to kiss me.

It’s strange and wrong , so wrong, but it makes me think about the last time I was with a man, eight months ago.

Arseni is not a man. He’s a boy.

I close my eyes and swallow while he chuckles, warm gusts of air hitting my face.

“I’m just messing with you, Ms. Stevens. I know you don’t want to fuck me.”

I open my eyes and melt with relief at the amusement dancing in his irises.

“If I promise to be good, will you not call Angela?”

For several seconds, I just stare. He’s still caging me in, imploring me silently like he isn’t the predator making me his prey.

I don’t know what to say, but I nod, unsure if I mean it.

Arseni smiles and pushes off the wall, backing up until he’s several feet away. “Cool if I take a shower?”

Letting out a shaky breath, I run my hands over my arms. I point to the hallway leading to the bathroom. “The towels are in the hall closet. Bathroom is on the left.”

He nods. “Thanks, Mom.”

I wait for him to leave, sure I won’t be able to relax until he’s gone. But he doesn’t move his feet. Facing me, he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing muscles a boy shouldn’t have.

I turn my head while my breath hitches. “Undress in the bathroom, please.”

“I would, but I have a phobia of cameras recording me strip. I found one in a bathroom once; you know how it is. There are sick, sick people out there, Ms. Stevens.” The sound of his zipper makes me swing around to face the wall.

“Your room then.”

“You never showed me my room.”

Staring up at the ceiling, I put my thumb to my mouth and nibble the nail while the sound of Arseni undressing makes my skin crawl. There’s this part of me, a sick, fucked up part, that wants to turn around, just to show him I’m not affected by his twisted game. That I can play too.

But I’m the adult.

Arseni’s footsteps carry him away while he whistles, the sound fading once the bathroom door shuts. I still don’t turn around. My throat thickens at his accusation.

As I stand, stricken by this boy—my first and last attempt at fostering—I know I’ve made a grave mistake. I wish I could see what happens next so I could know how to handle this.

As my two months with Arseni pass, it becomes obvious. I should’ve called Angela. I should’ve reported the incident so nothing else could follow.

Instead, I make the greatest mistake of my life.

And I pray to never see Arseni’s torturous face again.