Page 30 of Enforcer Daddy

"Very Russian," I agreed, carefully setting the cylinder back in place.

She was quiet for a long moment, watching me work. Bear had settled at her feet, already bored with the delicate operation happening above his eye level.

"My foster mom used to say I was broken," she said suddenly, the words falling into the quiet apartment like stones into water. "The third one. Said my real parents threw me away because they could tell something was wrong with me from birth."

My hands stilled on the gears. I knew about abandonment, about being told you were worthless, but hearing it from her in that flat, matter-of-fact tone made something in my chest constrict.

"I felt like a toy nobody wanted to play with," she continued, not looking at me now, studying the music box pieces instead. "Broken from the factory, not worth fixing."

"She was wrong."

"How would you know?" The question wasn't aggressive, just tired. "You've known me a week. You don't know what I've done, where I've been, what's wrong with me."

"Because truly broken things don't fight this hard to survive." I picked up another gear, showing her how it meshed with its partner. "They don't save dying puppies from dumpsters. They don't try to escape a dozen times in a week."

"Baker’s dozen," she said quietly. "You haven't found the ceiling tile I loosened yet."

I looked up at the ceiling, scanning until I spotted it—a barely visible gap in the third tile from the window. She'd been working on it during her assigned quiet time, probably standing on the arm of the couch when I was in the shower.

"Clever," I said, returning to the music box. "But the attic is locked too."

"Figured." She sighed, but there was something lighter in it, like admitting the escape attempt had relieved some pressure."Three padlocks visible from the gap. You really don't trust anyone."

"Nope. When there’s something that matters to me and people want to hurt it, I don’t trustanyone.” I began reassembling the mechanism, each piece clicking into place with satisfying precision.

"So I matter?"

The question hung between us, more dangerous than any escape attempt.

"You matter to Bear," I said instead of answering directly.

She looked down at the puppy, who was now gnawing on her sock while it was still on her foot. "Yeah, well. We're both broken toys nobody wanted."

"No." I wound the music box key carefully, three full turns. "You're survivors. There's a difference."

The mechanism engaged, and suddenly the swan began to turn. Swan Lake played in delicate, tinny notes, the melody perfect despite the weeks of silence. The swan rotated slowly on its base, wings spread, neck arched in eternal grace.

Eva's face transformed. The careful blankness she wore like armor cracked, revealing wonder underneath. She reached out, almost touching the swan, then pulled her hand back like it might burn her.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Just needed someone to see past the damage."

She looked at me then, really looked at me.

"I should go to bed," she said suddenly, stepping back. "Bear needs his medicine in the morning."

"Eva."

She paused at the hallway, not turning around.

"The ceiling tile was clever. But next time, check for motion sensors in the attic."

"You have motion sensors in your attic?"

I gave her a look.

She laughed then, soft and genuine. "Of course you do."