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You're thinking about him
Last Updated:
2026-03-06 04:43:37
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Daddy's filthy little pet About the test...
Killian’s POVThe phone was still pressed to my ear when her voice cracked on the other end.“Killian—It’s Zara. She—she just collapsed. She’s not waking up. I called 911 but… please. Come. Now. I can’t—I can’t do this by myself.”.“I’m already in the car,” I said, already moving. Keys. Door. Stairs. “Stay on the line. Talk to me, kitten. What happened?”I hit the garage at a run, phone wedged between shoulder and ear while I yanked the driver’s door open.“We were eating breakfast,” Rae sobbed. “Pancakes. Laughing. Then she went pale—stood up—and just… dropped. I caught her head but she’s out cold. Pulse is there but weak. Paramedics are coming but—”“Keep checking her breathing. Talk to her. She can hear you.” I slammed the door, engine roaring to life. “I’m four minutes out.”Sirens wailed in the background on her end. “They’re close now. I hear them.”“Good. When they get there, tell them she’s been having pain in her right side for days—said it was cramps but it wasn’t. Tell them
Daddy's filthy little pet She Collapsed?!
Rae’s POVTwo days after Zara brushed off her “cramps,” I decided the apartment needed a reset. Something normal. Something happy. So I woke up early—earlier than Zara ever did—and turned the tiny kitchen into a pancake factory.I cracked eggs, measured flour, whisked batter until my arm burned, and flipped golden circles on the griddle like it was the most important mission of my life. The smell of butter and maple syrup filled the air, chasing away the lingering heaviness that had settled over us like fog. Coffee brewed in the background, strong and dark the way Zara liked it. When Zara shuffled out of her room in her ratty sleep shirt and bedhead, rubbing her eyes, I greeted her with a dramatic flourish.“Sit. Breakfast is served, Your Majesty.”She blinked at the stack of pancakes dripping with syrup, the bacon I’d crisped perfectly, the two mugs steaming beside them. A slow, sleepy smile spread across her face.“Rae… you didn’t have to do all this.”“I wanted to. You’ve been
Daddy's filthy little pet Stay out of trouble
Killian’s POVThe burner phone buzzed on the kitchen island like a live wire, jolting me out of the haze I’d been drifting in. I snatched it up before the second vibration, Marco’s name flashing across the cracked screen. It had been four days since I’d set him loose on the lab trail—four days of radio silence from Rae, four days of staring at my own unanswered texts like a pathetic fool. If this wasn’t a breakthrough, I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it together without doing something reckless.“Talk,” I barked, skipping the pleasantries.Marco’s voice came through low and measured, the kind of tone that said he had something but not everything. “Got a hit on the lab tech. Name’s Dr. Harlan Elias Grant. Works out of that fancy private clinic Bianca used—downtown, the one with the glass facade and overpriced valet. He signed off on the paternity results himself. But get this: he’s got a gambling problem. Owes some bookies downtown about fifty grand. And guess who wired
Daddy's filthy little pet You're thinking about him
Rae’s POV A full week had passed since I’d stormed out of the pool house, and somehow the days had started to blur into something that almost felt like normal.Almost.Zara and I had fallen into a rhythm that was equal parts comfort and deliberate distraction. We cooked dinner together every night—nothing fancy, just whatever was in the fridge and whatever mood we were in. Tonight it was pasta: over-salted water, a jar of marinara we doctored with too much garlic and red pepper flakes, and a mountain of shredded cheese that we kept stealing straight from the bag. The kitchen smelled like home—burnt edges of garlic, bubbling tomato sauce, the faint sweetness of the cheap red wine we were drinking straight from mismatched mugs because neither of us could be bothered to find real wine glasses.We ate standing at the counter at first, forks twirling spaghetti while we laughed about nothing. Then we carried our plates to the living room, dropped onto the couch, and let an old playlist
Daddy's filthy little pet That's my girl
Rae’s POVI woke up on the couch around noon with puffy eyes and a headache that pulsed behind my temples like a second heartbeat. Zara was already in the kitchen, humming off-key to some pop song from our high-school playlist while she microwaved leftover pizza for “breakfast.” She took one look at my face and didn’t say a word about Killian. She just handed me a mug of coffee with extra cream and said, “Rule one of heartbreak headquarters: no crying before caffeine. Rule two: no thinking about him until at least episode three.”I managed a weak smile. “What’s rule three?”“Rule three is we pretend we’re in a cheesy rom-com montage until the pain stops being sharp and starts being dull. Now get up. We’re raiding the freezer.”We didn’t bother getting properly dressed. I stayed in her oversized band tee and a pair of her soft sleep shorts; she kept her tie-dye sleep shirt and added mismatched fuzzy socks. The apartment was small enough that everything felt cozy instead of cramped—t
Daddy's filthy little pet Not done fighting for us
Killian’s POVI paced.From the sliding glass doors that overlooked the dark pool to the leather couch where I’d had her thighs wrapped around my waist less than forty-eight hours earlier, back to the kitchen island where she’d perched giggling while I fed her bites of cold pizza at 3 a.m. Every surface carried a memory. Every fucking surface mocked me.The DNA report sat crumpled on the coffee table like a murder weapon. I knew it was bullshit. I hadn’t touched Bianca in over four years—not since the night I ended things for good, long before Rae ever walked into my life wearing that innocent smile and those too-short sundresses that drove me insane. But knowing the truth didn’t change the fact that Rae had seen the paper, believed it, and chosen to run.I pulled my phone out for the hundredth time. No new messages. Just the blue bubble chain of my own desperation staring back at me.Me, 7:42 PM: Kitten, please. It’s fake. I swear on my life I didn’t touch her. Call me. Me, 7:45
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