Chapter Seven
“Where is she?”
The Tin Man’s voice was angrier than the little girl had ever heard it, laced with bitter venom as he hissed every syllable. She trembled, hiding in the bottom of the kitchen pantry, tucked behind some boxes.
One week.
She’d been at that house for seven long days, and every minute that passed made her hate it more and more. It made her hate him. She hated him more than she’d ever hated anybody, more than Buzz and Woody hated Sid from next door.
He was horrible.
Her stomach growled as she chewed on a piece of dry bread that she’d stolen from the counter, hoping it would soak up all of her queasiness, but it wasn’t working.
“I don’t know,” another man said, one of the flying monkeys, the one who stuck closest to the Tin Man. He was more like the Cowardly Lion, she thought, because he was big, and looked mean, but maybe he was more of a softie, because the Tin Man spooked him sometimes.
But then again, the Tin Man spooked everybody.
“Unacceptable,” the Tin Man growled. “Find her! You hear me? I will not do this again. I want to know where she went and what she is doing. Now!”
“Yes, Vor,” the Cowardly Lion muttered, stomping out of the kitchen as the Tin Man lost his temper, glass shattering against the wall near the pantry. The little girl whimpered, nearly choking on the bread, and tried to crawl further back into the shadows as footsteps came her way.
The door opened, light blasting her. Those cold gray eyes met her gaze, a frown on his face. Guess he found me. He stared at her in strained silence before crouching down, getting on her level. “What are you doing in there?”
She shrugged.
He scanned her, pursing his lips. The Tin Man wore a fresh, crisp suit the same color as his eyes. It made him look even more robotic, like he really had on armor. His gaze shifted to the hunk of bread she clutched as he scrunched up his nose. “You stink.”
Her brow furrowed.
“You have become feral,” he said, his lips twitching before a small laugh escaped, light and amused, his anger gone, just like that. Scary. “You have not bathed all week. You are filthy. You still have on the same nightgown and your hair has not been brushed.”
She scowled, knowing that was true. She was dirty, and she probably did stink, but it didn’t matter. She was just waiting for her mother to come. She promised she would find her.
“I have been patient with you,” he said. “You hide from me. You avoid me. I have not punished you for breaking the rules. You leave your room when I tell you not to, you snub my kindness, refuse to eat what I have sent up and instead choose to steal from my kitchen. You steal. I understand you are upset, kitten. Your mother has hurt you. She hurt me, too.”
“You hurt her,” the little girl said. “You made Mommy cry.”
“I know I did,” he said, not denying that, “but she gave me no choice.”
“Why?”
“That is not a question we ask. It does not matter. But we are here now, you and I, and she is not, so we must learn to live without her... together.”
The little girl shook her head.
“You will obey me,” he said.
She shook her head again.
He didn’t like that answer.
Reaching into the pantry, he grabbed her arm, yanking her out of it and throwing her across the room. She skidded along the kitchen floor, dropping her bread, stunned, and started to cower, knocking a stool out of the way as she pressed back against the bar.
The Tin Man moved toward her.
“You will obey me,” he said again, the anger returning to his voice. “You can either cooperate and be happy here, or I can make every moment torture for you. Understand?”
She nodded slowly.
“Use your words,” he demanded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir.”
He crouched down, reaching for her, ignoring the fact that she flinched. He grasped her chin, his touch firm as he pulled her face toward him, mere inches of space between them. It made her heart race and her body shake and not in a good way.
“Yes, Papa,” he said, “or Daddy, if you prefer. Your choice, but choose one, because you will call me as I am.”
She said nothing, trying to hold her breath, wishing he would let go, but he waited... and waited... and waited, staring at her.
He didn’t even blink.
“Yes...?” he prompted. “Use your words.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
His expression softened as he pressed his lips to her forehead, kissing the spot her mother had last kissed, taking it for himself. Tears filled the little girl’s eyes, but she held them back, knowing crying would make it worse.
“Good little kitten,” he said, standing back up, turning away without another look. “Go clean yourself up. I have something to do. I want you bathed by the time I return, and I want that nightgown burned. If you still stink when I get back, I will hose you off in the backyard.”
The little girl may not have known much, but she knew enough to believe him. He meant those words.