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Heh. I'm a liar. It happened again, and this is very late. I'll try to wrap this story up soon so I stop dragging it out so long. Computer (let alone internet) access has been problematic. I do believe I am cursed when it comes to modern technology.

And yes, I am rather cruel. But cliffhangers are fun.

Regardless, enjoy.

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PVII. TAINT

Crack so easy.

"Shilo."

"Dad."

Any other word, murmured in that low, wanton voice would have turned his knees to jelly. Would have made his breath catch and left him helpless, maybe begging.

But she doesn't choose any other word, and he can only feel his stomach, icing over and freezing his insides. There's still warmth, though, seeping through. Warmth from her, pulling her legs tighter around him. Any other word and he'd be happy for the warmth.

"You don't know—you can't--"

"Dad, I've read the books."

And damn does that make him pause. For a minute, he even regrets it – regrets everything. Sheltering her, protecting her, hiding her.

Don't regret touching her?

"I'm not stupid."

He knows that. She's a smart girl.

She's a smart girl, and she knows all too well what she's doing. What she wants to do.

Don't regret slipping your hand up there?

Nathan only notices it then, but he pretends he doesn't.

I thought so.

The distraction of the revelation leaves him lost in thought. Or not-quite thought. There's a fog in his mind, and he absently thinks to clean his glasses. Which she's taken off. (Seconds ago, but it seems so much longer.)

He's not quite certain how he ended up on his back, and for a second time, he shifts. Bad move, Nathan. It presses him closer to her, presses certain parts closer. Her hand's breezing over all the wrong places and he ought to stop her. Should stop her. Should not let her do that. Should not let her leave.

His hands tighten of their own accord, one on her hip and the other where it shouldn't be. A tremor, a murmur, runs through the girl His girl.

Not yet, she isn't.

Shilo takes the tightened hands as a prompt to lean forward and kiss him again. She tastes like cinnamon and sin. One hand slides back up his chest, and she awkwardly starts to pull his shirt buttons free

In the fog, a thought wanders by—he really ought to stop her—before it slips away. Nathan barely notices it, instead frowning at the light chill of air on his chest. Three, four buttons undone. His chest is moving a bit, his breath coming out a bit heavier. By the time he's remembered why, she's pulling at the fifth button. Halfway through.

When she leans down, curiously running her hand through the spattering of hair beneath his shirt, it occurs to him, not for the first time, that he should he doing something. His hand slides away from her hip, and ends up on her side, his thumb just below her breast. Even through the night gown, it feels soft. Think of something else. He's supposed to be doing something. Your daughter? No. Maybe.

"Shilo—" He begins again, stopping to bite his lip when she replaces her hand with her mouth. Warm breath on his chest. Nobody's done that in a long, long time. He'sprides himself on self-control. He also likes what she's doing.

Damnit.

He licks his lips and tries again. "We can't. You're..."

What is she, Nathan?

He grunts. She's his daughter, above all else. Above him. On him.

Hot? Tight? Alive? Perfect?

Over her shoulder, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the hologram, eyes slightly averted and smirking. Or maybe it's just the angle.

At least she's willing. More than you can say for that last girl.

He remembers that. Nobody cared what happened to delinquents. He's always prided himself on self-control, but the mask, the outfit, makes him somebody else. Something about the pain.

You're willing.

She bites him. Maybe drawing blood.

The math's not that hard, Nathan.

But God help him, he is. And it feels good. She feels good. Wrong, but good. In a bad way. Am I right?