Page 29 of His Custody

He sighed and levered himself onto the floor, trying to find a comfortable way to sit on the runner and the wood, because this was going to take a while. Once he’d made himself at home—knees spread with his elbows resting on top, back against the door—he tried again.

“Look. There’s this thing called decision fatigue. Making decisions is exhausting, and it uses up energy that could be used for more important tasks.”

He paused, turning his ear against the door to see if Keyne would have any measurable response, but there was nothing. It would be awesome if he wasn’t sitting in the hallway yammering on to himself while she was sitting at her desk, complaining about him on social media and listening to her headphones at top volume.

“That’s why I like having Ada. She plans the menu for the week, gives it to me, and all I have to do is say yes.” It hadn’t been that way the first year or so, but now Ada was a pro at knowing what he’d be likely to want; what his comfort foods were, what sort of food he liked to serve when there were guests. “It’s part of the reason schools have uniforms. If you don’t have to make all these tiny decisions, you’ll have more energy to spend on the bigger decisions.”

Like whether or not to cut yourself. Whether you should do your homework or not. Which colleges you should apply to. Whether or not you want to keep being alive.

Since the incident a few weeks ago, he didn’t think Keyne had cut herself again, and she’d been talking to him more, but he also knew she was burning out trying to keep up with everything on top of the work she was doing with her therapist. Because she’d started actually making use of the guy.

He’d tried to figure out a way to take even more off her plate, which is how he’d come up with the proposal that she have set homework hours, a bedtime, and when she wasn’t wearing her uniform for school, he’d pick her clothes. Ada already planned breakfast and dinner, but now she’d make a lunch for Keyne, too. All what he considered relatively minor decisions, but that could add up in a hurry to put a dent in the energy she had on any given day.

Jasper’s latest idea wasn’t winning him a fan, but Keyne might thank him later and that had to be good enough. He’d done some studying up on decision fatigue, and it was real. It was something he took advantage of in his business dealings, wearing down allies and enemies alike with minutiae and saving the things that mattered for the end when they’d wave wearied hands and say, “Whatever you think is best.”

If she asked, that’s where he’d tell Keyne he’d learned about it. Never mind it also happened to be a theory he’d connected to a lot of the women he’d been with. Played with. Many of them were take-no-prisoners, in-charge overachievers who pounded their fists on the glass ceiling every day or smashed it with their stilettos. He admired them and took notes on their business strategies because that’s what successful people did—took what worked for others and molded it to work for themselves.

It also meant at the end of the day or the week, all they wanted to do was let it all go, let someone else be in charge. That wasn’t the case for every successful woman, obviously, but for enough of them for him to notice. And he’d been more than happy to take those responsibilities on for discrete amounts of time. Let out his frustrations of a deal gone bad or a market tanking by being in a situation where he had all the control. That’s what he found so damn satisfying—being master of everything in his sight. And for that to include a woman who was powerful in her own right? Flat-out intoxicating.

He didn’t want to think about that aspect of it too much when he was putting it into practice with Keyne, because this was for her own good. Had nothing to do with him at all, never mind his pleasure. And under no circumstances whatsoever should he be lumping her in with former partners. None.

There was some shuffling behind the door and he hoped that was a sign she was listening to him. Maybe even coming to talk to him. It would be okay if she didn’t right now. She could have some time to think about it, and maybe if she did she’d see he was right. As much as he enjoyed that Keyne was a fighter—she wouldn’t be alive otherwise—he wished she’d give in on this one thing.

He’d been waiting for about fifteen minutes, dealing with emails and making notes on his phone, when the door whipped open, and he fell backward, his head landing with a mutedthunkon the plush carpet of Keyne’s room. With his body half in her bedroom and half in the hallway, he must’ve looked ridiculous, but instead of being embarrassed, he merely looked up into Keyne’s dubious face. Her arms were crossed, her hip cocked, and she didn’t look above kicking him while he was down.

“So if you’re making all these decisions for me—what I wear, when I go to bed, when I do my homework, what I eat—won’tyouget this decision fatigue?”

He threaded his fingers together across his abdomen and laid an ankle against a knee, trying to make it look as though he was in this ridiculous position on purpose. “I could. Although a lot of what I do is already settled. And if it gets to be too much, I can always ask Deja or Ada or someone else who works for me to take on more responsibility. It’s called delegating.”

She scowled at him, but didn’t argue. Instead, she lay down beside him, mirroring his position like this was the most natural thing in the world. Given how chaotic most of her life must seem, it probably was.

“I know what delegating is.”

“Good.”

They laid there, side by side, for another fifteen minutes. And while it was odd, it was nice. When’s the last time he’d lain down next to someone? Not for sex, not for kink, not for anything aside from companionship. He couldn’t remember. He was enjoying it; the soft sound of her breath, the way her ribcage rose and fell at the same rate as his, how a curl of her hair drifted far enough to touch his shoulder.

How long could they do this for and pretend the rest of everything didn’t exist?

Eventually she nudged him with her elbow. “It’s maybe not the dumbest idea you’ve had.”

He was curious as to what she thought the dumbest idea he’d had was, but he didn’t ask in part because if she said bringing her to live with him, he might shrivel up and die.

“So you’ll try it?” Maybe he shouldn’t have phrased it as a question, giving her such an easy way to say no, but he needed her buy-in on this. It wouldn’t work if she fought him tooth and nail. Then she’d be using most of her brain power to figure out ways to defy him, and they’d be back to square one.

“Fine. But the second you make me look ridiculous, this is over. Also, I don’t like lettuce.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” he muttered under his breath, which earned him a swift and, to be honest, well-deserved elbow to the ribs. “I mean great, I’ll take that under advisement.”

Then there were footfalls in the hallway and they pushed up on their elbows at the same moment to see Ada standing over them.

“What on earth... No, never mind. I don’t need to know. Just wanted to let you know dinner’s ready. Ratatouille, and I made chocolate cake for dessert.”

“No lettuce?”

Ada’s brows crunched together as she put her hands on her hips, and there was another elbow to his ribs along with a hissed “shut up.” “No. Should I—”

“No, Ada. Thank you. We’ll be right there.”

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