Page 16 of Inked Daddies

Crow is gone. The guys made sure of that.

The thought brings a strange mixture of relief and longing. Relief because I’m safe. Because my dad hugged me so tightly when I came up to him outside that I thought he might never let go. Because Sam, Hugo, and Trick followed me home and didn’t leave until my dad had checked every lock on every door twice.

But longing…because ofthem.

The way they stepped in without hesitation, the way Sam’s fists flew, the way Hugo held me against his chest like I was something precious, the way Trick smiled even in the heat of the fight—it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

And that’s the problem.

I rest my forehead against the shower tile, letting the water beat against my back as my mind spirals. Because tonight wasn’t a fantasy. It was real. Too real.

I’ve spent years turning them into characters in my stories, twisting the rough, untouchable edges of Sam, Trick, and Hugo into the kind of men who leap off the page. Men who would burn the world down for the women they love. Men who are confident, reckless, passionate, and loyal to a fault.

But tonight, they didn’t justfeellike the men in my stories. Theywere.

Sam’s steady voice as he demanded answers from Crow. Hugo’s unwavering strength as he kept me close. Trick’s boldness, his refusal to take the situation too seriously even when things got dangerous. They were my dreams come to life.

And as much as I hate to admit it, that’s what’s been stuck in my head since I got home. Not the fear, not the danger, but the way they looked at me. The way they made me feel. Like I was theirs.

“Marie? You okay?”

My dad’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I jump slightly, shutting off the water. “Yeah, Dad,” I call back, loud enough for him to hear through the door. “I’m fine.”

“Just checking,” he says, his voice softening. “Take your time, sweetheart.”

I listen to his footsteps fade down the hall, guilt tugging at me. My dad’s been hovering since the second I got home, his worry etched into every line of his face. I hate that I scared him, hatethat I let myself get into a situation where someone had to rescue me. I hate even more that some part of me…loved being rescued.

Sighing, I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself and heading to my room. My laptop is sitting on the desk in the corner, exactly where I left it, and just the sight of it makes my fingers itch to write.

But not yet.

I dry off, pull on a pair of soft pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and sit cross-legged on the edge of my bed. My hair is still damp, but I don’t care. My mind is racing, my thoughts colliding with each other in a way that’s impossible to untangle.

I try not to think about how they looked tonight—Sam’s busy hands and sharp jaw, Hugo’s quiet intensity, Trick’s easy grin—but it’s useless. They’re burned into my mind, just like they’ve always been.

I’ve wanted them for as long as I can remember, and it’s not the kind of desire that fades. They’re the reason I started writing in the first place.

When I was sixteen and still in Boston, I wrote my first romance novel on a whim. It was terrible—clunky dialogue, stiff characters, a plot that fell apart halfway through—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how it felt to write it. How it felt to take the pieces of my impossible crush and weave them into something tangible.

I turned Sam into Smith, a brooding firefighter with a heart of gold. Hugo became Hudson, a ruthless and wealthy businessman who would do anything to protect the people he cared about. And Trick? Trick was Tex, a charming rogue whoalways had a smile on his face, even when the world was falling apart around him.

They weren’texactlythe guys, of course. I changed details, added flaws, made them into the kind of men who only exist in the pages of a book. But at their core, they were Sam, Hugo, and Trick.

And writing about them was my escape. It still is.

Now, years later, writing isn’t just an escape—it’s a job. A secret, exhilarating, totally inappropriate job that I’ve somehow managed to keep hidden from everyone in this tiny town.

Under the pseudonym Cat Blackstone, I’ve written nine spicy romance novels. Nine books filled with tension, passion, and just enough angst to keep readers hooked. They’ve done well too—better than I ever expected. Enough to earn me a decent side income and a small but loyal fan base.

The only person who knows is Julie, and even then, I didn’t tell her until she accidentally caught me writing on a break. “Marie,” she said, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You’ve been writing porn this whole time and didn’t tell me?”

“It’s notporn,” I hissed, snapping my laptop shut.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s…romance.”

She laughed so hard she cried, but to her credit, she’s kept my secret.

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