Page 34 of Daddy's Girl

I know where you are, Laney. You can't hide forever.

My stomach lurches. I click through to the messages.

You think you can just leave? Take what's mine and run?

Those recordings won't save you, sweetheart. No one will believe you over me.

I've spoken with the hospital board. They're very concerned about your mental state since your father's death.

I found your little mountain man. Jack Boone, right? Discharged Army Ranger with PTSD. I've already spoken to the sheriff about your mental state. I've started legal proceedings to have you placed under my care, Laney. As your doctor, I'm uniquely qualified to manage your "grief-induced psychosis." One call is all it takes.

My blood turns to ice. Photos appear in the thread. My car, abandoned at the bus station. Jack's cabin, taken from the road with a zoom lens. Me on the porch in Jack's shirt, clearly unaware of the camera.

He's been here. Been watching. While I've been safe in Jack's arms, David's been circling, getting closer.

The newest message contains a single attachment. I click, even though every instinct screams not to.

It's me. In the shower. At David's apartment, months ago. I didn't know he was filming. Didn't consent to this violation that he's now weaponizing.

My stomach twists. My vision blurs. I click out fast, like I can erase it, like it won't follow me here.

But then I hear the door.

A low creak. A pause. Heavy boots stopping dead on the wooden floor.

I turn slowly, heart hammering.

Jack stands in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light, axe forgotten at his feet. His eyes move from my face to the closed laptop, and I watch something shift in him—like a switch being flipped from man to predator.

"What was on that screen?" His voice is quiet. Dangerous.

I swallow. "David. My ex. He's—"

"Come here." The command cuts through my explanation.

I move to stand, but he shakes his head once, sharp.

"No. Crawl."

Heat floods my face, my chest. "Jack—"

"Now, Delaney." His jaw is granite, eyes winter cold. "You kept secrets that put you in danger. That put what we have in danger. You should have told me everything about him the minute you washed up on my land.” His voice drops lower, deadlier. "So now you crawl. Show me where you belong when you've fucked up and put yourself at risk."

Something in me yields instantly. I slide from the chair to my knees, the wooden floor hard beneath them. My palms meet the cool surface as I begin moving toward him, Jack's flannel gaping at the chest, pooling around my thighs.

His breathing changes as he watches me approach, becoming deeper, controlled. He doesn't move to meet me, just stands like the mountain he is, waiting.

When I reach his boots, he tangles one hand in my hair, not gentle, lifting my face to his.

"What did he say?"

"He knows where I am. Where we are." My voice trembles. "Has pictures of the cabin. Of me. He's threatening to have me committed, to get legal control over me as my doctor."

Jack's nostrils flare, a muscle jumping in his jaw. With his free hand, he unbuckles his belt, the leather hissing as he pulls it through the loops.

"Listen to me, baby girl." He unzips his fly, freeing his cock—already hard, thick, the head flushed dark with blood. "This is your safe place now. Not that fucking phone. Not Instagram. This."

His hand guides my head forward until his cock brushes my lips. Not forcing, but insistent.

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