Page 39 of Daddy's Girl

"Thank you," she says, "for letting me face him. But having my back."

I cup her face in my hand, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "You didn't need my permission, baby girl. You needed to know you could."

She leans into my touch, those big eyes searching mine. "I'm not going anywhere, Jack."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Not because they're surprising, but because for the first time since I pulled her from that river, there's no hesitation in her voice. No uncertainty. Just ownership—of her choice, her body, her future.

Our future.

Beau clears his throat, reminding us we're not alone. "So, she's officially a Boone now, huh?" he says, grinning as he racks the shotgun. "See you Sunday?"

"We'll be there," I answer without taking my eyes off Delaney. "Now go the fuck home. We're busy here."

Beau chuckles, backing toward his truck with his hands raised. "Yes sir, Alpha Boone. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That leaves me a hell of a lot of options," I call after him, finally turning to watch him drive away.

When we're alone again, I lift her, cradling her against my chest. She weighs nothing, this woman who's changed everything.

"You faced him down," I murmur into her hair. "My brave girl."

"I had something worth fighting for," she whispers against my throat.

As I carry her inside, her small hand slides to my neck, nails scratching through my beard.

"You're mine too, you know," she whispers. "My Daddy. My mountain."

I kick the door shut behind us, already hard enough to pound nails.

"Prove it," I growl against her throat, heading straight for our bed. "Show me exactly how much of me belongs to you."

Her answering smile is wicked and sweet all at once. "Maybe you should trace 'Jack' on me with your tongue," she says, voice dripping honey. "Show me who you belong to. Make sure I remember it's J-A-C-K who owns this mountain."

Fuck moving mountains.

“You got that wrong little girl. I’ll be writing D-A-D-D-Y from now. When my face is between your legs, you’ll call out every letter as I trace it on your little sloppy, greedy cunt.”

“Oh Daddy, you’re such a romantic.” She smiles, and I fling her up and over my shoulder, stomp inside and put her down on the kitchen table, tugging her panties down and shoving her legs wide and diving into heaven.

This—her legs spread wide, my tongue tracing my name on her while she calls out each letter, this is all the goddamn religion I'll ever need.

Eleven

Delaney

I'm barefoot in Jack's shirt again—no bra, hair a mess, skin still warm from sleep and something deeper.

I’m sore. It’s a comforting feeling now. I don’t wince with every step, but it’s a reminder.

Along with the mess he’s left me with yet again.

I pad into the kitchen. Jack stands at the stove, bare-chested, jeans riding indecently low on narrow hips. His back is a roadmap of muscles that bunch and shift as he flips pancakes. Without turning, he reaches one arm back, fingers finding my hip the second I come within range, pulling me to him.

"Morning, baby girl." His voice is morning-rough, a sound that sends fresh heat straight between my legs.

"Morning, Daddy." The word feels natural now, sweet on my tongue as his fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the curve of my ass.

He turns, flipping the two pancakes from the griddle onto a plate, then crowds me back against the kitchen island in that way he does—taking all the space, all the air, until there's nothing but him. His hands bracket my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

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