Page 81 of Wings
Over the next few days, things got worse. Flowers started arriving at the hospital while Kiara was working. Different delivery service each time, paid in cash, no way to trace back. After the first bouquet, I got wise to the scheme, and managed to intercept them all.
The delivery kids looked increasingly confused, though.
"Those for Kiara Santos?" I asked, already knowing the answer from the clipboard he carried.
"Yeah, you her . . . ?"
"I'll take them." I pulled out my wallet, handed him a twenty. "For your trouble."
He left happy, and I stood there holding two dozen white roses—her least favorite flower, but Alex never had paid attention to preferences that weren't his. The card was worse than the flowers: "Thinking of you, baby girl. Remember how beautiful these looked on our kitchen table?"
Baby girl. It was like the fucker was deliberately using that title, trying to contaminate something pure between us. I dumped the entire arrangement in the dumpster behind the emergency department.
Wednesday brought daisies ("You always looked sweet with flowers in your hair"), Thursday was orchids ("Expensive, like you deserve. Like I always gave you"). Each card designed to trigger memories, to remind her of a past she'd fought to escape. Each arrangement met the same fate—documented, photographed, destroyed.
The packages were worse.
They started arriving at the clubhouse Wednesday afternoon, addressed to "Kiara Santos.” Tank brought me the first one, eyes hard with suspicion.
"This came for your girl," he said, handing over the brown box. "Used her old name. Want me to run the security footage?"
"Do it." I turned the package over, no return address, standard shipping label. "And keep this between us for now."
Inside, wrapped in tissue paper like gifts: the exact brand of tea Alex always bought her, claiming it helped with her anxiety. A DVD of some romantic comedy they'd watched together. Abottle of perfume—fucking perfume—the cloying floral scent he'd insisted she wear because it reminded him of his mother.
Each item chosen to remind her of their life together. Of who she'd been when she was his.
I photographed everything, building the harassment file with military precision. Every delivery documented, every card preserved in evidence bags I'd borrowed from the club's security stash. If this went to court—when this went to court—we'd have an airtight case.
The thing was, while Alex played his pathetic games, she was blooming.
"Daddy, look!" She spun in the nursery Thursday night, showing off how perfectly she'd arranged her stuffies on the bed. "I organized them by size and softness, just like you showed me!"
The dark circles under her eyes had faded. She laughed easier, trusted faster, submitted deeper.
"Good girl," I praised, pulling her between my knees where I sat on the bed. "So proud of how well you're following the rules. Think you're ready to practice positions?"
We'd been working through the physical positions outlined in our contract—nothing sexual yet, just the foundation poses that would build into scenes later. She nodded eagerly, already moving into presentation position: kneeling, back straight, hands on thighs, eyes downcast.
"Beautiful," I murmured, circling her slowly. "But soften your shoulders, baby girl. This isn't military formation. It's offering yourself to Daddy."
She adjusted immediately, tension melting from her frame. The trust required to kneel exposed like this, to follow commands without question—it humbled me every time.
"Now inspection position."
She rose gracefully, turning to face the wall, hands behind her head. This one challenged her more—the vulnerability of notseeing what I was doing, of presenting herself for examination. But she held it perfectly while I traced fingers down her spine, checking posture, murmuring approval.
"Last one. Comfort position."
This was her favorite. She dropped to her knees again but this time pressed close, cheek against my thigh, arms wrapped around my leg. A position designed for aftercare, for when she needed grounding, for moments when little space made kneeling feel like safety instead of submission.
"Perfect baby girl," I praised, fingers playing with her hair. "You've been practicing."
"Every morning after you leave," she admitted against my leg. "Want to be perfect for you."
Everything was worth it with her. The careful navigation of threats, the constant vigilance, the weight of knowing violence was coming—all of it faded when she smiled at me over breakfast. When she sent texts throughout her shift just to share funny observations. When she colored pictures for my office like I was her whole world.
She was healing. Thriving. Becoming the person trauma had never let her be.
