Page 12 of Daddy Defender
Cole’s more than a brother, though.
The Night Ops Guard is a brotherhood forged in blood and bullets, and he’s one of the best I’ll ever meet.
I think about Cole now, settled down with his Forever Boy, a Little who lights up his world. Guard code says we keep personal shit locked down, no oversharing, but you can’t hide happiness, not like this.
I saw it in Cole’s eyes last time we debriefed in Miami—he’s in all the way. Cole and his boy had their own pretty dramatic story, but I can see now that he’s even deeper in love than he could have ever dreamed of.
A Daddy with his perfect Little, building a life most of us only dream about.
Cole’s still a Guard, still lethal, but he’s got an anchor now, someone to come home to.
Me? I don’t know if that’s in the cards.
I’m a Daddy, always have been, craving that control, that bond with a Little who needs my rules, my protection. But my life’s a minefield—missions that could end me, secrets I can’t share.
Most Littles I’ve met couldn’t handle the waiting, the not knowing if I’d come back. They’d say they were cool with it, all fire and promises, but when the phone didn’t ring for weeks, they’d bolt. Can’t blame ‘em.
Still, driving through the dark, jazz enveloping me, I feel that ache.
It’d be damn nice to have someone, to be his safe place, his Daddy.
But maybe I’m built for shadows, not forever.
“Get a grip, man,” I say, half-chuckling to myself as I realize that I’m in danger of wallowing.
The road curves, and I shake off the longing, focusing on the task.
That boy’s in trouble, and my gut says it’s bigger than he’s letting on. His beat up van screams drifter, and drifters don’t stick to motels. They park where the waves are close, where they can blend into the night. I know the spot—a secluded cove, tucked past the main beach, where surfers and loners crash without drawing eyes…
It’s where I’d go if I were him, and he’s sharp enough to pick it.
I ease the truck into the parking lot, killing the radio as I scan the area. The cove’s quiet, just dunes and a flickering streetlamp.
And as expected, there’s the van, parked near the edge, its faded paint catching the moonlight.
Gotcha, boy.
But then my eyes snag on something else—a black truck, idling on the far side of the lot, no headlights, just the low growl of its engine. A figure is inside, barely visible, but I clock the tilt of a cap, the bulk of a guy who’s not here for the view.
My skin prickles, Guard instincts kicking into overdrive.
This ain’t a coincidence.
Someone’s watching him. And whether it’s connected to his troubles or not, I’m not leaving anything to chance.
I park at the lot’s edge, far enough to stay low-key, and cut the engine.
My hand brushes the Glock tucked under my seat, but I leave it. No need for hardware yet—just need to spook this guy, see what he’s about.
I slip out of the truck, boots silent on the gravel, and move toward the black truck, keeping to the shadows.
The ocean’s murmur masks my steps, but before I’m halfway there, the truck’s engine revs, loud and deliberate.
“Hey, over here!” I shout, hoping to at least draw a glance from the man inside the truck. Any kind of positive ID on the driver could be helpful further down the line. “Hey!”
Sadly, the man appears to turn and duck his head, avoiding my line of sight as he does it.
Tires spin, kicking up dust, and the truck peels out, taillights vanishing down the road.
