Page 15 of Daddy Defender
Like seriously lost it.
Hargrove dragged me to the front of the class, made me empty my backpack on his desk while everyone stared.
“Boys likeyoualways have something to hide,” he said, rifling through my stuff, tossing out my sketchbook, my candy bars, even the little keychain walrus I’d made in art class, a gift I was making for Poot.
I stood there, face burning, as he held up my juice box—my Little side’s comfort, even back then—and sneered, “What are you,five?” The class laughed, and I wanted to disappear.
Unfortunately for Hargrove, he didn’t find anything bad or illegal in my backpack, but that wasn’t the point. It was about control, making me small, showing me who was boss.
From that day onward, I swore I’d never let anyone dig through my life like that again.
Henry’s different to Hargrove, though.
He’s not sneering, not shaming. His focus is clinical, almost protective, like he’s shielding me from something I can’t see.
All the same, it still feels like Hargrove’s hands in my bag, picking at my secrets. My chest tightens, and I swallow hard, forcing the memory back.
“Come on, Henry. Are you almost done?” I ask, sharper this time, my voice cutting through the quiet.
“Patience,” Henry replies, not looking up, his flashlight now sweeping the van’s interior, over my blankets, my pillows, Poot’s fuzzy tusks.
Henry doesn’t touch anything personal, just checks seams and corners, but I still feel exposed. It’s like he’s seeing too much—my Little side, my fear, the mess I’ve made of my life by trusting Vince.
And then there’s the other thing.
The thing Ireallydon’t want to admit.
Henry’s hot. Like, stupidly hot.
That black T-shirt clings to his muscles like it’s painted on, and the way he moves, all controlled power, makes my traitor brain wonder what it’d be like to have those arms around me. Not in a creepy way, but… safe. Steady. Like a Daddy who’d set rules and mean it, who’d make the world stop spinning out of control.
I hate that I’m even thinking it.
Vince was hot too, and look where that got me—running from a smuggler who’s probably got his goons tailing me right now.
Urgh. No more men. No more Daddies.
Just me, Shred, and Poot, like always.
“You’re wasting your time,” I say, trying to sound bored, but my voice wobbles. “There’s nothing in there. I’d know if someone messed with Shred. I’m not a doofus.”
Henry straightens, turning to face me, his flashlight clicking off.
His eyes lock on mine, and there’s that calm authority again, like he’s already three steps ahead.
“You didn’t know that truck was watching you,” Henry says, not accusing, just stating a fact. “You’re good at running, but you’re not good at spotting trouble. Like it or not, that’s why you need me.”
“Needyou?” I scoff, but it’s weak, and we both know it. My heart’s still racing from that truck, from Vince’s message, from the way Henry’s presence makes me feel like I’m teetering on an edge.
I want to tell Henry to get lost, to let me handle this, but the truth is, I’m scared. Scared of Vince, scared of that truck, scared of how alone I feel out here.
Henry steps closer, not crowding, but close enough that I can smell his scent—leather, salt, something warm and grounding.
“I’m almost done,” Henry says, softer now, like he’s talking to a spooked kid. “Just the dash and engine left. Stay put.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then I see it—his eyes flicker to Poot, still on my bed, and there’s no judgment, just a flash of something… maybe even anunderstanding?
It throws me, makes my Little side ache for a second, wanting to curl up with Poot and let someone else take the wheel. But I shove it down, hard.
