Page 24 of Daddy Defender
“Oh, you’re exactly my type,” I shoot back, keeping it playful but letting a little heat slip in. “Trouble with a side of sass? Sign me up.”
I wink, and he laughs—a real laugh, bright and unguarded. It’s the best sound I’ve heard all night, and my chest tightens, wanting more of it, more of him.
But then his laugh fades, and he pulls back, his eyes dropping to his sketch pad, fingers tightening on the pencil.
“Yeah, well, I don’t do types anymore,” Bodie says, voice quieter, edged with something raw. “Guys like you… you’re trouble too.”
He’s scared, I can see it, that wall slamming back up.
Vince burned him bad, and trust’s a long way off. I want to tell him I’m not Vince, that I’d never twist his Little side or cage him, but words won’t fix this. Not yet.
“Fair enough,” I say, easing off, giving him space. “Just keep drawing, princess. Those waves are looking good.”
Bodie nods, his pencil moving again, and I focus on the road, the safehouse still a half hour out. The silence settles, but it’s not heavy, just a pause, like we’re both figuring out what this is.
As Bodie keeps sketching, his pencil scratching softly, I let my mind wander, the road a steady rhythm under the van’s tires.
He’s a puzzle, this boy—fire and defiance one minute, soft and Little the next.
I steal another glance, watching him shade a wave, his fingers delicate but sure. It’s easy to imagine him out there, board under his feet, cutting through the water like he owns it.
But it’s not just his strength that’s got me hooked. It’s the way he clings to Poot, the way his pout hides a need for safety, for someone to set boundaries and mean it.
I picture him in a different life, one where he’s not running…
Bodie’s in a cozy beach house, my place maybe, his sketch pad spread out on a table cluttered with colored pencils. He’s in a romper, his Little side free, giggling as I set out juice boxes and tell him it’s time for a nap.
I’d be his Daddy, firm but gentle, giving him rules to keep him safe, spankings when he sasses too hard, and all the praise he deserves for his art, his fire.
Bodie would trust me, let me shield him from the Vinces of the world, and I’d come home from missions to his smile, his waves, his softness.
The fantasy’s vivid, too vivid, and my grip tightens on the wheel.
I want him—his sass, his Little side, hiseverything.
But he’s not ready, maybe never will be. Vince’s left scars, and my life’s no fairy tale, all blood and shadows.
Still, driving through the dark, his pencil scratching beside me, I can’t help but hope. If I can keep him alive, neutralize this threat, maybe there’s a chance. Not just to balance the scales for past Guard losses, but to build something real.
For now, I’ll drive, keep the boy safe, and let him sketch his waves, hoping one day he’ll let me in for real…
Chapter 9
Bodie
Hmmm.
Am I… dreaming?
Wait, what’s happening?
I open my sleepy eyes and see that I’m being carried by Henry from the van and into what must be the safehouse. And there’s something about the way that he’s holding me with such ease as he walks that hits me like a freight train.
I might just have woken from my slumber, but all of a sudden I feel my special place tingle and come alive. Henry’s big, powerful arms are wrapped carefully around my legs and shoulders as he walks, and even though it’s dark I subtly arch my head and catch a glimpse of his left bicep, hard as a rock and twice as big.
Okay, stay cool.
He doesn’t know you’re awake.
