Page 26 of Daddy Defender
My eyes snap open wide as I realize my jeans and briefs are still bunched around my ankles, the blanket a crumpled heap on the floor along with my clean-up tissues.
Oh, crap.
Please tell me Henry didn’t come in to check up on me…
The memory of last night—Henry carrying me, my sneaky little moment with Poot as my witness—hits like a rogue wave.
My cheeks burn hotter than a Santa Flossa summer, and I swing up fast, heart pounding, yanking my clothes back into place. I’ve got to be decent, just in case Mr. Bossy decides to barge in with his big Daddy energy…
I shove Poot under the pillow, giving him a quick pat.
“No telling, buddy,” I whisper, half-laughing, half-panicked.
The room’s quiet, the door still shut, and I let out a shaky breath.
Safe, for now.
But my stomach growls, loud and angry, like it’s personally offended by the lack of food. I’m starving, and when I’m hungry… I’m grouchy as hell.
No coffee, no pancakes, no nothing? Not okay.
I need breakfast, and I need itnow.
I smooth my messy bun and tug my oversized tee down, hoping I don’t look like I just had a wild night with my own imagination.
The safehouse is small, just a bedroom, a bathroom, and an open-plan living area with a kitchenette, all of it screaming “functional” with zero charm.
I stomp out of the room, my sneakers scuffing the worn floorboards, and spot Henry in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was catching up on the hokey scores rather than trying to protect me—but maybe that’s my empty tummy talking.
Henry’s in a fresh black tee, his muscles practically mocking the fabric, and that scar above his eyebrow catches the light, making him look like some action hero.
Ugh.
Why does he have to be so stupidly hot?
“Yo, Henry,” I say, crossing my arms and planting my feet like I’m ready to surf a ten-footer. “I’m hungry. Like,starving. Where’s breakfast? You got eggs? Bacon? Anything?”
My voice is sharp, all attitude—because hunger makes me bold—and I’m not in the mood for Henry’s rules and know-it-all attitude.
Henry looks up, his dark eyes locking onto mine, calm but with that Daddy edge that makes my stomach flip—and not just from hunger.
He sets his phone down, slow and deliberate, like he’s sizing me up.
“Morning, princess,” Henry says, voice low and gravelly. “I’ll get some food, but you need to remember who’s in charge here. Tone down the demands, or we’re gonna have a problem. Andwe both know how those kinds of problems get handled, don’t we?”
I bristle, my pout kicking into high gear.
“Problem? I’m the one who’s gonna have a problem if I don’t eat soon,” I snap, stomping my foot for emphasis. “This is my van we’re riding in, my life, and I’m not your pet to boss around.”
But even as I say it, my Little side squirms, liking the way he takes control, even if I’d rather wipe out on a reef than admit it.
Henry’s about to reply, probably with some annoying Daddy lecture, when his phone buzzes, sharp and urgent.
“One second,” Henry says, his eyes focusing like lasers on his phone screen.
Henry’s jaw tightens, eyes scanning the screen.
I lean forward, trying to peek, but he angles it away, his face hardening.
