Page 33 of Daddy Defender
But my Little side’s humming, wanting to lean into him, to believe he’s not Vince. I shove it down, hugging Poot tighter.
“I know enough,” Henry says, then straightens, all business again. “But we’ve got rules here. You stay inside unless I clear it. No surfing, no wandering, no phone unless I check it. You feel like acting out, you come to me, and we’ll sort it… without a scene like that.” He nods toward the shower, and my face burns. “Follow my lead, we stay alive. Got it?”
I bristle, my pout flaring.
“Got it,” I snap, but it’s half-hearted.
Henry’s rules are like a wetsuit two sizes too small, but there’s this weird safety in them, like he’s building a wall between me and Vince.
I hate how much I like it, how it makes me feel protected.
It’s screwing with my no-men-ever-again plan, and I’m not ready to let him in—not yet anyway.
Henry nods, then grabs his duffel from the shack’s porch, pulling out a small package wrapped in plain paper.
“For you,” Henry says, tossing it to me. I catch it, confused, and tear it open. It’s a sketchpad, fresh and crisp, with a pack of colored pencils inside. My jaw drops, my Little side squealing like it’s Christmas.
“Wow, cool,” I say, a little taken aback. “You got this at the diner?”
“Yup. Your old one’s looking beat,” Henry says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Figured you’d want to draw those waves, since surfing’s off the table for now.”
I stare at the sketchpad, my throat tight.
It’s such a Daddy move, seeing what I need before I even say it, and it cracks my walls just a little.
“Thanks,” I whisper, clutching the sketch pad along with Poot, my voice wobbly. “It’s… really cool.”
I look away, not wanting him to see how much it means, how it makes me want to trust him.
“Don’t get all mushy, boy,” Henry says, a teasing edge in his voice, but his eyes are warm. “Go settle in. I’m checking the perimeter.”
Henry heads out, and I shuffle into the shack, the sketchpad heavy in my hands.
The place is bare—sagging couch, tiny kitchen, a bed with a lumpy mattress—but the ocean’s hum through the cracked window soothes me.
I flop onto the couch, almost completely dry after towelling myself, Poot and the sketchpad in my lap, and my mind drifts to Vince…
The news report—cartel, murders, him still out there—burns in my brain.
Henry’s rules, this gift, they’re pushing me to spill, and the weight of what I’m holding back is crushing.
“Poot,” I whisper, tracing his tusk, “I gotta tell him something, don’t I?”
My Little side’s scared, but Henry’s not Vince. He’s not going to mock my romper or twist my Little side to use for his own advantage. I take a shaky breath, picturing Vince’s smirk. “Okay. Here goes…”
When Henry comes back, I’m still on the couch, fingers tight around the sketchpad. He leans against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow.
“You good, Little One?” Henry asks, a knowing look in his eyes.
I nod, then it all comes out…
“Vince… he used my surfing to launder money,” I say, my heart racing. “Fake comps, sponsorships, all to move his cash. I didn’t know at first, but when I figured it out, I tried to leave, and he got… scary.” My voice cracks, shame flooding me. “There’s more, Henry. A lot I haven’t told you about him. I’m scared, because… what if you think I’m too messed up? Or that I was involved, like really involved?”
Henry’s quiet, his eyes searching mine, and for a second, I’m terrified he’ll bail. But he crouches, eye-level, his voice soft but firm.
“Bodie, you’re not messed up,” Henry says. “You’re caught in his web, and I’m not leaving you to face it alone. Tell me the rest when you’re ready. For now, I’ve got you.”
Henry’s hand hovers, like he wants to touch me, but he pulls back, giving me space.
