Page 40 of Enforcer Daddy
When I finally came back to myself, he was there, cheek resting against my belly, breathing with me while I remembered how to exist in a body that felt completely remade. His hands stroked my thighs, soothing now instead of inciting, bringing me back to earth by degrees.
I laughed—a choked, relieved sound I didn't recognize as my own. It bubbled up from somewhere deep, some well of feeling I'd thought had dried up years ago. He lifted his head to look at me, and his face was soft in a way I'd never seen, like something in him had unlocked too.
“I was so naughty!” I said. I couldn’t believe how filthy my mouth had been.
“A dirty girl,” he said, grinning. “Just the way I like it.”
He stood, pulling me up with him, and kissed me. I could taste myself on him, salt and want. The kiss was different now—not desperate or searching, but certain. Like we'd answered a question neither of us had known how to ask.
When he pulled back, he looked at me with eyes that held no more walls, no more careful distance. Just want and possession and something that might have been love if either of us knew what that looked like.
"You're mine," he said, and it wasn't a question or a demand. It was a statement of fact, simple as gravity.
"I'm yours," I agreed, the words coming from that same deep well as the laughter. Then, because it felt right, because it felt true, because he'd earned it with every careful touch and patient moment: "Daddy."
Something flared in his eyes—surprise, desire, possessiveness all tangled together. He pulled me against him, holding me like I might disappear if he let go.
"Say it again," he commanded, but there was a plea underneath it.
"Daddy," I repeated, tasting the word, finding it fit perfectly in my mouth. "My Daddy."
He kissed my temple then, soft and reverent, and I felt something I hadn't experienced in so long I'd forgotten its name. It took me a moment to recognize it, this lightness in my chest, this absence of fear and anger and constant calculation.
I was happy.
For the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—I was actually, truly happy. Standing on a mountain with a man who'd kidnapped me and saved me in equal measure, calling him Daddy like it was the most natural thing in the world, feeling my body still humming from pleasure he'd given me.
The wind picked up again, reminding us that we were still on a mountain in winter, still exposed despite the privacy of our little shelf. He helped me dress with the same care he'd used to undress me, making sure I was warm, comfortable, ready for the descent.
"We should head back," he said, but his hand found mine, fingers interlacing like they belonged that way.
"Okay," I said, then squeezed his hand. "Thank you."
"For what?"
For everything. For teaching me to breathe. For showing me that careful could be a form of caring. For giving me the word that made everything make sense.
"For bringing me somewhere special," I said instead.
Chapter 8
Dmitry
AsIwoke,Inoticed her weight against my side—barely there, like a bird that might startle at any movement, but warm enough to brand through my t-shirt where Eva had curled into me during the movie. Dawn hadn't broken yet, the penthouse still wrapped in that particular darkness that comes before morning, and Eva breathed against my chest in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.
We'd been watching some action movie she'd picked—lots of explosions, terrible dialogue, the kind of thing that let us sit together without having to talk about what we were becoming to each other. She'd started on the opposite end of the couch, knees drawn up, maintaining that careful distance she always kept. But somewhere around the second act, she'd migrated closer. By the third, she was tucked against me, my arm around her shoulders, her hand fisted in my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.
We’d fallen asleep like that, holding each other.
Now she made a soft sound in her sleep, burrowing deeper into my side, and every protective instinct I'd ever buried roared to life. This tiny, fierce woman who'd survived the streets, who called me Daddy with equal parts challenge and need—she trusted me enough to fall asleep in my arms.
I shifted carefully, testing whether I could move without waking her. She mumbled something unintelligible, grip tightening on my shirt. I slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and lifted. She weighed nothing—still too thin despite my efforts to feed her properly. Her head found the crook of my neck immediately, breath warm against my throat, and I had to stand still for a moment just to process the sensation.
I took her to her bedroom—it used to be my spare, of course. She smelled like the vanilla body wash I'd bought her and that she’s reluctantly used.
Her room still looked barely lived in. The bed perfectly made because she usually slept in the closet, building nests from stolen blankets like she was still on the streets. I laid her down gently, and she immediately curled into a ball, knees to chest, making herself small even in sleep. My hands moved without thought, pulling the covers up, tucking them around her the way I'd seen her do with her closet nests. She sighed, a sound of contentment that made my chest tight, and relaxed slightly.
"Daddy?" she mumbled, not really awake.
