Page 9 of Monster Daddies
The tone. The dynamic. The way in which she says 'Yes, Daddy. I promise.' like it means everything in the world to her. It stirs something in me that I don’t want to name.
One night, curiosity wins.
She’s in the library, the fire crackling low, shadows dancing across her freckled cheeks as she pulls a fluffy blanket tighter around her shoulders. Sparrow’s in his usual place—planted on her lap like a self-appointed feline guardian.
Her phone is on speaker. I recognize the deep, calm voice that came through.
Daddy Drè.
"You haven't eaten a proper meal all day, have you, little peach?"
She winces and tugs the blanket higher. "I got distracted. I finally went into the attic and started exploring. And then I found the nursery and..."
The man interrupts her babbling. "You promised."
There is no anger in his tone. Only firm disappointment.
I watch as her shoulders hunches and her cheeks flush. "I know, I'm sorry, Daddy," she mutters softly.
"I want fifty lines before bed," he orders her. "Handwritten. 'I will take care of my body as well as I take care of my new home.' Got that, little peach?"
Her groan is almost a whine. "Fifty?"
"Yes. And you'll eat something warm tomorrow. Three full meals. Send me a picture of each."
"Okay," she mumbles, reaching for the notebook she constantly keeps at hand to jot into.
The man's tone softens. "You're doing so well, babygirl. I'm proud of how hard you're working. That place suits you."
My claws clenches into the stone railing I stood behind. The conversation continues for a while—mundane chatter about her day, a story about the cat getting tangled in the drapes, plans to reorganize the drawing room—but I hear none of it. My mind had stalled back atfifty lines.
And the fact that she keeps calling him Daddy.
Somehow, that, coupled with the affection she clearly feels for him makes me hate the man. Sight unseen.
But not because he's actually done anything wrong. No. It’s because sheglowsunder his attention. She lets him into a part of her that seems tender, raw and rare.
Still...
Later that night, when the manor is quiet and Avalon’s asleep upstairs, I slip into the library.
The computer.
I loathe the cursed machine, but Ichabod insisted we learn the basics. I use it once every couple of years to keep up to date with the changes in technology, but refuse otherwise.
With a grunt, I turn it on. Wait. Click. Search. And then in a fit of private insanity, hoping Jodrick doesn’t sneak up on me, I type the words:Why would an adult woman call a man not her father ‘Daddy’.
The rabbit hole it leads me down is extensive. Confusing. At times, uncomfortably honest.
Ageplay.
Dominant and submissive.
Caregiver and Little.
I read articles. Watch a few videos that even turn my stone cheeks red. And worst of all?
Iunderstandit.
