Page 146 of Painted Scars
She’s endured too much turbulence over the last few days and needs rest and peace of mind.
“You’ve got a deal, Daddy Dildo.” She pinches my jaw and pulls me down for a final kiss.
“Keep calling me that and you’re eating burnt pancakes, Glitter Bomb,” I growl into her throat.
She giggles and kisses me deeper. The moment she lets me go, I slide out of bed, and pull on a pair of sweats.
“You’re on guard duty, PJ3.” I ruffle the prince’s head, and leave the room.
CHAPTER 42 - AUGUST
In the kitchen, I scan the tree line through the frosted windows, just to be sure the fresh layer of snow isn’t hiding anything. Satisfied there’s no one lying in wait, I retrieve the ingredients from the fridge. Deliveries from Katar and Murder Spice delivered on their visit to the cabin. They left late last night, preferring the cover of darkness to sneak back into the city, chasing intel and ammunition.
I add bacon to the Old Mountain cast-iron saucepan, heat it and let it sizzle away. When that’s half done, I crack eggs and cook them in the fat. Grandma taught me that they taste better cooked this way. She’s not wrong. Pancake batter comes together quickly with water and the pre-made mix. The fried food drains fat on paper towels, kept warm in the oven until everything’s ready. I ladle the batter into the hot grease to pick up the smoky, salty flavor. Another grandmother special. Kate’s favorite when I’ve cooked it for her before.
The smell of bacon is too much for PJ3, who totters out of the bedroom to sit at my feet, stare up at me, weaponizing his cute little begging eyes.
“What happened to guard duty?” I ask him.
He tilts his head as if to say he deserves a reward for his efforts.
“You can have some when your momma does,” I tell him.
He counters with a dramatic sigh and flops on the wooden floor. The little goblin is adopting his mother’s sassy habits.
By the time everything is ready, the cabin smells like a home I never want to leave. I’m humming Celine Dion’sPower of Loveas I plate everything on the bed trays. Adding a dessert course, I strip off my clothes and fold them on the sitting chair. God forbid I leave them in a messy pile for my sleeping neat freak. I hook the apron over my neck and tie it up and carry everything to the bedroom to give Cinderella her wake-up kiss. We’ll just have to pretend there’s whipped cream on top of the fantasy, since we don’t have any.
She’s still dozing as I nudge the door open with my knee and creep into the room. I love her wild and messy, tangled in the blankets, pillow creases stamped across her cheek.
I set the trays on the armchair, rest a knee on the mattress, and dip to brush my lip on her cheek.
“Room service,” I announce.
Her eyes crack open, blink, and sweep to me, then widen. She snaps the knife from beneath her pillow, and it trembles in the air. Her fear and vigilance are warranted. She’s waiting for the sky to fall, still afraid the Romans will come after us. They may. They’re still in power and won’t give it up without a hell of a battle. We’ll dodge shadows, switch burner phones, and move from safehouse to safehouse if we have to. For now, I want her to worry about other things. Domestic bliss and pretending it’s not a war zone.
“It’s just me, Glitter Bomb.” I take the knife from her and drop it on the bedside table. “You don’t need to be scared.”
I fold her into my arms and calm her racing pulse.
“What smells good, King Daddy?” She forgot that I let her sleep while I cooked for her.
“Breakfast.” I climb off the bed.
“That’s not the only thing that smells good.” My girl’s back despite the hint of fear lingering behind her eyes that may take months to shake.
Slowly, she pushes up onto her elbows, gaze dragging from my bare chest to the apron tied at my waist, and my dick waving to her from beneath. I wave my hips from side to side and swing my heavy cock.
She claps and bounces on the mattress. “It’s a Dicktober surprise!”
“Shut the fuck up, baby, and eat your breakfast like a good girl.” I lift the trays onto the bed, and she sits up for me.
Her hands come together in praise, and she rests her top teeth over her bottom lip. “You make a damn fine househusband, King Daddy.”
PJ3 snorts and jumps onto the bed to remind her who’s ruling this kingdom.
I lift her table from mine and grab my plate and coffee. “For my glitter queen. Earl Grey tea steeped for three minutes, just the way you like it. Extra maple syrup. Bacon crispy and eggs over easy.”
PJ3 groans and slaps a paw over his eyes as if we’ve permanently scarred his canine soul. Drama queen.
