Page 4 of Submitting to Daddy
“And what would that be?” Nikolai asks quietly.
Frankford grins like a man who thinks he’s clever. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
That’s when I know exactly what this is. He has nothing. He’s bluffing. Poking the edges, waiting for someone to twitch. This visit might be official, but it’s a fishing trip. The man is armed with nothing more than suspicions and theories. He isn’t here with evidence. If he was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation with drinks in our hands. Our hands would be in cuffs as we were served warrants and Miranda Rights.
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “You came all the way up here, flashed your badge, threw around some nonsensical conspiracies… but you still haven’t asked a real question.”
Frankford tilts his head, studying me, his eyes narrowingslightly. He opens his mouth but I push back from the counter and gruff, “Are we done here?”
There’s a pause. The tension tightens like a noose. But then he nods—slowly. “For now.” He walks to the door with a faux stiff posture, like he’s trying not to show how rattled he is. Gunnar escorts him out, shutting the door a little harder than he needs to.
I let out a heavy exhale, glancing down at my half-finished plate—my appetite suddenly gone.
Nikolai leans forward, resting his forearms on the island, his fingers laced together like he’s praying—or planning a murder. “We underestimated how fast they’d move.”
“No,” Enzo says, quieter. “We didn’t.”
“He doesn’t have proof,” Eavan cuts in. “He’s grasping.”
“You’re probably right.” Enzo rises, reassuringly placing his hands on Eaven’s shoulders. “He’s looking for the weak link. He wants to know which one of us will break ranks first.”
Nikolai scoffs. “He’s going to be waiting a long fucking time.”
ONE DAY LATER
The plan for tonight was to order a pizza and unpack a few more boxes. Then maybe light a candle, take a long bubble bath—after giving the tub one last thorough scrubbing—and call it a day. I hadn’t considered going out. Yet, here I am, walking down the street toward The Corner Pub—an aptly named bar at the end of my block.
Stepping inside, the place smells like old wood, citrus-scented cleaner, and fried food—the latter of which is only causing my stomach to continue to growl. Edison bulbs hang low over both the tables and the bar, their warm amber glow reflecting off the heavily polished mahogany. The place has a worn charm, teetering between a hipster and dive bar.
I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar, far from the rowdy frat boys at the other end. The heavily tattooed bartender nods at me. “What’ll it be?”
“Tennessee Mule,” I respond, glancing around the bar. “And do you have a food menu?”
He places a postcard-sized menu before me with a slight grunt, already turning to make my drink. A moment later, he slides a small copper mug across the bar toward me—my nostrils immediately flooded with the zesty spice of the ginger beer. I take a sip, and the ginger and whiskey bite at the back of my throat as I swallow. “Anything else?” the bartender asks.
“Yes… Uh…” I quickly glance over the menu again, trying to make up my mind. “The loaded fries with a side of ranch.” He gives a nod and takes my menu before disappearing to the computer at the other end of the bar.
My gaze flits around the room, watching the other patrons as I listen to the soft hum of the mellow, jazzy music playing through the sound system. I swirl the ice in my near-empty glass and take the final sip as the bartender slides the plate of fries before me—my mouth immediately watering at the sight and scent. The cheese melts over the fries in a glorious mess of bacon, jalapeños, and whatever zesty blend of seasoning they use here. Dunking a cheese-covered fry into the tiny cup of ranch dressing, I quickly thank the bartender before shoving it into my mouth.Fuck… that’s good.I take another bite, moaning under my breath, before washing it down with the last watery sip of my Tennessee Mule.
My eyes catch the reflection in the mirror, and I immediately find myself drawn to a party of four behind me. They are tucked into a booth in the corner, slightly shadowed by dimmer lighting. Two remarkablyhandsome men flank the ends of the booth. On the right, a blond man with striking cheekbones and eyes like pale ice. Clean-cut, buttoned-up, but with a glint in his expression that says he knows exactly how good-looking he is. The kind of man who could flash a smile and talk his way out of a felony.
Sitting opposite him, is a man with sleek dark hair, olive-toned skin, and a smirk that looks permanent. He lounges—like he doesn’t have a care in the world—with his arm draped over a gorgeous redhead.
Once my eyes land on the man in the center of the group, it’s near impossible to drag them away. Even sitting, it’s obvious that he’s tall. His broad shoulders push at the seams of the soft gray T-shirt clinging to his frame, barely containing the muscles beneath it. His hair is mussed—purposefully—every strand falling from his modern pompadour appears to have been meticulously placed to create the perfect messy style. His beard is neat, copper red and golden—like his hair—under the glow of the bar lights. It is full, well-kept, and trimmed to a sharp edge along his jawline. He is gorgeous—rugged and yet refined, like he could snap someone’s neck and then charm the hell out of your mom at family dinner the same evening.
Together, they are captivating; beautiful people who ooze power and confidence. They’re too polished for this borderline dive bar. But they fit somehow—like they could make any place their own just by walking into it.
I should look away—I know I should. But I don’t. Can’t. My eyes are locked on the red-haired man in the center of the group, like I’ve forgotten how to blink. His presence is a gravity all its own, pulling my attention to him. He glances toward the bar, and through the mirror, our eyes meet, and my heart skips a beat—stuttering in my chest. His gaze is calm and curious. His eyes not wavering from my stare at ourreflections, the corner of his mouth quirks into an almost smile.
My stomach flips hard, and I panic, quickly looking away as embarrassment paints my cheeks a bright shade of crimson. I take a sudden, unnecessary interest in my fries, pretending they’re the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I glance from my plate to the mirror to find his attention still completely focused on me. He leans forward slightly, one elbow on the table and his fingers turning a glass tumbler in slow, deliberate circles, his smile broadening slightly.
His stare not leaving mine, he nudges the blond man to move out of his way. Even if I weren’t watching him, I swear I would hear the scrape of his sliding from the booth and the unmistakable thud of his boots on hardwood over the sounds of the bar. I sip my mule—forgetting it is empty—then stir the ice like that’ll cool the heat in my chest.It doesn’t.
As I watch in the mirror, he walks through the bar like he owns the place, the small crowd parting to let him pass. My skin prickles with nervous goosebumps, and I fight the urge to smooth my hair or adjust my top—anything to attempt to calm myself before he reaches me.
He slides onto the empty stool beside me, and his intoxicating scent floods my nostrils.And fuck does he smell good.It’s leather with a hint of something sweet and spicy, like a spiced rum. It’s addictive. So addictive that I fight the urge to lean closer and inhale him deeply.
“It’s not every night you find a breathtaking woman sitting alone at the end of the bar,” he overtly flirts, hisvoice low and smooth.
