Page 47 of Submitting to Daddy
He leans back just enough to tilt my chin up. His expression is soft. “Do you regret it?”
I look into his eyes and answer without an ounce of doubt. “No. I just don’t know who I am now.”
“You’re mine,” he replies immediately. “That’s who you are.” The way he says it doesn’t feel possessive. It feels grounding. “You’ll find the rest,” he adds softly. “But you’re not alone while you do.”
He leads me through the apartment and upstairs to his bedroom, the blinds drawn and the room dimly lit. There’s a small pile of clean clothes on the dresser: one of his long-sleeved shirts and a pair of boxers.
“You need rest,” he tells me simply.
I nod. “I want to shower first.”
He pauses. “I’ll help you.”
It’s not a question. He knows I’m still sore and a little unsteady on my feet. And when he reaches for me again, it’s with the same reverence he had last night as he cleaned the blood from my skin. In the bathroom, he peels my shirt off carefully, mindful of the gauze taped to my chest. He removes the bandage with equal care, his eyes lingering on the bright red, slowly scarring tissue. Tenderly, he presses his lips to it before lowering to the floor. Kneeling before me, he removes my shorts and panties.
His eyes rake up my naked body. He eyes me hungrily, but I don’t feel vulnerable. I feelseen.
The shower is hot. He steps in behind me—wincing for a second at the heat—and helps me wash. His hands are gentle as they slide over my bruised skin. Much like his fingers scrubbing shampoo through my hair. He dries me, his movements efficient and quiet.
We return to the bedroom. He replaces the gauze and helps me dress. Silently, he leads me to the bed, and he pulls back the covers for me to climb between the sheets. I half expect him to disappear after he pulls the covers up to my shoulder and kisses me on the forehead, but he doesn’t. He drops his towel and slides in beside, pulling me into him and wrapping his arms around me. We lie there quietly for a while, simply holding each other and listening to our soft breaths.
Aimlessly running my fingertips through his beard, I murmur, “Your brothers still don’t trust me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But they will. Eventually.”
“Even Nikolai?”
He huffs a dark laugh. “Nik would trust a rattlesnake before trusting a Fed.”
“So… no?” I chuckle.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “You earned something today, firecracker. Their respect. You faced them. You didn’t flinch. That matters more than you’ll ever know.”
“I still feel like I could wake up and this will all fall apart. That they’ll change their minds. Thatyouwill.”
He turns me to face him fully. His hand cups the side of my neck, thumb brushing lightly over the faint mark left by his belt. Placing kisses across my lips, he vows, “You’re mine. Andyou’ve already proven what you’re willing to sacrifice for that. Now let me take care of you.”
I nod slowly, curling into his chest, his heart beating strong beneath my cheek. “I love you, Daddy.”
His lips press to the top of my forehead, and I can feel him smiling when he says, “I love you, too, firecracker.”
It’s been a week since I brought her here. Just one week since she stood before my brothers, peeled back the bandages on her chest, and offered her loyalty even as they stared at her with ire-filled eyes.
One short week…
She moves through the penthouse like she’s always belonged here. Delicate feet in soft cotton socks cross the dark wood floors. A large mug of coffee in her hands every morning out on the terrace. A pink throw blanket she insisted upon thrown across the arm of the couch—a bright, feminine splash in our otherwise masculine space.
The bathroom counter now displays her perfume beside my cologne—her addictive citrus scent lingering in the air,subtle but ever-present. Her lingerie fills a drawer of the dresser. And her small clothes hang in the closet beside mine. Including her father’s ratty FBI hoodie, which I’ve convinced her to keep on a hanger until Nik is a little less trigger-happy.
Madison Roark iseverywhere. And I couldn’t imagine it any other way. It’s crazy how natural this feels. I’m a man who doesn’t let people close. Yet somehow, she’s wormed her way into every shadowed corner of my life without even trying.Actually fighting it every time I pressed.And she fits like she’s belonged here all along.
She’s curled up on the couch reading. Based on the shirtless man on the cover, I’m pretty sure it’s one of Eavan’s books. Her hair falls in messy waves over the arm of the couch, and her legs are tucked beneath her, almost hidden by my oversized T-shirt enveloping her small frame.
I lean against the wall, sipping my cup of coffee as I watch her. She might be the most dangerous thing to have ever walked into my world, but she’s also the most beautiful.
Her eyes lift from her book when she senses me. “You’re staring again,” she announces, her lips curling faintly.
“I like watching you.” I shrug. She blushes like she still doesn’t quite understand what she’s done to me.
