Page 60 of Submitting to Daddy
She reaches for my hand as I park my Aston Martin on the long gravel driveway. “Hey,” she says softly, her thumb brushing mine. “She already agreed to dinner, and that means something.”
“Yeah… It means she doesn’t want to piss you off,” I mutter. “Or she’s planning to murder me with a cast-iron skillet.”
“Maybe. But if she tries, I’ll take her out.” Madison’s lips curve, and I can’t help but chuckle. “Let’s go, Mr. King.”
I nod once and open my car door. The air on the other side smells like grass and pine. A wind chime sings quietly from the porch. Everything is peaceful and serene, and I feel like I’ve stepped into a world I have no business stomping in on.
Madison’s fingers thread through mine as I help her from the car, and she gives them a reassuring squeeze as we make our way onto the porch. She knocks twice, and a moment later the door creaks open.
“Hi, Mommy.”
Her mother is tall and thin, with silver streaks in her dark hair. She has the same deep brown eyes as her daughter, just with a little crinkle in the corners. “Maddie,” she gushes, pulling her in for a tight hug. “You look so good, sweetheart.”
“Mom…” Madison pulls back from their embrace and turns toward me. “This is Cillian.”
“Cillian,” she greets flatly with a slight nod.
I extend my hand. “Ma’am.” She studies my hand for a moment before taking it, her grip warm but measured. There’s a gentleness to her, but her eyes search mine with a quiet scrutiny.
“Well. Come on in. Supper’s almost ready.”
I glance at Madison, who gives me asee?look and pulls me inside.
The house smells like fresh bread and something savory. I glance briefly at the family photos as Madison leads me toward the dining room. Dinner is set out on a heavy wooden table: roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits. We sit, and Madison pours iced tea for everyone.
Two fingers of whiskey would be better. Maybe three.
Her mother watches me with sharp eyes over the rim of her glass. “So,” she begins. “What do you do for a living, Cillian?”
Madison nearly chokes on her drink. I cough once, hard.
“I’m in… high-stakes logistics,” I answer slowly.
Her mom raises a knowing eyebrow.
“He kills people and launders money,” Madison chirps, shoving a biscuit into her mouth with a smirk. “But in avery organizedway.”
I shoot her a warning look, and she brattily winks at me.
“We get the news out here, too. I know exactly who you are. I’ve read everything they leaked after Maddie’s arrest…” She pauses to reach for the butter. “I also know she hasn’t smiled like this in years. She’s glowing.”
Madison lightly nudges my elbow, and I turn to find her smiling.
“I don’t like the idea of my daughter living in danger,” she continues, slicing her biscuit. “But I also know Madison never makes decisions lightly. She’s always been a smart girl. Stubborn as hell and defiant, but smart.”
If that isn’t the truth…
Staring at me with renewed intensity, she asks, “You love her?”
More than anything.
“I’d go to war for her,” I reply honestly. “And I’d die before I ever let anything happen to her.”
The tiniest of smiles pulls at the corners of her mouth. “I can live with that.”
Madison’s hand reaches under the table, lacing her fingers through mine again as she gives it a loving squeeze.
Her mother asks questions as we eat dinner—what my family is like, what our apartment is like, what kind of future we’re building. She doesn’t pretend to understand our world, but she listens. She laughs at Madison’s bratty sarcasm and smiles about her car karaoke. By the time dessert comes out—a warm blackberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream—I feel dangerously close tobelonging.
