Page 79 of Daddy's Muse
And I wanted—god, I wanted—to believe that was all there was to it.
But as the evening crept closer, the fragments stitched together into something more solid. The feeling of Pappa’srough hands canvassing my body, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding under a blindfold that was wet with my tears, the strange things he’d said about gods and my virginity, and behind it all, the glimpse of a young man bound to a chair, Bodin approaching him with a knife.
My fork froze halfway to my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the darkness only made the memory seem more vivid.
My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.
“Colby.” Pappa’s voice snapped me back. He was leaning forward from across the table, watching me with sharp concern that softened the moment I met his eyes. “You’re pale, baby. Tell me what’s wrong. Do you hurt anywhere?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The memory quivered at the edge of speech, but saying it aloud felt dangerous—like it would shatter everything between us.
“No, I’m… I’m just tired,” I whispered instead, forcing a smile that felt brittle.
Pappa reached across the table and took my hand, comforting me with his touch. “Then just rest today. I’ll take care of everything else. ”
I nodded, trying to breathe evenly, trying to force the picture of Bryan and the knife out of my head.
* * *
Everything was fine.
Pappa moved around the cabin like nothing was wrong, humming contentedly under his breath as he went about his day, pausing now and then to kiss my hair or touch my back. He was warm, steady, and gentle in all the ways he always was. That wasreal. I could feel it in his hands, in the way he looked at me like I was something sacred.
So maybe the memory was just a dream, or perhaps the memory was warped from the feverish fog brought on by whatever he’d made me drink. I didn’t want to think too hard about that part. It felt a bit wrong that he had gotten me drunk or high or whatever that was.
Anyways, maybe the drink would explain it—people had memory issues after they partied, so maybe… I imagined it, filled in blanks my mind didn’t understand.
That had to be it.
But the more I repeated that to myself, the more hollow it sounded. Because deep down, beneath the excuses, I knew. I’d seen Bryan. I’d seen my Pappa’s arm raised, the knife glinting in the shed’s dim light, and my body remembered the way the air had smelled as we had sex—coppery and suffocating.
And if I admitted it aloud—if I asked him about it—then it wouldn’t be something I could shove aside anymore. It would be real.
Real in a way that meant the man who kissed my knuckles and murmured love into my skin had done something unspeakable.
My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to believe that. I couldn’t.
Because if I let myself believe it, then what was left for me?
Pappa had become my everything. He was the only person who had ever made me feel like I mattered, like I wasn’t a mistake just taking up space. Losing him wasn’t an option.
He loved me, and I loved him.
So I swallowed it down, forcing a smile whenever our eyes met. I let him feed me, touch me, soothe me like nothing had changed.
But when he pulled me into his arms and I felt the steady thrum of his heart against my cheek, all I could think about wasthe other heartbeat—the one that might have gone quiet last night.
I knew, no matter how much I tried to lie to myself, that Bodin had done something bad.
Something I could never undo.
I thought maybe if I were little, I’d be able to ignore it.
Pappa always said I was safest there, that littlespace meant no worries, no heavy thoughts—just play, softness, and trust. And I wanted that so badly—wanted the sharp edges in my chest to dull, wanted the fog in my head to mean nothing except cozy warmth.
My voice was small when I tugged his sleeve and asked, “Can I… be little today?”
The way his eyes softened almost undid me right there. He stroked my hair back and kissed my forehead. “Of course, baby. You know you don’t need to ask. It’s always okay for you to be little.”
