Page 21 of Daddy Enforcer
Billie
I’m standing at the kitchen sink, a damp dish towel in my hands, wiping down the last of the dinner plates.
The stew Max made was surprisingly good—way better than that watery soup from lunch—and I’m feeling a weird kind of pride as I stack the clean dishes on the counter…
Me, Billie B, global pop sensation, actually doing dishes like some normal person.
Crazy, right?
It’s not my usual vibe—my life’s all about stage lights and VIP lounges, not domestic chores—but there’s something satisfying about it, especially with Max watching from the corner of his eye, his big hands drying a pot with a focus that makes my stomach flutter.
He’s been different since the spanking earlier, softer but still in charge, and I can’t stop thinking about how his voice, his touch, made me feel so… grounded.
“Nice work,” Max says, his voice low and warm as he sets the pot down. He reaches into a small jar on the counter and pulls out ahandful of mini marshmallows, holding them out to me. “Your treat, as promised. You earned it.”
I blink at the marshmallows, my lips twitching into a smile.
“Mini marshmallows? Really?” I say, trying to sound unimpressed, but my fingers are already reaching for them, the soft, sugary lumps looking way more appealing than they should. “This is your big treat? I was expecting, like, chocolate truffles or something.”
Max chuckles, that deep rumble that makes my cheeks heat up.
“Treats are nicer when you earn them, Billie,” Max says, his voice wise. “Not just handed out for nothing.” He leans against the counter, his blue eyes steady on mine, and there’s that Daddy tone again, the one that makes me feel small but cared for. “Go on, take them.”
I snatch the marshmallows, rolling my eyes to keep up my pop star attitude, but inside, I’m kind of glowing. He’s right—there’s something about earning them that makes them sweeter.
I wander over to the couch by the roaring fire, the cabin warm and cozy despite the snow piling up outside. Plopping down, I pop a marshmallow in my mouth, savoring the sugary burst as I stare into the flames.
“Okay, fine,” I mumble around a mouthful. “These areprettygood. But don’t get used to me doing dishes, okay? This is a one-time thing.”
“It’ll be awhenever I commandtype thing,” Max laughs, dismissing my sass and making my tummy flip with excitement.
Max’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything, just starts putting away the dishes with that calm, controlled efficiency of his. Iwatch him for a moment, the way his broad shoulders move under his plaid shirt, the way his hands handle everything with such care. It’s weirdly soothing, like he’s got everything under control, even when I’m a mess.
I pop another marshmallow, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue, and try to ignore the way my heart keeps doing these stupid flips. That spanking earlier, the way he carried me outside to cool my burning cheeks in the snow—it’s all swirling in my head, mixing with memories of Zane talking about his Daddy, how his discipline made him feel safe.
I’m starting to get it, but it scares me, too.
Am I really okay with feeling this…small?
I think back to my days acting on TV as a kid. I was so young, but so confident seeming and even a little obnoxious at times. But the truth was that for so long I just wanted to go to a normal school, do normal kid things. I guess a huge part of my childhood was sacrificed to the work, and that never really stopped as I moved from child actor to singing sensation.
Oh well, there’s no turning the clocks back.
What’s done is done.
But I suppose maybe if I can get a little bit of that feeling now—with Max guiding me—then that wouldn’t be so bad. Would it?
I’m about to pop another marshmallow when a sharp noise cracks through the quiet—a loud snap, like a branch breaking outside. My heart lurches, and I freeze, my eyes darting to the window.
The snow’s falling thick now, the darkness beyond the glass almost total, but I swear I see something move. Max’s headsnaps up, his body going rigid, and before I can say anything, he’s in motion, grabbing his flashlight and a small device from the table.
“Stay there,” Max orders, his voice all business, the Daddy warmth gone. “Don’t move, and that’s a direct order.”
“Max, what was that?” I ask, my voice high and shaky as I scramble to my feet, clutching the marshmallows like they’re a lifeline. My heart’s pounding, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how alone we are out here, how far from my glittering world of fans and security teams. “Is someone out there?”
Max doesn’t answer, just strides to the door, his movements precise and controlled, like he’s done this a thousand times.
I rush to the window, my breath fogging the glass as I peer out, watching him disappear into the snowy darkness. His flashlight beam cuts through the night, sweeping the perimeter, and I catch glimpses of his tall figure moving with purpose, checking the trees, the ground, the cabin’s edges.
