Page 8 of Blade (Spartan Watchmen MC #5)

L ily sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by her new treasures.

The coloring books, the colored pencils, the soft purple unicorn stuffie.

Flopsy and Uni sat together, having made fast friends already.

Her fingers traced the outline of the pacifier still in its packaging, a war of emotions raging within her.

Part of her, the adult part, the survivor part, recoiled at the idea of allowing herself this vulnerability.

Especially now, with danger lurking outside the cabin walls.

People were hunting her. Tim had lost a finger and who knew what else, because of her.

This was no time for her to regress into her little persona, for childish comforts.

But another part of her, the little girl inside who'd been bruised and battered by life's cruelties, yearned for the soothing escape these items promised. The chance to let go, even for a little while. To feel safe and protected and cared for. To stop thinking about adult things and simply relax.

But you're not safe, she reminded herself harshly. And you can't afford to be vulnerable right now. Not when it could get you both killed.

With a sigh, she gathered the items and moved to tuck them into the nightstand drawer, out of sight. But as she pushed the drawer closed, her eyes caught on the two stuffies, still sitting on the pillow where she'd left them.

She picked up the worn rabbit, running her thumb over his threadbare ear. The only constant in her life for the past twenty years. The only one who'd never left her, never hurt her, never asked for more than she could give.

"What should I do, Mr. Flopsy?" she whispered, feeling foolish even as the words left her mouth.

The stuffed rabbit stared back with his mismatched button eyes, offering no answers.

A soft knock on the door startled her. She quickly shoved Mr. Flopsy and Ms. Uni under the pillow before calling, "Come in."

Blade filled the doorway, his large frame blocking out the hallway light. He'd changed into a fresh t-shirt, this one tight enough to reveal the defined muscles of his chest and arms. God, he has fucking sexy. She definitely felt safer with him around.

"Just checking on you," he said, his dark eyes scanning her face. "It's been a long day."

Lily nodded, suddenly aware of her exhaustion. The adrenaline from earlier had faded, leaving her drained. "I'm okay."

"Liar," he said, but there was no heat in the accusation. "Your ankle's bothering you. You've been crying. And you're still processing everything that happened today."

Was she that transparent? Or was he just that perceptive?

"I'm tired," she admitted. "But I don't think I can sleep."

He studied her for a moment, then asked, "Would it help to have company? Or would you rather be alone?"

The question surprised her. Most men would have simply told her what they thought was best. But he was giving her a choice.

Respecting her boundaries even in this small way.

She’d noticed that about him. When it came to her safety, he didn’t ask her opinion or give her a choice.

Doc was coming or she was going to the emergency room.

But, when it came to everything else, especially her feelings and her little side, he’d been more than respectful.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to stand up and be more forceful or if she appreciated how kind and considerate he’d been.

"Company," she decided, the word slipping out before she could overthink it. "If you don't mind."

"I don't mind," he replied, stepping into the room. He gestured to the edge of the bed. "May I?"

She nodded, and he sat, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence stretching between them.

"I saw you put away the things Savannah sent," he said finally, nodding toward the nightstand.

Lily flushed. "They're nice, but... not exactly practical given the circumstances."

"Sometimes comfort is practical," he countered. "Especially in stressful situations.

"Is that what they taught you in the SEALs?" she asked, a hint of sarcasm creeping into her voice. "The tactical importance of coloring books and stuffed animals?"

To her surprise, he chuckled. "Not in those words. But yeah, in a way. They taught us that mental well-being impacts performance. That finding ways to decompress is crucial to survival."

She hadn't expected that response. "And what did you do? To decompress, I mean."

Something flickered in his eyes, a memory, perhaps. "Whittling."

Did he just say whittling? "Whittling?" she repeated, unable to hide her surprise.

He nodded. "My grandfather taught me when I was a little boy. He made my brothers and I little toys. Toy horses, whistles, even wooden yo-yos. He’d sit quietly on the back porch with a glass of my grandma’s sweet tea on the table and whittle.

No noise, no distractions, just him, nature and the piece of wood he was turning into a piece of art.

There's something about creating something with your hands. I didn’t understand until my first tour in combat.

I’d returned from the field and I was… struggling.

There was a thick fallen log near us. I cut off a piece with my knife and whittled my first whistle.

I found that focusing on one simple task quiets the mind. "

Lily considered this. "I guess coloring is kind of like that."

"Exactly," he agreed. "So don't dismiss it as impractical. If it helps you stay centered, it's as important as any weapon."

She looked down at her hands, twisting nervously in her lap. "It's not just that," she admitted softly. "It's... when I'm in that headspace, I'm vulnerable. Defenseless. And right now, I can't afford to be either of those things."

Blade was quiet for a moment, considering her words. "You don't think I'd protect you?"

"It's not about you," she said quickly. "It's about me. About not being a burden."

"You're not a burden, Lily," he said, his voice firm. "You're my responsibility. My—" He cut himself off, as if catching whatever he'd been about to say.

Her heart skipped a beat. Had he been about to say my little girl? The thought sent a warm shiver through her that she tried desperately to ignore.

"Besides," he continued, "being in little space doesn't make you defenseless. It just changes how you process things. You'd still be you. Still capable."

She looked up at him, surprised by his understanding. "You know a lot about this."

"I'm a Daddy through and through," he admitted. "It is who I am. A part of my identity, just like being a little is part of yours. I’ve researched and studied DDLG, attended classes at The Citadel for Doms. Exchanged ideas with other Mommies and Daddies. Learned a few things and have a pretty extensive tool belt. The first little I had… well, I rushed into things, I was a young hothead. I understood my needs and not hers. I’ve matured a lot over the years and have learned how to put a little’s needs first. How to be a good Daddy. "

The thought of him researching DDLG dynamics, trying to understand her needs, touched something deep inside her. "Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For... not judging me."

He shrugged, as if it were nothing. "If I judged you for being a little, I’d have to judge myself for being a Daddy. There’s no shame, Lily. No shame in knowing who you are."

A comfortable silence fell between them again. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling through the trees surrounding the cabin. The sound made the space feel even more isolated, more intimate.

"Can I ask you something?" she ventured after a moment.

"Anything," he replied.

"Why do you live out here? So far from everyone else?"

His expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "I have my apartment at the Clubhouse; I stay there sometimes. I take my turn on guard duty. But, as I told you. I like my privacy."

"There's more to it than that," she pressed, sensing an evasion. "You are part of an MC. Brotherhood is everything to those clubs. But you choose to live miles from anyone else."

He was quiet for so long that she thought he might not answer. Finally, he sighed. "After I left the SEALs, I couldn't... adjust. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many potential threats to track."

"PTSD?" she guessed softly.

"Among other things," he acknowledged. "Out here, I can control my environment. See threats coming. Prepare."

"That sounds exhausting," she observed. "Always being on alert."

"It's what keeps me alive," he said simply. "Keeps others alive too, now."

Like me, she thought.

"Does it ever get easier?" she asked. "The hypervigilance?"

"Some days are better than others," he admitted. "Having a purpose helps. A mission, which we have a lot of with Spartan Watchmen. There’s always someone who needs protected or bad men who need stopped."

"And what's your mission now? Besides keeping me safe?"

He met her eyes, his gaze intense. "Finding out who's betraying the club.

Putting an end to Pedro's Rejects. Making sure they can never hurt anyone else. We went the legal route before, and it ended up biting us in the ass. They made bail and continue to torture people. No, this time, we are ending them. I won’t let them threaten my woman. "

My woman. She wondered if he was even aware he’d spoken those words. The fierce protectiveness in his voice made her stomach flutter. This man, this warrior, was ready to wage war for her safety. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I should let you get some rest," he said, standing from the bed.

"Wait," she blurted out, surprising herself. "Could you... would you stay? Just until I fall asleep?"

The request hung in the air between them, vulnerable and exposed. She half-expected him to refuse, to maintain the professional distance he seemed determined to keep.

Instead, he nodded. "If that's what you need."

"It is," she whispered. "I don’t want to be alone. Please."

"Scoot over then," he instructed.