Page 13 of Daddy Protector (Night Ops Daddies #1)

Cole

“Well I’ll be damned,” I say, looking up and knowing all too well what I’m looking at…

The front porch of the safe house creaks under my boots as I stand at the edge, my eyes fixed on the horizon. Dark clouds churn in the sky, heavy and bruised and with a hunger that sets my nerves on edge.

The air is thick, charged with the metallic tang of impending heavy rain, and a restless wind rattles the pines surrounding the cabin.

The storm’s coming, no question, and it’s not some passing squall.

Those clouds are dense, heavy, promising a deluge that could pin us here for days. I know this terrain. It’s rough, mountainous, with valleys and creeks. It’s why it works so well as a safe house. But that doesn’t mean it’s perfect when the weather turns bad. Far from it…

I grip the porch railing, the wood rough under my palms, and hope it doesn’t rage too long.

We need to be ready to move at a moment’s notice—Hunter’s last message made that clear, with Marcus’s death and the threat closing in.

Being trapped in this safe house, even one as fortified as this, feels like a cage when the world’s hunting you.

The clouds creep closer, their edges jagged, like they’re tearing the sky apart.

A low rumble of thunder rolls in the distance, and the wind picks up, tugging at my jacket, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and ozone.

I’ve seen storms like this before, the kind that turn roads to rivers and forests to mazes, and they never bring anything good.

My mind drifts to a mission years ago with Hunter and a handful of Night Ops Guards, deep in a tropical rainforest, staking out a rebel leader, terrorist, and all round asshole of the highest order.

The memory is vivid, sharp as a blade, and I can almost feel the humidity again, the way it clung to my skin like a second layer…

We were in the Congo, crouched in the undergrowth for days, surrounded by a jungle that never slept.

The rain was relentless, a constant drumbeat on the canopy, turning the ground to mud that sucked at our boots.

Hunter was beside me, his eyes sharp through the downpour, his rifle steady as we watched the rebel camp, a cluster of tents hidden in the green.

The leader, a man named Kabila, was a ghost—ruthless, elusive, responsible for bombings that killed hundreds. Our orders were to observe, report, and, if necessary, neutralize.

The other Guards—Reyes, Carter, and Lin—were spread out, silent as shadows, but the tension was thick, every rustle in the leaves a potential threat.

Days bled into nights, the rain never stopping, our gear soaked, our patience fraying.

Hunter kept us focused, his voice low, steady, cracking jokes about the food rations to keep morale up, but I saw the weight in his eyes, the same weight I carry now.

It ended in bloodshed, as those missions often do.

Kabila’s men spotted Carter, a slip no one could’ve predicted, and the camp erupted. We moved fast, but it was chaos—gunfire splitting the rain, shouts in languages I didn’t know, the jungle itself seeming to fight us.

Hunter and I flanked the camp, taking down sentries, but Kabila slipped away, leaving his men to die. We lost Carter that day, a bullet to the chest, and Reyes took shrapnel in the leg. Hunter got us out, his calm cutting through the panic, but the cost was heavy.

I still see Carter’s face sometimes, young and fierce, gone in a heartbeat…

I shake off the memory, my jaw tight, as lightning flickers in the approaching clouds. That was a different fight, different stakes, but the feeling’s the same—waiting, watching, knowing it could all go wrong.

I hope there’s no cause for bloodshed this time, not while I’m looking after Richie. He’s fire and heart, Hunter’s son through and through, and keeping him safe is my mission, my promise to him.

But the storm’s closing in, and with it, the weight of what’s coming.

I turn back to the cabin, the porch creaking again, and steel myself.

Whatever this storm brings, I’ll be ready—for Richie, for Hunter, for whatever fight lies ahead…

As expected, the weather is really letting us know who’s truly in charge on this planet…

The storm crashes against the safe house with unrelenting fury, rain hammering the windows like a barrage, the wind howling through the forest outside, rattling the glass panes in their frames.

The living area is a fragile sanctuary, the wood-burning stove roaring as I kneel to add another log, the flames surging with a hungry crackle, casting a warm, flickering glow across the stone walls and worn rug.

The air is thick with the scent of cedar, smoke, and a faint dampness that seeps through the cabin’s edges, but the fire pushes back, wrapping us in its defiant heat.

Richie’s curled on the couch, cocooned under a thick wool blanket, his stuffy, Fizz, clutched under his arm, his matted fur pressed against his cheek.

Richie’s dark hair shines in the light, and his eyes, usually so fierce, dart to the windows as they shudder under a gust, a flicker of fear softening his defiance. He’s trying to hide it, but I see the tension in his grip on Fizz, the way his shoulders hunch slightly with each thunderclap.

I catch that look, and something in my chest tightens—a protective instinct, sharp and undeniable. He’s tough as steel, but this storm’s a monster, and even the strongest can falter when the world feels like it’s unraveling.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got what you need,” I say, keeping my voice warm and calm.

I move to the kitchen nook, my steps calm, deliberate, and heat a mug of milk on the small stove, the steam rising with a soft, sweet aroma that cuts through the storm’s edge.

I carry it to Richie, the ceramic warm in my hands, and sit beside him on the couch, the cushions sinking under my weight.

“Here,” I say, handing him the mug, my voice steady, grounding. “It’ll help you settle.”

“Thank you,” Richie replies, smiling but his eyes still darting around the room as the weather continues to batter us.

Richie takes the mug, his fingers brushing mine, a fleeting warmth that sends a jolt through me. His lips curve in a small, grateful smile, though his eyes still flick to the windows as another gust shakes the cabin.

“Yummy,” Richie murmurs, sipping the milk, his shoulders easing as the warmth spreads. The storm roars, a thunderclap splitting the air, and he flinches, the mug trembling in his hands, his bravado well and truly slipping.

I shift closer, my arm resting along the back of the couch, my voice low, like I’m calming a spooked recruit.

“Richie, if you’re scared, it’s okay. Storms like this can shake anyone. If it helps, you can call me Daddy, let me make you feel safe,” I say.

The words feel bold, a line I know I shouldn’t cross, but they’re right, like they’ve been waiting in my heart. I watch the boy, my pulse thudding, bracing for his reaction, hoping I haven’t overstepped.

His eyes widen, then soften, a shy, radiant smile breaking through.

“Okay… Daddy,” Richie says, his voice small but warm, like he’s savoring the word, trusting it.

The sound hits me like a tide, flooding my chest with pride, a fierce, protective warmth that’s more than duty, more than a mission. Richie’s letting me in, offering a piece of himself, and in this moment, with the storm raging, it feels like the most natural thing in the world…

I’m his Daddy, and he’s my Little, and that truth settles over me like the fire’s glow.

Stay calm.

This is just one night.

And it can’t be forever…

My thoughts flicker to Hunter, a shadow of guilt creeping in. He’s my best friend, the man who saved my life in Haiti, and I wonder what he’d think, hearing his son call me Daddy.

Would Hunter see it as care, or a betrayal of his trust?

The question gnaws, but right now, with Richie’s trust shining in his eyes, this feels right— essential , like it’s what he needs to weather this storm, both outside and within.

I push the worry aside and pull him closer, the blanket draping over us both, his warmth seeping into me as he nestles against my side, his head resting on my shoulder.

Richie sips his milk, then speaks, his voice soft, almost drowned by the fire’s crackle and the storm’s fury.

“I spent my childhood worried about Pop,” Richie says, his eyes distant, lost in memory.

“He was always gone, on Night Ops Guard missions, and I’d lie awake, wondering if he’d come back.

Every late-night phone call, I thought it was someone saying he was…

gone . I think that’s why I’ve been acting out, pushing you, trying to run.

I’m scared, Daddy, and I don’t know how to stop it. ”

He needs you.

You need to act.

Be the Daddy he needs…

Richie’s words cut deep, a window into the boy who’s carried fear like a second skin. I nod, my arm tightening around him, my voice gentle but firm.

“I understand, Richie,” I say. “That kind of worry, it burrows in, makes you want to fight or flee. But you’re not alone now.

I’m here, and I’ll keep you safe. I’ll involve you more—share what I can about your Pop—but there have to be boundaries.

I’m a Night Ops Guard, and I’ve got a code to honor. Can you work with that?”

He looks up, his eyes bright with trust, and nods. “Yeah, Daddy. I can do that.” The word again, soft and sure, sends another surge of pride through me, mingling with a protectiveness that’s grown roots in my heart.

The storm batters on, the windows rattling, but in here, it’s just us—the fire’s glow, Fizz’s silent presence, and the quiet bond building between us.

Richie’s eyes grow heavy, the empty mug slipping in his lap, and I take it, setting it on the coffee table.

He’s slipping into Little Space, his face softening, his body melting against mine, and I feel a swell of something powerful—love, not just for his beauty but for this connection, Daddy and Little, forging itself in this moment.