Page 21 of Daddy Protector (Night Ops Daddies #1)

Cole

“Focus, keep your mind on the work at hand,” I say, my voice low.

The safe house living area is cloaked in shadows, the fire is slowly but surely burning out but still keeping the room nice and toasty.

My coffee’s gone cold, the mug untouched as I pore over more files, cross-referencing Henry’s last intel on the threat to Hunter and Richie.

Richie’s asleep in his bedroom, safe for now, his soft snores a quiet reassurance down the hall. My eyes drift from the screen, and I let myself linger on the memory of bath time, a moment that felt so right it’s etched into my heart.

Bathing Richie was like stepping into a world where I was just his Daddy, not a Night Ops Guard carrying a thousand burdens.

I’d rolled up my sleeves, kneeling beside him, and washed his hair, my hands gentle as I worked the shampoo into a frothy lather, his giggles filling the small room when bubbles drifted onto his nose.

Washing his back, his arms, I felt a tenderness I hadn’t known I could hold, a pride in caring for the boy, in being the one he trusted.

It wasn’t about desire, though his closeness stirred me; it was about connection, about being his safe place, his Daddy in every way that mattered. That moment, with steam curling around us and his laughter echoing, felt like the truest thing I’ve ever done.

And then of course… both our desires began to surface. And I didn’t hesitate in giving Richie what he wanted. This boy might be much younger than me, but he evidently knows precisely what he likes when it comes to his own body. And I’m not complaining. Far from it.

There was something so damned hot about how Richie let go of his inhibitions in the bath and allowed me to pleasure him so fully. I want it again. In fact, I want a whole lot more too. There’s no point even trying to deny it. It’s all I can think about…

“Focus, Cole,” I repeat, knowing that I need to keep all my thoughts on the task at hand. It’s late, I’ve got more work to do, and ideally I’d get some good sleep in too.

Then, as if the laptop knows that I need to get my head back in the game, I receive a message alert…

An encrypted message from Henry, marked urgent, flashes on the screen, and my stomach drops, the cozy haze shattering. I decrypt it, my fingers steady despite the adrenaline spiking through me, and his words hit like a punch:

HENRY: Location compromised. Intel confirms threat has tracked you to the safe house. Imminent attack possible. Evacuate now.

My heart pounds, the fire’s glow suddenly too dim, the rain’s patter too loud, every creak of the cabin a potential threat.

Henry’s intel is rarely wrong, he’s been my eyes in the field too many times for me not to trust him, and if he says we’re compromised, then we’re almost certainly out of time.

The safe house, our refuge, is a target now, and Richie’s safety, Hunter’s trust, everything hinges on what I do next.

I snap the laptop shut, my mind shifting to Night Ops Guard mode, the Daddy in me roaring to protect my Little too. There’s no time to pack, no time to plan beyond the immediate…get Richie, get to the truck, get out.

The secondary safe house is over a hundred and fifty miles east, a fallback I’ve prepped for, but we need to move now, before whoever’s hunting us closes in.

I stand, the chair scraping, and grab my jacket, checking my sidearm in its holster, my movements precise, automatic.

I stride to Richie’s bedroom, my boots quiet on the floorboards, and pause at his door. He’s asleep, his slim and toned body curled under the quilt, Fizz clutched to his chest, his face peaceful in the lamplight.

My heart aches. Richie trusts me, his Daddy, to keep him safe, and I can’t fail him. But waking him to flee, pulling him from this fragile calm into danger, it’s a weight I hate carrying.

I take a breath, steeling myself, and step inside, my voice low but firm.

“Richie, wake up,” I say. “We need to go. Now . The mission’s on, and there’s no time to lose.”

Richie rustles around in the bed, half-awake and with a look of confusion on his face.

“W-w-w-what, Daddy?” Richie mumbles. “We need to what?”

“Go. We need to go,” I reply, more urgency in my voice. “Get up, boy. It’s time to move. This isn’t a drill.”

Richie does indeed sit up in the bed, Fizz still under his arm, and then stands. I watch as he stretches one arm above his head. Damn, he must have been in a deep sleep.

“You can go back to sleep in the car,” I say. “We’ve got a long driver ahead of us.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Richie says.

If the boy is panicking, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. But something tells me that deep down he knows this is a serious situation. Right now though, I don’t think I need to get into any further details. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, there will be plenty of time to talk then.

“All done,” Richie says, zipping up his backpack and smiling sweetly. “Can we maybe, pretty please have a mug of warm milk before we leave?”

I pause for a moment.

Time is very much of the essence. Truthfully, there isn’t time for a glass of cold milk, let alone the time required to heat up a snug mug of milk.

“I don’t think…” I begin, my words cut off by the sound of the safe house’s alarm system tripping, red lights flashing on the control panel in the hall.

Someone’s approaching through the forest, breaching the perimeter sensors, and there could be more than one.

“Don’t panic,” I say, my voice firm and business like. “It could be a false alarm. But we’re treating it like it’s real. Okay?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Richie nods, worry etched onto his face.

My pulse spikes, but panic’s a luxury I don’t have. I’ve faced ambushes in worse conditions—jungles, deserts, urban sprawls—and I know how to keep my head. Richie’s my priority, my Little, and I’ll get him out, no matter what.

I take the boy’s arm, my grip firm but steady, and his eyes meet mine, wide with fear but trusting.

“Stay close, darling boy,” I say, my voice low, the Daddy in me anchoring him as much as the Night Ops Guard.

We move fast, slipping out the back door, the rain-slick grass cold under our boots. I scan the path to the car, parked fifty yards off in the clearing, its dark shape barely visible through the drizzle.

Fuck.

If we move, we’re out in the open.

But if we stay… we’re dead.

The forest looms, a wall of pines and shadows, the rain muffling sound but not my instincts. The path looks clear, but I feel eyes in the dark, predators circling. We rush forward, Richie’s breath quick, his backpack bouncing, and I keep him shielded, my body between him and the trees.

“Move, move, move,” I whisper, keeping Richie tight by me. “Good boy.”

We’re steps from the car when a bullet cracks through the air, grazing past us to slam into the safe house’s stone wall, chips flying.

Richie gasps, his body tensing, but he doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry, his jaw clenched as he drops low beside me. I’m impressed. Terrified as Richie is, he’s tough, Hunter’s son through and through, and that strength fuels my determination to protect him.

I know that I need to make a decision. And it’s a decision that could have the ultimate impact on both of us.

Survey.

Assess.

Act.

Driving now is a gamble. The road out could be a choke point, a trap set by whoever’s hunting us.

I need to know what we’re facing. I crouch, pulling Richie down with me, and pop the truck’s trunk, my movements swift, practiced.

Inside, my go-bag holds what I need… night vision goggles, a combat knife, extra clips. I slip the goggles on, the world shifting to eerie green, and scan the forest, slow and methodical.

Three shooters, their heat signatures faint but clear, positioned in a loose arc, one near the trail, two deeper in the trees. They’re pros, moving with purpose, rifles ready.

I lean close to Richie, his eyes wide in the dark, and whisper,

“Stay low, don’t move,” I say. “I’ve got this.”

His nod is small, but he trusts me, his Daddy, and that trust is everything.

I pull the combat knife from the trunk, its blade glinting, my plan forming… stealth, take them out one by one, silent as a ghost.

I’ve done this before, in jungles and slums, my blade ruthless and deadly in equal measure.

I’m about to move, muscles coiled, when a metallic clink cuts through the rain… a grenade, lobbed from the trees, arcing toward the safe house.

I grab Richie, shoving him behind the truck as the explosion rocks the night, a fireball erupting where the porch stood, debris raining down, the blast’s heat searing the air. The safe house groans, flames licking its walls, and the shooters open fire, bullets pinging off the truck’s frame.

Stealth’s dead.

There’s no time.

My plan shifts, instinct taking over.

I bundle Richie into the passenger seat, his backpack clutched to his chest, his face pale but steady.

“Hold on, and stay low,” I growl, slamming the door and diving into the driver’s seat.

The engine roars as I floor the accelerator, the car lurching forward, tires spinning on wet grass. I aim straight for the nearest gunman’s position, his heat signature still visible through my goggles, a shadow in the trees.

Bullets pepper the hood, but I don’t swerve, my focus razor-sharp, the Daddy in me screaming to get my Little out, the Night Ops Guard ready to ram through hell itself.

The forest rushes toward us, the safe house burning in the rearview, and I brace for impact, knowing this is our only shot to break free…