Page 7 of Daddy Protector (Night Ops Daddies #1)

Richie

I let out a long, wistful sigh.

The afternoon drapes the safe house in a cold, gray hush, the kind of chill that creeps through the windows and settles in your bones. Outside, the forest is a tangle of frost-dusted pines and bare branches, swaying in a biting wind.

But inside, it’s very different…

Cole’s got a fire blazing in the wood-burning stove, its flames dancing behind the glass, sending waves of warmth through the living room. The air smells of cedar, smoke, and something faintly sweet, like the lingering trace of this morning’s porridge.

I’m curled on the couch, my feet tucked under me, Fizz’s worn fur soft against my fingers as I stroke his sweet little head.

The firelight paints the stone walls in flickering gold, and for a fleeting moment, I could almost forget the danger chasing me, the faceless threat that’s turned my life upside down.

The memory of corner time, and what happened in the bathroom afterward is still on my mind. I still can’t believe just how intense my orgasm was – or how completely unstoppable my desire was as it rose up inside me and overflowed everywhere.

I almost want to go back to the bathroom and replay the whole thing again, just to chase that feeling and experience it once more. Or maybe what I really need to do is do something naughty again?

Hmmm . Maybe later.

Cole’s across the room, perched at the kitchen table, his laptop screen casting a warm glow on his face. His fingers tap a steady rhythm, each keystroke precise, like he’s decoding some big puzzle.

Cole’s swapped his tight vest for a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his defined, strong forearms, and his dark hair is kind of ruffled, softening his usual intensity.

I watch him, my stomach doing a little flip despite myself.

He’s handsome, sure, but it’s more than that.

Way more. After corner time, and especially when he called me a Little, I can’t shake the way his voice felt—like a tether, grounding me in a storm.

It’s unsettling, but also thrilling, like a secret I’m not ready to confess, even to myself.

And it’s totally why I was so overcome with arousal too.

I’ve fooled around with Daddies in clubs or whatever and nothing has even come close to what that felt like.

I shift, sitting up straighter, and decide to test the waters. After all, Cole can’t seriously expect to sit there and work silently while I have nothing to be getting on with, can he?

“Cole,” I say, my voice light, almost like I’m about to burst into song. “Can I have my cell phone back now? I’ve been good, haven’t I? Did my corner time and everything…”

Come on, give an inch…

But Cole doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed on the screen, but his jaw tightens just enough for me to notice.

“Not yet, Richie,” Cole says, his tone calm but unyielding. “After that escape attempt, trust has to be rebuilt. You’ll get it back when I’m sure you won’t do something reckless. You know that’s fair. And, hell, even if you don’t… it’s just the way things are.”

Crap!

My gut twists, part annoyance, part something else—something warm and fluttery that catches me off guard. Cole’s authority, that quiet, steady control, it’s like a hand on my shoulder, guiding me.

I like it, I realize, and the thought sends a flush of red heat all over me. I don’t want him to see it, don’t want him to know how his rules make my heart race in a way that’s both scary and safe. So I cross my arms, tossing my hair back with a defiant huff.

“Fine,” I snap, my voice sharper. “I don’t need a stinky phone to have fun anyway. I’ll make my own fun, and it’ll be way better than anything on a boring screen.”

Cole’s lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, but he just nods and returns to his typing.

“Go for it, boy,” Cole chuckles.

Boy .

The word should annoy me. It’s not like he’s my Daddy. But it doesn’t, not really. Maybe because I know he doesn’t mean it in a weird way or a sleazy way. It’s just… Cole. And anyway, after he called me a Little, it feels like a code, a quiet acknowledgment of who I am – and maybe who he is too.

Whatever .

I grab Fizz, hugging him close, and slide off the couch, my mind buzzing with a plan.

Cole thinks he’s got me pegged, sitting quietly like some obedient prince.

Well, I’m Hunter’s son, and I don’t do predictable.

I’m going to build the most epic pillow fort this safe house has ever seen, and I’ll have a blast doing it, phone or no phone.

The couch is a goldmine of cushions—big, squishy ones in faded greens, blues, and a soft cream that smells faintly of lavender. I drag them to the floor, piling them near the stove where the heat rolls out in waves, warming my cheeks.

I raid the bedroom next, hauling a thick quilt, a couple of wool throws, and a striped blanket that feels like a hug.

“You weren’t kidding,” Cole laughs, briefly looking up from his laptop before getting ack to work.

I ignore him. I’ve got my own work to be getting on with now.

Back in the living room, I get to work, stacking the cushions into a semicircle, their soft edges forming sturdy walls.

Fizz watches from the rug, his button eyes gleaming in the firelight, like he’s my co-conspirator.

“We’re building a castle, Fizz,” I whisper, grinning as I drape the quilt over the cushions, anchoring it with a heavy book from the coffee table—a dusty old novel about spies in the war, very fitting for this place.

I add the throws, layering them to create a low roof, and tuck the striped blanket inside as a floor, soft and inviting. The fort takes shape, a cozy cave just big enough for me and Fizz.

I crawl inside, pulling the cushions tighter to block out the world, and settle Fizz on my lap, his fur warm against my hands. The firelight sneaks through the gaps, painting the blankets in flickering patterns, and the stove’s heat wraps around me like a cocoon.

It’s perfect—safe, snug, like the treehouse Pop built me when I was eight, where I’d hide with Fizz and dream of adventures all over the world.

It was also where I would go when I felt sad about my mom passing away.

And Pop would always know that when I went there, I would need a bit of time to myself at first, but then when I was ready I would put a purple flag outside the door so that he knew it was safe for him to come and talk to me.

Life wasn’t always easy growing up, but that treehouse sure did help.

I can’t help but think of Pop. He’s out there somewhere, tangled in this threat, and the thought twists my heart. I hug Fizz tighter, his worn fur grounding me as I think about all the times Pop was there for me, no matter how far his Night Ops Guard missions took him.

Growing up, Pop was gone a lot—weeks, sometimes months, lost to secret ops I could only guess at. But when it mattered, when the big problems hit, Pop was there, like a superhero swooping in just in time.

School plays, science fairs, even my awkward middle school dances—he’d show up, sometimes still in his travel-worn jacket, his grin wide enough to make me forget how long he’d been away.

In college, when things got tougher, my Pop was my rock, and one moment stands out, sharp and vivid, from my freshman year…

I had this teacher, Professor Smelding, who taught political science and had it out for me.

His lectures were all bias, no substance, pure academic ego.

When I had the temerity to question Smelding’s methods, he started nitpicking my papers, docking points for nothing, and finally threatened to fail me.

I was furious, ready to quit, but I called Pop, desperately trying not to cry on the phone.

Two days later, Pop was there, striding into the lecture hall like he owned it.

I’ll never forget the look on Smelding’s face when Pop, looking all mean and moody, leaned over the desk, his voice low and firm, saying, “You don’t fail my son for thinking for himself.

Fix this, or we’ll have a problem .” Smelding stammered, backtracked, and never hassled me again.

Pop took me for ice cream after, like it was no big deal, but to me, it was everything.

Memories like that flood me now, each one a reminder of how Pop always had my back. He wasn’t perfect—his absences left gaps, lonely nights when I clung to Fizz, wishing he was home—but he made sure I knew I was his priority when it counted.

Now, with him in danger, I feel this ache, this need to repay him. I want to be there, to fight beside him, to show him I’m not just his little boy anymore. I’m Hunter Selleck’s son, and I can help fix this, whatever it is.

That’s why I tried to run, why I’ll keep pushing, even with Cole watching me like a hawk.

For Pop, I’ll do anything.

I smile. Memories are one thing, but the here and now is important.

I lean back, my defiance softening into something quieter, something content. I don’t need my phone, not in here. This little world, with its blanket walls and the glow from the fire, is enough.

Cole’s typing dances through the air, a steady tap-tap-tap, like a heartbeat keeping time.

I think about this morning, about how he said “Littles benefit from corner time” without a hint of judgment, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

My cheeks warm again, and I hug Fizz tighter, my fingers tracing his worn seams. I’m not supposed to feel this way—excited, safe, seen under Cole’s rules—but I do.

Cole is Pop’s friend. I know they were close, I can just tell from how Cole talks about him.

There’s no way I should be having any of these kinds of feelings. But I am.

It’s like Cole’s holding the reins, guiding me through the chaos, and part of me wants to let him, to sink into that safety.

Not that I’d ever admit it. I’m still Richie, still plotting to outsmart him, and then to find Pop and fix this mess.

But right now, in my fort, with Fizz and the fire, I’m okay just being… Little me.

The warmth from the stove seeps deeper, my eyelids growing heavy.

Cole’s typing blends with the fire’s crackle, a soothing rhythm that pulls me under. I snuggle into the blankets, Fizz’s fur against my cheek, and let out a soft sigh.

The last thing I feel is the fort’s cozy embrace, the fire’s glow, and the quiet certainty that Cole’s there, across the room, watching over me as I drift into sleep.

“Daddy Cole,” I whisper, quiet as a mouse as I fully fall asleep. “Will you…”