Page 15
Story: Dex (Heavy Kings MC #4)
The bear was loved to the point of falling apart. Fur worn thin from holding, one ear resewn with thread that didn't quite match. Button eyes that had watched a little girl's world crumble, had absorbed tears through foster homes and grief and the slow grind of poverty.
"He's all I have left of before everything went wrong," she whispered into his matted fur. "Sometimes I hold him and try to remember what it felt like. Having parents. Being safe. Being someone's little princess instead of someone's burden."
Something hot and fierce rose in my chest. The need to hunt down Rhett Brown and show him exactly what the Heavy Kings thought of men who abandoned their daughters. The need to pull Cleo into my arms and promise her she'd never be anyone's burden again.
Instead, I stayed in my chair. Kept my distance. Let her have this moment of grief without trying to fix it or claim it or make it about my own need to protect.
"You're not a burden," I said quietly. "You never were. That was his failing, not yours."
She looked up at me then, eyes red and swollen, still clutching Mr. Friendly like salvation. "Sometimes I can't remember that. Sometimes I'm seven years old watching his taillight disappear and knowing it was my fault. If I'd cost less, if I'd been easier to love—"
"Bullshit." The word came out harder than intended. "You were a child. His child. There's no version of this story where a seven-year-old is responsible for their father being a selfish prick."
"My brain knows that," she said softly. "But the rest of me . . ."
The rest of her was still that little girl, coloring inside the lines and hoping if she was good enough, quiet enough, small enough, someone might stay.
Christ.
No wonder she colored. No wonder she held onto Mr. Friendly like a talisman. When your childhood ended at seven, sometimes you had to find ways to visit it again. To give yourself the comfort no one else had bothered to provide.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For not laughing. For understanding about . . ." She gestured vaguely at the bear, the box, the whole mess of her coping mechanisms.
"Nothing to understand," I said, even though that was a lie. I understood too much. Recognized too much. Felt too much building in my chest despite every warning signal screaming in my head. "We all find our own ways to survive."
Watching Cleo break apart on my couch, clutching that worn bear while tears streamed down her face, every protective instinct I'd tried to bury came roaring back to life. The careful distance I'd maintained, the boundaries I'd set—all of it crumbled under the weight of her pain.
This was exactly what I'd sworn I wouldn't do again.
Get involved with a broken woman who needed a caretaker more than a lover.
Let my need to protect override common sense and hard-learned lessons.
But seeing her shoulders shake with the force of suppressed sobs, hearing the broken sounds she was trying to muffle in Mr. Friendly's fur—I couldn't just sit there.
Couldn't maintain clinical distance while she drowned three feet away.
"Fuck it," I muttered, and moved.
The couch dipped under my weight as I sat beside her. Not crowding, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of another human being. Close enough that when her body listed sideways, I was there to catch her.
She fell against my side like she'd been waiting for permission, and Christ, she was so small.
All sharp bones and desperate need, fingers clutching my shirt like I might disappear if she let go.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulled her in properly, and felt her whole body shudder with relief.
"It's okay," I murmured into her hair, the words inadequate but necessary. "You're safe now. I won't let him hurt you."
She pressed her face into my shoulder, and I felt the wet heat of tears soaking through my shirt.
Her body shook with the force of grief too long contained, years of loss and fear and abandonment pouring out in waves that left her gasping.
I held her through it, one hand rubbing circles on her back while she clung to me and Mr. Friendly with equal desperation.
This was dangerous ground. I knew it with every fiber of self-preservation I'd developed after Vanessa.
The way Cleo fit against my side, the little sounds she made as she tried to get control, the trust implicit in how completely she'd let herself fall apart in my arms—all of it screamed warning.
But I couldn't let go. Couldn't set her aside and rebuild the walls that kept me safe from this particular brand of disaster.
When the worst of the storm passed, she pulled back just enough to look up at me. Her eyes were swollen, face blotchy and tear-stained, nose running. She looked wrecked. Young. Lost. And somehow still the most beautiful thing I'd seen in years.
"I should—" She started to pull away, embarrassment replacing grief.
"Tea," I said firmly, not letting her retreat into shame. "You need something warm. Something sweet."
I extracted myself carefully, making sure she was stable before I stood.
In the kitchen, I went through the motions on autopilot.
Kettle on the stove. Chamomile with honey—the kind Nana used to make when I was sick, when the world felt too big and she needed to make it small again. The irony wasn't lost on me.
I could feel Cleo watching from the couch as I worked. Could sense her trying to rebuild her defenses, trying to pack all that raw emotion back into whatever box she'd been keeping it in. But the dam had broken now. There was no going back to pretending she was fine.
"Here." I handed her the mug, watching her wrap both hands around it like it was an anchor. "Careful, it's hot."
"Thank you." She took a tentative sip, and her eyes fluttered closed in surprised pleasure. "This is really good. Like, actually good."
"My grandmother's recipe again," I said, settling beside her again.
“Your grandma is a genius.”
I chuckled. “And she knew it.”
We were close. Closer than before. Close enough that our knees touched. "She believed tea could fix anything if you made it right."
"Was she right?"
"Sometimes." I watched her take another sip, color slowly returning to her cheeks. "Sometimes broken things need more than tea."
She was quiet for a moment, processing that. Then: "I'm sorry. For falling apart like that. For being such a mess. You probably think I'm—"
"I think you're surviving," I cut her off, fierce enough that she blinked. "I think you've been carrying too much for too long, and you finally hit a safe enough place to let some of it go."
"Safe." She tested the word like she'd never heard it before. "I don't even know what that means anymore."
The trust in her eyes when she looked at me then was absolutely devastating. Like I was something solid in a world that kept shifting under her feet. Like I could be the safe place she'd been searching for since she was seven years old.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything. For the rent, for protecting me, for not thinking I'm stupid for—" She gestured at Mr. Friendly, still clutched in one arm. "For being broken."
"You're not broken." The words came out rougher than intended, edged with something I couldn't quite control. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd set my mug aside and cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You're surviving. There's a difference."
Her lips parted slightly, and I could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. Quick as a hummingbird. Quick as my own heartbeat. She was so close I could count her eyelashes, could see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. Could feel her breath ghost across my skin.
"Dex?" My name on her lips, question and invitation and plea all at once.
That's when it happened. When the last thread of control snapped and I did the thing I'd been fighting since I'd found her kneeling among scattered crayons. I kissed her.
Not gentle. Not careful. This was claiming, consuming, every protective instinct pouring into the connection between us.
She made a soft sound of surprise that shifted into something else, something that lit fire along every nerve.
Her mouth opened under mine, and Christ, she tasted like honey tea and tears. It made my head spin.
I pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair while the other pressed against her back.
She came willingly, eagerly, melting against me like she'd been waiting for this.
Mr. Friendly tumbled forgotten to the floor as she gripped my shirt with both hands, holding on like I was the only solid thing in a tilting world.
The kiss deepened, turned desperate. All the fear and loss and need between us crystallizing into this moment, this connection. I could feel her trembling against me, could taste the salt of dried tears on her lips. Could feel myself falling into something I'd sworn I'd never do again.
Vanessa.
I pulled back so fast Cleo gasped, nearly falling forward into the space I'd vacated.
"Fuck." The word came out raw, gutted. I ran a hand through my hair hard enough to hurt. "I'm sorry. That can't—we can't do this."
"Dex?" Confusion clouded her eyes, hurt beginning to creep in around the edges. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." I stood abruptly, needing distance. Needing walls between us before I did something even more stupid. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have—Christ, you're vulnerable and under my protection and I just—"
"I'm not a child," she said quietly. "I know what I want."
"You want safety," I corrected, harsher than necessary. "You want someone to make the world small and manageable. You want a protector, a caretaker, a—"
I bit off the word before I could say it.
Daddy.
She wanted a daddy, whether she knew it or not. And I'd already played that role once, already learned how badly it could end.
"I can't be that for you," I said finally. "I won't. You deserve better than some biker trying to fix you. Better than becoming dependent on someone who'll just fail you in the end."
She flinched like I'd slapped her. "I didn't ask you to fix me."
"No. But that's what would happen. Trust me, I've been down this road before." I moved toward the hallway, needing barriers between us. "You can have the bedroom. I'll take the couch. We'll figure out a better arrangement tomorrow."
"Dex—"
"Please." The word came out broken. "Just . . . please. Let this go. For both our sakes."
I fled to the bathroom like the coward I was, locking the door and gripping the sink hard enough to crack porcelain. In the mirror, my reflection looked as wrecked as I felt. Because despite every lesson learned, every scar earned, I wanted nothing more than to go back out there and kiss her again.
Table of Contents
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- Page 15 (Reading here)
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