"I'm the one responsible for your safety," he said, each word measured and careful. "That includes making sure you get adequate rest. Now, put the pencils away and go to bed."

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced myself to keep coloring. Blue sky. Purple flowers. Green leaves. Pretty lies that everything was fine while I deliberately disobeyed the one person who'd shown me what care looked like.

"Make me."

The words hung in the air between us, shocking in their boldness. I couldn't believe I'd said them, couldn't believe I was pushing this hard. But the need to know—to really know—if he'd follow through was stronger than self-preservation.

He stood slowly, and every movement radiated controlled power. Not anger, exactly. Something more complex. Disappointment mixed with understanding, authority mixed with care.

"I'm going to give you one more chance," he said, voice dropping to that register that made heat pool in my belly. "Put the coloring book away. Brush your teeth. Get in bed. Now."

The smart thing would be to obey. To recognize the gift of a second chance and take it gratefully. To preserve this fragile thing we'd built with compliance and good behavior.

Instead, I selected a pink pencil and calmly went back to my flowers.

"Have it your way," he said quietly, and something in his tone made me shiver. "But there will be consequences, little girl. Count on it."

Then he walked away. Just turned and headed down the hall to his bedroom, leaving me alone with my coloring book and my defiance and the growing certainty that I'd made a huge mistake.

But I couldn't give in now. Couldn't go crawling to bed just because he'd used that voice, made that threat. I had to see it through.

Eleven o'clock passed. Midnight. My back ached from hunching over the coffee table, and my eyes burned with exhaustion. But every time I thought about giving up, I remembered my father walking away. Remembered how easy it was for people to leave when you became inconvenient.

By one-thirty, the colored pencils kept slipping from my numb fingers. The mandala on the page blurred and doubled, but I forced myself to keep going. Stay in the lines. Get the colors right. Prove that I didn't need structure or bedtimes or anyone telling me what to do.

By two, I couldn't fight it anymore. My head dropped forward, too heavy to hold up. The pencil fell from my fingers as exhaustion finally won, pulling me under into restless, uncomfortable sleep slumped over the coffee table.

I didn't hear his door open. Didn't hear his footsteps on the hardwood. But I felt his presence the moment he entered the room, that particular energy that said I was in trouble. Real trouble. The kind that came with consequences I'd asked for but wasn't sure I was ready to face.

"Cleo."

His voice cut through the fog of exhaustion like a blade, sharp enough to make me jerk upright.

Pain shot through my neck from the awkward angle, and I had to blink several times before the room stopped spinning.

My cheek felt numb where it had been pressed against the coffee table, and there was drool—God, had I actually drooled on his furniture?

"What time is it?" The words came out slurred and thick, like my tongue had forgotten how to work properly.

"Two in the morning." He stood over me in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, hair mussed from sleep. But his eyes were alert and focused, studying me with that particular mix of disappointment and determination that made my stomach clench. "Four hours past bedtime."

Four hours. I'd pushed through four hours of exhaustion just to prove a point that now seemed fuzzy and stupid in the harsh light of being caught. The colored pencils were scattered across the table, the mandala only half-finished. Such a pathetic rebellion.

"I wasn't tired," I tried, but even I could hear how ridiculous it sounded when I could barely keep my eyes open.

"You are now." Not a question. A statement of obvious fact, delivered in that calm, controlled tone that somehow made me feel smaller than yelling ever could.

I needed to move. Stand up. Go to bed on my own terms. But my body felt like it was made of wet cement, every muscle protesting the hours spent hunched over the table. The colored pencil I'd been holding clattered to the floor, and I couldn't even manage to pick it up.

"I just lost track of time," I mumbled, knowing he wouldn't buy it. Knowing I didn't want him to. "I was almost finished with this section—"

"No more excuses." He moved closer, and I caught his scent—sleep-warm skin and that underlying note of leather that clung to everything he owned. "You deliberately defied bedtime. We both know it."

The words hit like cold water, washing away the last of my fuzzy protests. He saw right through me. Saw the test for what it was. And instead of walking away, instead of deciding I was too much trouble, he was here at two in the morning ready to deal with me.

"Come on," he said, reaching down. "Time for bed."

"I can walk," I protested, but my legs had other ideas. When I tried to stand, pins and needles shot through my feet, and I wobbled dangerously.

"Clearly." The dry sarcasm might have stung if it wasn't accompanied by steady hands catching my elbows. "Stop being stubborn."

"I'm not—"

But I never got to finish the protest. In one smooth motion, he scooped me up like I weighed nothing at all. One arm under my knees, the other supporting my back, lifting me against his chest with an ease that made my brain short-circuit.

"Dex!" His name came out as a squeak. "Put me down. I'm too heavy—"

"You're not. Not even close." He adjusted his grip, pulling me more securely against him. "And you're in no position to make demands right now, little girl."

The words sent heat flooding through me despite my exhaustion. This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? To push until he had no choice but to take control? To know that someone was strong enough to handle me even when I was being difficult?

"I can walk," I tried again, but my protest was ruined by the way I instinctively curled into his warmth. His chest was solid and safe, and I was so tired. So fucking tired of fighting and pretending and being strong.

"I know you can," he said, already moving toward the hallway with sure steps. "But you won't."

The bedroom materialized around us, dimly lit by the hallway light. He set me on the bed with careful hands, and I immediately missed the warmth of being held. My body felt heavy and disconnected, like I was floating somewhere above myself watching this play out.

"Pajamas," he said, moving to the dresser where I'd been keeping my few belongings. "You're not sleeping in jeans."

I should have protested him rifling through my things, but I couldn't summon the energy. He returned with my sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt—one of his that I'd claimed without asking, that smelled like him and made me feel safe.

"Can you manage, or do you need help?"

The question sent heat rushing to my face. "I can manage."

"Then do it. I'll be right outside."

He stepped into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed but not quite.

Giving me privacy but making it clear he wasn't going anywhere.

My fingers fumbled with buttons and zippers, clumsy with exhaustion.

But I managed to change, folding my jeans with shaky hands because even half-dead with tiredness, I couldn't just throw them on the floor in his space.

"Decent," I called, voice small.

He came back in carrying a glass of water, setting it on the nightstand with deliberate care. "Drink some. You're probably dehydrated."

I wanted to argue just for the sake of it, but my throat did feel dry and scratchy. The water was cool and perfect, and I drank half the glass before he gently took it from my hands.

"Good girl," he murmured, and those two words made me want to cry. "Now get under the covers."

I crawled beneath the blankets, and he tucked them around me with steady hands. The same hands that had checked my pulse that first night. The same hands that had cupped my face when he kissed me. The same hands that would—

"We're going to talk about this tomorrow," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. His weight dipped the mattress, creating a slope I wanted to roll into. "About consequences and why you felt the need to test boundaries."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, but even I wasn't sure if I meant it.

"No, you're not." His hand found my hair, stroking gently. "Not yet. But you will be. When you're rested and can actually understand what we're discussing."

The promise in his voice made my stomach flutter with equal parts anxiety and anticipation. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd follow through on those consequences he'd warned about. Tomorrow I'd find out what happened when I pushed too far.

"Sleep now," he said, and it wasn't a request. "No more defiance tonight. Just rest."

My eyes were already closing, body finally surrendering to exhaustion now that I'd been caught and handled and put to bed like the difficult little girl I'd been acting like. The last thing I felt was his hand in my hair, gentle but possessive, claiming even as he cared.

M orning came with the weight of unfinished business pressing down like a physical thing. I woke to find Dex already gone, a note on the nightstand in his careful block letters: "Had to handle club business. Eat breakfast. Drink water. We'll talk when I get home. -D"

We'll talk. The words made my stomach flip with nervous energy.

I'd pushed and pushed last night, and now the bill was coming due.

Part of me wanted to hide under the covers until it all went away.

But a bigger part—the part that had deliberately stayed up until 2 AM—wanted to know what happened next.