Page 27

Dex

I stood in the doorway of the independent bookstore, watching Cleo's face light up like Christmas morning.

The smell in here—old paper and fresh coffee—was too refined, too delicate.

Give me motor oil and metal any day. But seeing her fingers trail along book spines like they were made of gold, hearing that little hum she made when she was content—hell, I'd sit through a poetry slam if it kept that look on her face.

Cleo was glowing. She'd already hit the new releases, contemporary fiction, and now she was working her way through classics with the kind of focus I usually reserved for engine rebuilds.

"Find anything good?" I asked, sidling up behind her in the fiction section.

She jumped slightly, then leaned back into me. Natural as breathing now, the way she sought my touch. Three books pressed against her chest already, and she was eyeing a fourth—some thick thing with a dark cover and gold lettering.

"Everything," she said breathlessly. "I haven't been able to buy new books in . . . God, months. Years, maybe."

Another reminder of how she'd gone without, scraped by on nothing while taking care of everyone else. The shelter work, the long hours, the constant worry about money—she'd given up even small pleasures like books.

"Get whatever you want," I said, plucking the novel from the shelf and adding it to her stack.

"Dex, I can't—" She turned, eyes wide. "These are expensive. I saw the prices."

"My little girl doesn't go without books."

The possessive phrase slipped out before I could stop it. Pink bloomed across her cheeks, that sweet flush that went all the way down her neck. Still getting used to being claimed. To having someone who wanted to provide for her, protect her, spoil her rotten.

"But—"

"No buts." I took the books from her arms, freeing her hands to grab more. "You want it, you get it. Simple as that."

She bit her lip, fighting between pride and want. Want won. Always did with her, once she felt safe enough to admit what she needed.

By the time we hit the register, she had eight novels, two poetry collections, and a journal with a soft leather cover she'd touched three times before finally picking up.

The total made Sophia's eyebrows rise. Probably more than the store normally made in a whole day. I handed over my card without blinking.

"Thank you," Cleo whispered as we stepped outside, bag heavy with books clutched to her chest like treasure.

"Don't thank me for basic shit," I said, rougher than intended. "Taking care of you isn't extra credit. It's the baseline."

She went quiet at that, processing. I'd noticed she did that—stored away every word about what she deserved, what was normal, what she should expect. Building a new framework to replace the broken one her childhood had left her with.

T he park across the street was another compromise. Picnics weren't exactly my style. Give me a booth at King's Tavern or the couch in my apartment. But I'd researched this shit. Little activities. Soft dates. Things that would make her feel cherished and small and safe all at once.

The deli had packed our lunch in an actual wicker basket.

Felt like I was in some movie, spreading out the blanket I'd bought specifically for this.

But then Cleo dropped down onto it, carefully arranging her new books around her like a dragon with its hoard, and every awkward moment became worth it.

"This is perfect," she said, already cracking open one of the novels to smell the pages. Christ, the things this girl did to me. "How did you know?"

"You mentioned it once." I unpacked sandwiches, fruit, the thermos of too-fancy coffee. "Said your mom used to take you on picnics before she got sick. That you'd read while she sketched."

Her hands stilled on the book. "You remembered that?"

"I remember everything you tell me." Simple truth. Every story, every glimpse into who she'd been before life tried to break her—I hoarded them all.

We ate in comfortable quiet for a while. She alternated between bites of sandwich and paragraphs of her new book, completely absorbed. I leaned back on my elbows, watching clouds drift across the afternoon sky, enjoying the simple pleasure of her happiness.

This was what I'd been missing. Not just the dom thing, not just having someone to take care of. But this—the quiet moments. The way she unconsciously scooted closer until her hip pressed against my thigh. How she'd pause in her reading to feed me a strawberry, smiling when I nipped her fingers.

"Read to me?" I asked eventually.

She looked up, surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah." I shifted, laying my head in her lap. Bold move in public, but the park was mostly empty. "Want to hear your voice."

Her free hand found my hair, stroking through it as she started reading. Some story about a woman discovering magic in modern London. Not my thing, but her voice made it poetry. The way she lingered on certain phrases, how her breath caught at tense moments.

This was dangerous. This soft thing between us, growing stronger every day. I'd built walls after Vanessa, promised myself I'd never be vulnerable like that again. But here I was, head in a beautiful girl's lap while she read me fiction in a public park. Completely fucking gone for her.

"Dex?" She'd stopped reading. "You okay?"

"Yeah, baby." I caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Just thinking how lucky I am."

"I'm the lucky one," she said softly.

"Nah." I sat up, cupping her face in my hands. "I found you right when I needed you most. That's not luck. That's fate or some shit."

She laughed, wet and shaky. "You don't believe in fate."

"I believe in you," I said, and watched her eyes fill with tears. "That's enough."

She let out a long, contented sigh.

"Tell me about other Littles you've been with," she said, taking me be surprise.

The question hit like cold water down my spine. I'd been expecting it eventually—Cleo was too smart not to wonder about my past. But here, in our perfect afternoon bubble, it felt like bringing ghosts to a picnic.

I set down my coffee, buying time. The thermos clinked against the basket, too loud in the sudden quiet between us. Her tone wasn't jealous. Just curious. Like she wanted to understand what came before, what shaped me into the Dom sitting beside her.

"Just one," I said finally. "Her name was Vanessa."

Cleo waited, patient as always when she sensed something difficult coming. She'd pulled her knees up, arms wrapped around them, making herself smaller. But not pulling away. Never pulling away anymore.

"Met her about four years ago. Working at a bar downtown, living in her car half the time." I picked at the blanket edge, remembering. "Twenty-three years old and already broken by the system. Foster care, aged out with nothing, string of relationships that went from bad to worse."

"Like me," Cleo said quietly.

"No." The word came out sharp enough to make her flinch. I gentled my tone. "Nothing like you. But I didn't know that then."

I reached for her hand, needing the anchor. She gave it immediately, fingers threading through mine.

"She had all the markers. Desperate for structure, craved approval, responded to dominance like she'd been waiting for it her whole life. And me, fucking idiot that I was, I thought I could fix her."

"Fix her?"

"Yeah." The admission tasted sour. "Thought if I gave her enough rules, enough care, enough everything, I could undo all that damage. Make her whole again. Classic savior complex bullshit."

A bird landed near our blanket, pecking at crumbs. We watched it in silence while I gathered the harder words.

"Six months in, things were good. Or I thought they were. She'd moved in, was following protocols, seemed to be thriving. I was already looking at rings." I laughed, bitter and short. "Then I came home early from a run one night. Found her in my office, photographing club documents."

Cleo's hand tightened on mine. "What?"

"She was working for the Serpents. Had been the whole time." The rage still simmered, even years later. "Every moment of vulnerability, every time she called me Daddy, every fucking tear—all of it was an act. They were paying her to get close to me, gather intel on our operations."

"Oh, Dex." Her voice broke with sympathy I didn't deserve. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for the brothers who got hurt because I was thinking with my dick instead of my brain.

" I pulled my hand free, needing distance from her compassion.

"Two prospects ended up in the ground because of intel she passed along.

Could have been worse. Duke could have kicked me out. Should have."

"But he didn't."

"No. Said everyone gets one spectacular fuck-up. That was mine."

Cleo was quiet for a long moment, processing. When she spoke, her voice was small. "Is that why you were so careful with me at first? Why you kept pushing me away?"

"Part of it." I made myself look at her, needing her to understand. "But mostly because you're nothing like her. That's what scared me."

"I don't understand."

"Vanessa wanted me to fix her because it meant she didn't have to do the work herself.

You?" I reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You're not looking for someone to magically make you whole.

You're already doing that yourself. You just want someone to hold your hand while you do it. "

Her eyes filled with tears. "How do you know? How can you be sure I'm not . . ."

"Because you don't manipulate. Even when you're scared, even when you're hurting, you lead with truth.

Sometimes more truth than you mean to." I smiled, remembering all the times she'd blurted out exactly what she was thinking.

"And because the Serpents would never use someone who actually needed help.

Too much risk. They prey on people who can pretend. "