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Dex

I watched Cleo from across the kitchen, cataloging worries.

She sat at the table with her coffee, but wrong—perched on the edge of her chair instead of curled into it like a cat. Her spine stayed rigid when it should have been soft. Even the way she held her mug had changed, both hands wrapped around it like armor instead of cradling it loose and easy.

Three days of this. Three days of watching her pull away in increments small enough that someone else might have missed them. But I'd lived this pattern before, knew the signs like road markers warning of dangerous curves ahead.

Her little space in the corner hadn't been touched since Tuesday.

The coloring books I'd picked up for her—fairy tales and garden scenes she'd squealed over just last week—gathered dust on the low table.

The fuzzy blanket she usually wrapped around herself while she colored lay folded with military precision.

Even Mr. Friendly lay abandoned on the dining room table.

The physical distance was bad enough. She used to press against me every chance she got, seeking touch like a flower seeking sun.

Now she maintained careful space between us, always just out of reach.

When I'd pulled her onto my lap yesterday morning, she'd gone stiff as a board before sliding away with excuses about being late for work.

But it was the absence of that one word that really told the story.

She hadn't called me Daddy in three days.

Not once. Not during sex, not in those drowsy morning moments when her guard dropped, not even when I'd used that particular tone that usually had her melting.

Just "Dex" in that careful, measured way that put miles between us.

Yesterday was when I'd known for sure something was deeply wrong. I'd come home to find her sitting on the couch, staring at her phone like it held bad news.

"Hey, little one," I'd said, settling beside her. "Rough day?"

She'd flinched at the endearment. Actually flinched, like I'd slapped her instead of offered comfort.

"I'm fine." The response came automatic, empty. "Just tired."

"Want to do some coloring? Might help you relax." I'd gestured toward her corner, trying to coax her back to that soft space where she let me take care of her.

"I'm not really feeling little." She'd stood abruptly, that too-bright smile stretching across her face like a mask. "Actually, I don't think I need that stuff anymore. I'm getting better at managing on my own."

The words had hit like cold water in the face. Getting better at managing on my own. The exact phrase Vanessa had used when she'd started pulling away, right before I'd discovered she'd been feeding information to the Iron Serpents for months.

Playing vulnerable while planning betrayal.

The memory of it still burned—finding those text messages, realizing every soft moment had been calculated, every time she'd called me Daddy had been manipulation.

Now here was Cleo, going through the same motions. The gradual pulling away, the insistence on independence, the rejection of vulnerability like it was poison.

"You want to talk about whatever's been eating at you?" I asked now, settling into the chair across from her.

She looked up sharply, and for just a moment I caught it—fear flickering across her face before she locked it down behind that brittle smile.

"Nothing's eating at me." Her hands tightened around her mug until her knuckles went white. "I'm just . . . growing up, I guess. Getting more comfortable with taking care of myself."

"There's nothing wrong with letting me take care of you," I said, fighting to keep my voice level when every instinct screamed that history was repeating itself. "That's what we agreed on. What we both wanted."

"Maybe I want something different now." She wouldn't meet my eyes, staring into her coffee like it held answers.

The words landed like physical blows. Different. Like what we'd built meant nothing. Like the trust she'd given me was something to be discarded once she didn't need it anymore.

Could it really all be over so quickly?

I thought about the way she'd bloomed under structure and care, color returning to her cheeks, that spark coming back to her eyes. The way she'd whispered "Daddy" like it was a prayer, like it was the only word that made sense.

All of it evaporating like morning mist, leaving me with a stranger wearing Cleo's face.

"Cleo, look at me." My voice came out rougher than I intended, edged with the kind of controlled desperation that hit when you watched something precious slipping through your fingers.

She froze, shoulders tensing like she was bracing for impact.

When she finally turned, when those hazel eyes finally met mine, I saw everything she'd been trying to hide.

Guilt twisted her features, fear darkened her eyes, and underneath it all, something that looked like grief.

Like she was already mourning what we were about to lose.

"Whatever's going on, we can handle it." I stood slowly, not wanting to spook her but needing to close the distance between us. "But you have to talk to me. You have to let me in."

Her lips parted, and I saw it—the moment where the wall cracked.

Her whole body swayed toward me like she wanted to collapse into my arms, wanted to let me catch whatever burden was breaking her spine.

The words were right there, hovering on her lips, and I leaned forward, ready to catch whatever truth she'd been carrying alone.

"Dex, I—" Her voice broke, eyes going glassy with unshed tears. "There's something I need to—"

The phone on the table buzzed with the specific pattern that meant emergency. Three short, three long, three short. Church. Now.

I wanted to ignore it. Wanted to throw the fucking thing against the wall and hold Cleo until she finished whatever confession was tearing her apart. But that pattern meant brothers in danger, meant the kind of situation that could end in blood if not handled immediately.

The screen lit up with Duke's name, followed immediately by a text that made my blood run cold: "Get your ass here NOW. Serpent situation."

Serpent situation. The words might as well have been written in neon, might as well have been screaming what I'd been trying not to think for three days.

"Fuck." The word escaped before I could stop it, and I saw Cleo flinch at the violence in it.

"What is it?"

"Emergency church meeting." I grabbed my jacket from the hook, movements sharp with frustration. "Serpent business."

The relief that flashed across her face was unmistakable. Pure, undiluted relief that she didn't have to finish her confession, didn't have to trust me with whatever truth had been eating her alive. It hit worse than any physical blow, that obvious gratitude for the interruption.

She was glad I was leaving. Glad to avoid whatever breakthrough we'd been approaching. Glad to retreat back behind her walls where I couldn't reach her.

"Be careful," she said, but the words were empty as a drained gas tank. There was distance in them, the kind of polite concern you'd offer a stranger, not the desperate worry of someone who called you Daddy in the dark.

I crossed to her in two strides, needing something, anything to bridge the gap that kept widening between us. My hand found her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone with the same gentleness I'd use on bruised fruit.

"We're finishing this when I get back." It wasn't a request, wasn't a suggestion. It was a promise and a threat wrapped in the same words. "Whatever's going on, Cleo, we're going to figure it out. Okay?"

She nodded, but her eyes were already sliding away, already planning her retreat. I could see her rebuilding those walls in real time, brick by wretched brick.

I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, memorizing it in case—no. I wouldn't think like that. Wouldn't accept that this might be the last time I touched her while she still belonged to me.

My phone buzzed again. Duke, getting impatient. Whatever was happening, it was big enough to have our president's blood up, and that never ended well for anyone.

"I have to go." The words tasted like ash, but duty called, and I'd sworn oaths that couldn't be ignored, not even for the woman currently slipping through my fingers like smoke.

I grabbed my keys, the familiar weight of them grounding me in the moment. This was real. The club was real. The Serpent threat was real. Whatever was happening with Cleo, I'd deal with it when I got back.

"Dex?" Her voice stopped me at the door, small and uncertain.

I turned, hope flaring in my chest like a struck match. Maybe she'd tell me now. Maybe she'd trust me enough to—

"Ride safe." That was all.Two words that meant nothing and everything, delivered in a tone that said goodbye more clearly than any farewell.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and walked out the door.

The hallway stretched ahead of me, fluorescent lights buzzing like angry wasps, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was already too late.

That whatever was about to happen at church, whatever the Serpents were planning, it was already in motion.

And Cleo—my little one, my brave girl who'd forgotten how to trust me—was right in the middle of it.

T he clubhouse was in full crisis mode when I arrived, bikes lined up outside like soldiers awaiting orders. I could feel the tension before I even killed my engine—that electric charge in the air that meant violence was coming, just a question of when and how much.

Inside, brothers clustered around the chapel table with expressions ranging from grim to murderous.

Duke sat at the head like a war chief preparing for battle, and even from across the room I could see the cold fury radiating off him in waves.

That particular stillness that meant someone was about to bleed.