Page 14

H ot morning. Cold shower.

How had this even happened? I woke up and found that Duke was still right there next to me. It had felt good—so good—to be next to him, to touch his body through his clothes.

And his cock . . .

I shivered at the memory.

I sat at Duke’s small kitchen table, my hair still damp from the cold shower I'd taken to cool my overheated skin. My fingers traced invisible patterns on the worn wood as my mind replayed what had happened just minutes before—Duke's calloused hands skimming my sides, his lips hot against my neck, both of us breathing hard until he'd pulled away. This thing between us felt dangerous—not in the way Jesse had been dangerous, but in how badly I wanted it.

Diesel padded over and rested his chin on my knee, sensing my nervousness. I scratched behind his ears, grateful for his steady presence. "What do you think, boy?" I whispered. "Am I crazy for wanting this?" He blinked up at me with those soulful brown eyes, and I almost laughed at myself for seeking relationship advice from a dog—even a dog as wise as Diesel.

The bathroom door opened and Duke stepped into the kitchen wearing jeans and his trademark black t-shirt that clung to his still-damp skin, defining every muscle. My mouth went dry. His dark hair was slicked back from his shower, a few strands falling rebelliously across his forehead. The silver streaking his temples caught the light, giving him an air of authority that made my stomach tighten.

Our eyes met, and something electric passed between us. His steel-blue gaze held mine for a beat too long, and I looked away first, suddenly fascinated by the chipped mug between my hands.

"Doing okay?" he asked, his deep voice filling the small kitchen as he moved to the coffee maker.

"Yeah." I nodded. “Although it was hard to wait for you.”

Duke poured himself coffee, then refilled my mug without asking.

"Sorry it took so long. I really had to cool down. Hungry?" Duke asked, opening the fridge.

"I can make something," I offered quickly, half-rising from my chair.

Duke's hand pressed gently on my shoulder, easing me back down. "I got it." His touch lingered a second longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against my collarbone. "Toast and eggs okay?"

I nodded, watching as he moved efficiently around the kitchen. There was something intimate about seeing this powerful man—feared by rivals and respected by his club—performing such a domestic task. His broad back flexed under his shirt as he reached for a pan, and I caught myself staring at the way his jeans hugged his thighs.

We ate in a silence that wasn't quite comfortable but wasn't awkward either. It was charged with all the things we hadn't said yet, possibilities hovering between us like dust motes in the morning light. Duke finished first, pushing his plate aside and fixing me with that steady gaze that seemed to see right through me.

"I meant what I said earlier," he finally spoke, his voice steady and sure. "I want to be your Daddy, Mia. Not just in moments of need or comfort, but in a real, defined relationship."

The words sent a shiver through me—equal parts desire and fear. I'd been someone's "little girl" before.

"This would be about taking care of you, keeping you safe. About both of us getting what we need."

I swallowed hard, wanting to believe him. "What would it look like?" I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

Duke held up a finger, signaling me to wait. He stood and walked to his desk in the corner of the living area. I watched as he unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out a leather portfolio. My pulse quickened. Whatever was coming felt significant, ceremonial almost.

He returned and set the portfolio on the table between us. "I've got a template DDlg contract we can fill in. A framework for what that might look like between us."

I stared at the portfolio, startled by the formality. "A contract?"

"It's not legally binding," Duke explained, his expression softening. "It's about clarity. About making sure we both understand what we're agreeing to." His large hand rested on the leather cover. "I want you to know exactly what you can expect from me, and what I hope for from you."

The knot in my throat tightened with unexpected emotion. No one had ever approached my needs with such careful intention before. No one had ever bothered to make things clear.

"Can I see it?" I asked.

Duke didn't push the portfolio toward me. Instead, he said, "Absolutely. Like I said, it’s just a template, we need to make it specific to us. So take your time. Read it over. We'll talk through everything together. Nothing happens until we both agree."

I reached for the portfolio, my fingers brushing against Duke's. A tiny spark jumped between us—static from the dry air, but it jolted through me nonetheless.

I opened the portfolio and found a carefully typed document titled "DDlg Relationship Agreement." The professional presentation surprised me—this wasn't something Duke had thrown together on a whim. He'd put thought into this, preparation. For me.

"You had this ready," I said, looking up at him.

Duke's expression remained steady, but I caught a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. "It’s something I’ve looked into in the past. In fact, that document has been in my desk for nearly five years. Never met anyone I wanted to share it with." He leaned forward slightly. "I’m glad I had it though. It pays to be prepared."

“I can’t really believe this is happening.”

"We don't have to do this," Duke said, misreading me. "If it's too much—"

"No," I interrupted. "I want to read it. I want to understand . . . what this could be."

Duke nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Good. Let’s take a look together."

He settled next to me on the couch, close enough that the heat from his body warmed my side but not so close that I felt trapped. He set down two fresh mugs of coffee on the table, then turned his body slightly toward mine – a gesture that gave me space while still maintaining our connection.

I clutched the contract in fingers that trembled just slightly, my eyes scanning the first paragraph. The opening lines spoke of safety, consent, and mutual respect.

"Take your time," Duke said, his voice a low rumble that somehow sounded both authoritative and patient. "We're not in a rush."

I nodded and focused on the contract's first section. The document began with a clear statement of principles: our relationship would be safe, sane, and consensual at all times, with mutual respect as the foundation. It outlined what I could expect from Duke as my Daddy—protection, guidance, nurturing, and consistency. In return, it listed what he hoped for from me as his Little—honesty, communication of needs, and a willingness to accept care.

What struck me hardest was how the document framed my submission. Not as something Duke was entitled to or something I owed him, but as "a gift freely given." My throat tightened as I read that line twice, then three times.

"This part here," I said, pointing to a paragraph about renegotiation. "It says we can revisit any part of this agreement at any time if either of us feels it's not working."

Duke nodded. "That's important. People change. Needs change. This isn't set in stone."

I took a sip of coffee to hide the emotions threatening to spill over. Jesse had never allowed renegotiation. His rules were fixed, immutable, with consequences for even questioning them.

"I want to understand something," I said, looking up from the papers and meeting Duke's gaze directly. "What exactly do you get out of this?"

The question hung between us. Duke didn't answer immediately, and I appreciated that. It meant he was actually considering his response, not just giving me a line he thought I wanted to hear.

"Caring for you fulfills something deep in me," he finally said, his blue eyes holding mine steadily. "I'm naturally protective, naturally dominant, but I don't want to control you—I want to guide you, to create a space where you feel safe enough to be your whole self." He paused, then added, "When you let yourself be vulnerable with me, when you trust me to take care of you . . . that meets a need in me that nothing else does."

His honesty touched me. There was no manipulation in his words, no attempt to make me feel indebted.

"This should be balanced," he continued, gesturing to the contract. "A partnership where we both get what we need. If it ever becomes one-sided—if you're just trying to please me, or if I'm neglecting your needs—then we've lost the point of it. My years as President of the MC taught me that if people in an agreement aren’t happy, it falls apart."

I nodded, appreciating that he had addressed my unspoken fear—that I would become a burden rather than a joy. I turned back to the contract, reading through the sections on communication.

"So I'd call you Daddy . . . but only in private?" I asked, pointing to a paragraph about forms of address.

"That's the starting point I suggested," Duke confirmed. "But we can adjust that. Maybe there are certain trusted friends you'd eventually feel comfortable using that term around. Or maybe you'd rather not use it at all and find something else that feels right to you."

The fact that he presented it as a negotiation rather than a command made me brave enough to ask my next question. "And what would you call me?"

Duke's expression softened. "I was thinking Little One most of the time. Princess when you're being especially sweet. Baby Girl, too. And your name, Mia, when we're discussing something serious or when we're around others." His lips curved slightly. "But I'm open to what feels good to you."

I liked those names. They made me feel cherished and a little regressed. I nodded my approval and made a note in the margin.

We moved on to discussing the practicalities: how we'd communicate when Duke was busy with club business, what our routine might look like, and how we'd check in regularly to see if the dynamic was working for both of us.

"What about when you're away on MC business?" I asked. "The contract says daily check-ins, but . . ."

"Even when I'm away, I'll make time to call," Duke said firmly. "If I absolutely can't—if we're in a situation where phones aren't safe—I'll make sure Tyson or Thor checks on you." He leaned forward. "You won't be left wondering or waiting, Mia. That's a promise. And of course, we’re working toward getting you a little more freedom. When the heat from the Serps is off, life will be more normal again."

The certainty in his voice soothed an anxiety I hadn't even fully acknowledged.

I kept reading, surprised at how comprehensive the document was. It included sections on privacy, on how disputes would be handled, on health concerns.

"This part about medical information," I said, tapping a section that requested disclosure of any health conditions. "I don't have insurance. I haven't seen a doctor in years."

Duke's face tightened briefly, but he didn't comment on the neglect that statement revealed. Instead, he said, "We'll change that. The club has connections with a clinic in town. Discreet, good people."

I chewed my lip, then ventured, "I'd like to add something here." I pointed to a section about personal space. "I need to know that Diesel is always welcome. That he's part of this arrangement too."

Duke didn't hesitate. "Of course. We'll add a specific clause about Diesel's place in our home." He reached for a pen and made a note directly on the document. "He's important to you, so he's important to me. Plus I love the little scamp."

Our home. The casual way he said it made my chest ache. I'd never had a real home, not one that felt safe and permanent.

"This section here," I said, pointing to a paragraph about Duke's responsibilities. "It says you'll provide guidance and structure, but I'd like it to specify that you'll explain the reasoning behind rules. That you won't just expect me to follow blindly."

"Good point," Duke said, making another note. "That's important. I want you to understand the 'why' behind everything I ask of you."

His readiness to accept my input without defensiveness or irritation stunned me. With each suggestion I made and each modification he accepted, I felt a little bolder, a little more secure. This wasn't just Duke allowing me to have input; he genuinely valued my perspective.

We spent the next hour going through the contract line by line. Duke explained terms I didn't understand, listened attentively to my concerns, and readily incorporated my suggestions. When I worried that a particular expectation might be difficult for me, he adjusted it rather than insisting I adapt. When I expressed hesitation about certain activities, he immediately moved them to the "discuss further" category rather than pressing for inclusion.

Throughout our discussion, Diesel remained curled at my feet, occasionally raising his head when my voice betrayed tension or emotion. Duke noticed this too, sometimes pausing our conversation to give me time to pet Diesel and calm myself.

"You okay?" Duke asked during one such moment, his voice gentle.

I nodded, then decided honesty was better. "It's just . . . different. Having my opinion matter."

Something flashed in Duke's eyes—anger, maybe, but not directed at me. His jaw tightened briefly before he controlled his expression. "Your opinion always matters here, Mia. Always."

As we approached the end of the general sections, before the more specific parts about rules and intimacy, Duke set down his pen and turned to face me fully.

"How are you feeling about all this so far?" he asked.

"Cautiously hopeful," I admitted. "It's a lot to take in, but I like how clear everything is."

Duke nodded, his expression serious. "Clarity is crucial. I never want you wondering where you stand with me or what I expect." He reached for my hand, his large palm enveloping mine. "I meant what I said at the beginning, Mia. This isn't just about what I want. If any part of this doesn't feel right to you, we change it or remove it completely."

I looked down at our joined hands—his scarred and powerful, mine small in comparison but not overwhelmed.

"I want this," I said softly, finally giving voice to the truth I'd been dancing around. "I want what we're describing here."

Duke's fingers tightened slightly around mine, and when I glanced up, I saw a warmth in his eyes that made my pulse quicken.

"Good," he said simply. "Let's keep going, then."

We turned to the next section of the contract, and I felt my pulse quicken. Rules and Consequences.

These rules surprised me. There were no mandates about my clothing or appearance. No restrictions on who I could talk to. No demands for constant updates on my whereabouts. Instead, his rules focused almost exclusively on my well-being:

1. Regular meals – at least three per day

2. Adequate sleep – minimum of seven hours nightly

3. Honesty about feelings, needs, and fears

4. Proper self-care, including regular showers and taking any prescribed medications

5. No self-destructive behaviors or putting yourself in danger

6. Using your safeword when needed without fear of consequences

7. No leaving the apartment without checking in with Daddy.

I read the list twice, then looked up at Duke in confusion. "These are all about taking care of me."

"That's the point," he said simply. "These rules aren't about controlling you, Mia. They're about making sure your basic needs are met." He tapped the paper. "I've seen how you put Diesel's needs before your own. How you'll skip meals to make sure he eats. These rules are to remind you that you deserve care too."

"I added a note about the safeword," Duke continued, "because I want to be absolutely clear: using it is never wrong, and you'll never be punished for it." His voice took on an edge of steel. "Ever."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

“What would you like to choose?”

“Um, how about, home?”

“Home? Sure, that works.” He smiled.

"What about when I break the rules?" I asked. "What happens then?"

Duke gestured to the next section. "That's outlined here. The consequences are designed to be instructive, not punitive."

I read through the suggested consequences—early bedtimes, loss of privileges like TV or dessert, writing lines, corner time. All non-violent, all focused on reflection rather than suffering.

"These seem . . . a little mild," I ventured, not quite sure how to express what I was thinking.

Duke's expression remained neutral. "They're meant to be. The goal isn't to hurt or humiliate you, Mia. It's to guide you back to the behaviors that keep you safe and healthy."

I nodded, chewing my lower lip as I worked up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on my mind since we began discussing consequences. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I had to force the words out.

"What about . . . physical discipline?" The words came out barely above a whisper.

Duke didn't react outwardly, though I caught a slight sharpening in his gaze, an increased focus as he studied my face.

"That would be entirely your choice, Little One," he said evenly. "I don't need it to establish authority."

His careful neutrality gave me courage. He wasn't eager for it, wasn't pushing me toward it, but he wasn't dismissing the possibility either.

I picked at a loose thread on my jeans, gathering my thoughts. "Jesse used to . . . he called it discipline, but it wasn't. It was just him hurting me because he could. Because he was angry. Or bored. Or high." I swallowed hard. "The thing is, before him, I used to think about . .. that kind of dynamic. In a different way."

Duke stayed quiet, letting me find my words without interruption.

"I want to reclaim that," I finally said, looking up to meet his eyes. "I want to understand how it can be different with someone who respects me. Someone who won't . . . who won't use it to break me down."

Understanding dawned in Duke's eyes, and he nodded slowly. "You want to take back what he stole from you."

"Yes." The simple acknowledgment made my eyes sting. "Exactly."

Duke considered this for a long moment, his expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "We could explore spanking, but with strict parameters," he finally suggested. "Always with a warm-up. Always with aftercare. Never in anger. And always with a clear safeword that you control completely."

The knot in my chest loosened slightly at his measured response. This wasn't a man eager to inflict pain—this was someone willing to help me heal, even if the path was unconventional.

"What would that look like exactly?" I asked, needing the specifics, the boundaries that would make me feel safe.

Duke leaned forward, his expression serious. "First, it would never be impulsive. We'd discuss it beforehand, make sure we're both in the right headspace. I'd never discipline you physically when either of us is upset or angry."

I nodded. Jesse had been most dangerous when angry, his "discipline" an outlet for his rage rather than anything to do with my behavior.

"Second," Duke continued, "we'd establish clear limits on implements and intensity. For example, maybe we agree that only my hand is used at first, nothing more severe."

"And location," I added, finding my voice stronger now that we were discussing specifics. "Only . . . only on my bottom. Nowhere else." Jesse had struck me anywhere he could reach—my thighs, my back, once even my face when he was particularly out of control.

Duke nodded firmly. "Absolutely. Location limits are non-negotiable." He made a note on the contract. "Third, we establish a duration limit. A set number of strikes that won't be exceeded, no matter what."

"Ten?" I suggested tentatively, testing whether he'd push for more.

"Ten is fair," Duke agreed without hesitation. "We could revisit that limit later if you wanted to, but we'd never exceed the agreed number." He paused, then added, "And fourth, most importantly, you have full veto power. If you say stop—if you use your safeword—everything ends immediately. No questions, no attempts to continue, no disappointment or anger from me."

The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. "What about . . . conditions when it would never happen? Even if I'd broken a rule?"

Duke's expression softened. "Good question. Let's specify those clearly." He thought for a moment. "Never if you're ill or injured. Never if you're overly tired or emotional. Never if you've been drinking or taking medication that might affect your judgment. Never if I've been drinking." He looked at me. "What else would you add to that list?"

I considered, touched that he was asking for my input rather than dictating terms. "Never in front of anyone else," I said firmly. "Never as a first response to a broken rule—talking should always come first. And never . .. never on days when I'm already feeling vulnerable or having bad memories."

Duke nodded, writing each condition down without question. "All reasonable and important boundaries." He looked up from the paper. "Anything else you want to specify?"

"Aftercare," I said, the word coming out stronger than I expected. "What would that be like?"

"Of course." Duke's lips curved in the barest hint of a smile—not mocking, but approving of my advocacy for myself. "What would good aftercare look like for you, Mia?"

I took a moment to really think about what would make me feel safe and valued after an intense experience.

"Holding me," I said finally. "Reassurance that I'm forgiven, that we're okay. Maybe a warm blanket, something to drink. Just . . . not being left alone right after." My voice grew smaller. "And no sex afterward. Not right away. I need those things to be separate."

Duke wrote each item down without comment, his expression serious and focused. "These are good, clear boundaries, Mia. Thank you for trusting me enough to share them."

“I really like it,” I said. “It feels good to talk to you like this.”

"One last thing," Duke said, his pen poised above the paper. "I want to establish a check-in protocol for after any discipline. Maybe the next morning, or a few hours later, we sit down and talk about how it went for both of us. What felt right, what didn't, any adjustments we might need to make." He looked up at me. "How does that sound?"

"Really good."

As Duke finished writing down our agreed parameters, I felt something I hadn't expected—a sense of liberation. With the right person, with clear boundaries and mutual respect, they could be healthy expressions of our dynamic.

We moved to the next section of the contract, and my mouth went dry. Physical Intimacy. My fingers tightened on the edge of the paper, and Duke noticed, his eyes tracking the movement.

"We can take a break if you need," he offered, his voice low and without pressure.

But I shook my head. If we were doing this—really doing this—then I needed to face every part of it, including the ghosts Jesse had left in my bedroom.

"The contract distinguishes between 'hard limits' and 'soft limits,'" Duke explained, pointing to the definitions at the top of the page. "Hard limits are boundaries that are never to be crossed under any circumstances. Soft limits are things you might be willing to explore eventually, with proper preparation and trust."

I nodded, understanding the distinction. "And you want me to list both?"

"I want you to be specific about both categories," Duke said, meeting my eyes. "I need to know exactly where the lines are so I never risk crossing them unintentionally." His expression remained steady, professional almost, but I could see the genuine concern behind his words. "Your hard limits are absolute law to me, Mia. Not suggestions or challenges—law."

The conviction in his voice steadied me. I took a deep breath and began listing my hard limits—things Jesse had forced on me that I never wanted to experience again. Some were easy to name; others caught in my throat, memories rising up with the words.

"No restraints," I started, my voice quiet but firm. "Nothing binding my wrists or ankles." I didn't explain that Jesse had once tied me to a bed and left me there for hours when he went out drinking, returning too wasted to remember I was there.

Duke simply nodded and wrote it down.

"No name-calling or humiliation," I continued. "Nothing that makes me feel . . . less." Jesse had excelled at that—breaking me down with words when his hands were tired.

"Absolutely not," Duke agreed, his pen moving across the paper.

I hesitated on the next one, struggling to find the right words. Duke waited patiently, not pushing me to continue.

"No sharing," I finally managed. "Just us. Only us." I couldn't bring myself to elaborate on the night Jesse had brought friends home, drunk and high, suggesting they "take turns" with me. I'd locked myself in the bathroom until they left, earning a beating for my "disobedience."

A muscle in Duke's jaw tightened, the only indication that he might have guessed the story behind my boundary. "Never," he said firmly. "You're mine to protect, not to share."

The possessive note in his voice soothed rather than alarmed me. This was protection, not control.

I faltered, unsure how to articulate certain boundaries, Duke offered gentle prompts without pushing me. "What about positions? Are there any you find uncomfortable or triggering?"

I nodded gratefully for the framework. "Yes. Nothing from behind where I can't see your face."

We continued through my list, Duke recording each limit without judgment. When I finally ran out of words, feeling drained but somehow lighter, Duke set down his pen.

"Thank you for trusting me with these boundaries," he said, his voice pitched low and sincere. "I know that wasn't easy."

I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

"Maybe it would help if I shared some of my interests first," Duke suggested, shifting the focus from my trauma to possibilities. "You don't have to respond right away—just listen and consider what might eventually appeal to you."

I felt a rush of gratitude for his perceptiveness. He understood exactly what I needed—a bridge from my past to potential future pleasure.

Duke described scenarios that emphasized his protective, nurturing instincts while acknowledging the physical attraction between us. He talked about the satisfaction he found in caring for a partner, in creating a safe space for vulnerability. He mentioned enjoying being the provider of both comfort and pleasure, taking his time, being attentive to responses.

"I like the anticipation," he admitted, his voice deepening slightly. "The build-up. Watching someone I care about respond to my touch, knowing they feel safe enough to let go completely."

The images his words evoked sent heat curling through my belly. This wasn't about conquest or dominance for its own sake—this was about connection, about mutual satisfaction rooted in trust.

“Maybe I could be Daddy, teaching you about your body. About what gives you pleasure? Or I could bathe you, massage you, slowly build into something more intimate. I’d also like to praise my Good Girl, make you know how desired you are.”

Duke's openness gave me permission to voice tentative desires of my own. "I'd like . . . to be taken care of," I began hesitantly. "To not have to be strong or in control all the time. To just . . . feel. Being praised would be good."

Duke nodded encouragingly, and I continued, each admission becoming easier.

"I want to feel safe enough to let go. To not have to think so much. To be guided." The words came halting at first, then more steadily as Duke's expression remained receptive, never mocking. "I want to explore age regression further than I've ever allowed myself. Not just in moments of stress or fear, but . . . intentionally."

I paused, took a breath, and added, "I've always wanted a dedicated space. A corner with my coloring books, stuffed animals, maybe . . ." I trailed off, embarrassment finally overtaking courage.

"An area where you can get into Little space," Duke completed for me, his voice matter-of-fact, not condescending. "We could set that up. This apartment is your home now too."

The simple acceptance in his voice, free of mockery or disgust, brought tears to my eyes. I blinked rapidly, determined not to cry, but moved beyond words by his easy accommodation of a desire I'd never dared voice aloud.

"We could convert part of the guest room," Duke continued, as if we were discussing something as ordinary as a reading nook. "Get you whatever supplies make you feel comfortable. It would be your space, accessible whenever you need it."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

We continued through the remaining sections of the contract, adding final notes and clarifications. By the time we finished, the document had transformed from Duke's template into something uniquely ours—a testament to possibilities I had never thought achievable, a promise of the safety and understanding I'd always craved.

The moment felt ceremonial as Duke slid the completed contract across the table along with a pen. "Take all the time you need," he said. "This isn't something to rush into."

But I didn't hesitate. I signed my name with steady hands, then passed the document back to Duke, who added his own signature below mine.

A weight I hadn't realized I was carrying lifted from my shoulders as I watched him date the final page. This was real. This was happening. And for the first time, I wasn't jumping blindly into an arrangement that would hurt me—I was stepping deliberately into a relationship built on mutual understanding and respect.

Duke set the contract aside and reached for me, pulling me gently onto his lap. His large hands cupped my face with exquisite tenderness.

"My Little One," he whispered, the possessive claim in his voice sending shivers down my spine. “It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life to call you that.”

Our lips met in a kiss that began gentle but quickly deepened, kindling the desire that had been building all morning. I felt his solid strength beneath me, the controlled power in his touch as his hands slid down my back, drawing me closer. I melted against him, surrendering to the safety of his embrace while my fingers explored the breadth of his shoulders and the firm muscles of his chest.

Our breathing quickened as the kiss grew more urgent. Duke's hand slipped beneath my shirt, warm against my skin, and I arched into his touch. His other hand tangled in my hair, tugging gently to tilt my head back, exposing my neck to his lips. The scratch of his stubble against my sensitive skin made me gasp.

Just as I lost myself in the sensation, a sharp knock at the door broke the moment. Three rapid taps—distinct, intentional.

Duke groaned against my lips, then pulled back reluctantly. "That's Tyson's knock," he explained, his voice rough with frustrated desire. "He wouldn't interrupt unless it was important."

I slid off his lap, straightening my clothes as Duke moved to answer the door. My skin still tingled where he'd touched me, my lips feeling swollen and sensitive.

Tyson stood in the doorway, his expression grim. His eyes flickered briefly to me with an apologetic look before returning to Duke.

"Sorry to interrupt, but we've got trouble," he said without preamble. "Serpents spotted at the north checkpoint. Three of them, including Jesse."

The name hit me like ice water. My entire body went cold, anxiety flooding my system so quickly I felt lightheaded. Duke's posture shifted instantly—the tender lover replaced by the club president. His shoulders squared, jaw tightening, the relaxed intimacy of moments ago vanishing beneath a mask of controlled anger.

"How long ago?" Duke asked, his voice clipped.

"Twenty minutes. Thor's keeping eyes on them. They're at the gas station just inside our territory, looking like they're waiting for something or someone."

Duke nodded once, sharply. "I'll be right there."

Tyson glanced at me again, genuine concern in his eyes, before nodding and stepping back. "I'll wait downstairs."

Duke closed the door and turned back to me. I knew he could see the fear written across my face because his expression softened slightly as he crossed the room to where I stood frozen.

"Hey," he said gently, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Don’t worry. We'll finish what we started." His grip tightened slightly, reassuring. "I'll keep you safe, Mia. That's a promise."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. "Stay here. Lock the door behind me. I'll be back as soon as I can."

I nodded, trying to look braver than I felt. Duke grabbed his cut from the back of a chair and shrugged it on, the Heavy Kings MC president patch catching the light. The transformation was complete—from Duke my Daddy to Duke the MC president, ready to confront threats to his territory and his people.

As the door closed behind him, I turned the deadbolt as instructed, then stood in the sudden silence. My eyes fell on the signed contract still lying on the table. Despite the fear coursing through me at the thought of Jesse being so close, I felt a strange sense of certainty.

Whatever happened next, whatever Jesse was planning, I wasn't facing it alone this time. The contract wasn't just paper—it was a tangible reminder that despite the threats looming outside, something beautiful and healing had begun within these walls.

Diesel padded over to me, pressing his warm body against my legs as if sensing my anxiety. I crouched to bury my fingers in his fur, drawing comfort from his steady presence.

"It's going to be okay," I whispered, not sure if I was reassuring him or myself.