Page 16

I trembled in Duke's arms, my body still vibrating with the leftover fear from the day. His voice, deep and soothing as he promised "Daddy can make you feel better," wrapped around me like the safest blanket I'd ever known.

Duke's heartbeat thumped steadily against my ear, a metronome counting out seconds of borrowed security. The leather of his cut was cool against my cheek. I breathed it in, trying to anchor myself in the present moment, in the sanctuary of his clubhouse apartment.

"I've been thinking," he said, "after everything that’s been happening recently, you need a break from all this adult stress."

I frowned, not sure what he meant. A break? There was no breaking from Jesse's obsession with finding me, with punishing me for daring to leave him.

"Remember what we agreed in the contract?" he asked, his voice gentle. "That we would create space for your Little side?"

“I remember.”

“Now’s the time. I’ve got some things for you—things that should help you get into the right headspace.”

He looked at me with hope and tenderness. Then, he pulled out a big brown bag, and reached into it.

One by one, he pulled out items: a set of coloring books with intricate designs, a pack of scented markers, a soft fluffy rabbit with floppy ears, and a bottle of bubble bath with swirls of glitter suspended in the purple liquid.

"When did you get these?" I asked, my hand reaching out to touch the rabbit's fur. It was impossibly soft under my fingertips.

"This morning," Duke admitted, a hint of sheepishness in his expression. "I was going to surprise you tonight anyway, but now it seems like exactly what we both need." His hand covered mine where it rested on the rabbit's head. "A chance to let go of all this grown-up shit for a while. To just be taken care of."

Tears pricked at my eyes, surprising me with their sudden appearance. The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. Such a simple gesture—a stuffed animal, some coloring books—but the thoughtfulness behind it reached into a place inside me I'd locked away years ago. A place that remembered what it was like to feel safe, to be cared for without fear of what that care might cost.

"I don't..." I started, then stopped, not sure what I was trying to say. I didn't know how to do this? I didn't deserve this kindness? Both felt true in that moment.

Duke's eyes were patient, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of my hand. "It's okay to be scared," he said. "New things are scary. But I'll be right here the whole time."

A tear escaped, sliding down my cheek. Duke caught it with his finger.

"Would you like to try?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Just for tonight, forget about Serpents and contracts and just be my Little girl?"

The question hung in the air between us. Part of me wanted to say no, to insist I was fine, that I could handle this like the adult I was. But another part—a tired, frightened part—desperately wanted to surrender, to hand over the weight I'd been carrying for so long.

"Yes," I whispered, the word barely audible. Then, stronger: "Please."

Something shifted in Duke's expression, softened it. He lifted the stuffed rabbit and placed it in my arms. I clutched it reflexively, its softness a comfort against my chest.

"That's my good girl," he murmured, and the praise sent an unexpected warmth through me. "What should we name the bunny?"

The question caught me off guard, simple and childlike. I looked down at the rabbit's glass eyes, its embroidered pink nose. For a moment, I felt silly, a grown woman naming a stuffed animal. But Duke was watching me with such sincere interest that the feeling faded.

"Thumper," I said, the name coming to me from some long-ago memory of watching Bambi as a child.

Duke smiled, the expression transforming his usually stern face into something gentle. "Thumper it is," he agreed. "Now, how about we start with a nice bubble bath? Wash away the worries of the day?"

I nodded, surprised by the little flicker of excitement I felt. A bubble bath. So simple, so innocent.

I clutched Thumper to my chest and followed Duke toward the bathroom.

It didn’t take him long to run what looked like the most inviting bath of all time.

Steam curled through the air, carrying the unmistakable sweet smell of strawberries. The surface of the water sparkled with iridescent bubbles that caught the light and threw tiny rainbows against the white tile walls. Duke was kneeling beside the tub, his leather cut discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose muscled forearms covered in tattoos. His hands, so capable of strength when needed, tested the water with careful attention.

"Is this weird?" The question tumbled from my lips before I could stop it. Adult insecurities crashed through the fragile bubble of safety I'd been building. What was I doing? Playing pretend with the president of an MC? Acting like a child when there were real dangers lurking outside?

Duke glanced up, his eyes steady as they met mine. He dipped his wrist into the water, testing the temperature in such a paternal gesture that it made my heart squeeze.

"Nothing that makes you feel safe and happy is weird, Little One," he said, his voice low and certain. He stood, towering in the small bathroom, but somehow making the space feel more secure rather than cramped. "This is just for us—no judgment, no expectations."

His words settled around me like a blanket. “That sounds good.”

"Do you want Daddy to help you, or would you prefer privacy?" The question was simple, direct, with no hint of pressure in either direction.

The freedom to choose, to say no if I wanted to, was itself a kind of safety I was still learning to recognize.

"Help, please," I replied, and heard my own voice shift, becoming lighter, younger in tone. The change was subtle but unmistakable, and once I heard it, I couldn't unhear it.

Duke nodded, his expression serious but gentle. He approached slowly, telegraphing each movement as if approaching a skittish animal. "Let's put Thumper over here where she can watch but stay dry," he suggested, taking the stuffed rabbit and setting it carefully on the closed toilet lid.

His fingers moved to the hem of my t-shirt, pausing there. "Arms up for me?" The request was gentle, making it clear I could refuse.

I raised my arms, feeling distinctly childlike in the gesture. Duke lifted the shirt with clinical efficiency, his movements practical and respectful. There was nothing sexual in his touch as he helped me undress, though I couldn't help the flush that spread across my skin as each article of clothing was removed.

If Duke noticed my blush, he gave no indication. His focus remained steady, his movements purposeful as he helped me step out of my jeans, then my underwear. The vulnerability of standing naked before him sent a tremor through me, but his eyes never lingered, never made me feel objectified.

"Ready for the tub, Little One?" he asked, holding out his hand for support.

I nodded, taking his offered hand. He steadied me while I stepped into the water. The heat enveloped my foot, then my calf, then my thigh as I lowered myself into the bubbles. With each inch of comfort, I felt my worries lessen slightly. A small sigh escaped me as the warmth embraced my tired body.

Duke knelt beside the tub again, rolling his sleeves higher to keep them dry. "Good?" he asked.

I nodded, running my fingers through the bubbles, watching them part and reform around my hand. “It’s comfy in here, Daddy.” The tension that had held my muscles taut for so long began to melt away in the warmth.

"I have something else," Duke said, reaching behind him to produce a basket I hadn't noticed before. He set it on the edge of the tub and lifted the lid to reveal an assortment of colorful bath toys: rubber ducks in various sizes, small boats, and bubble wands.

The childish delight that rose in me was unexpected but not unwelcome. I picked up a yellow duck with a sailor's hat, and an eye patch, examining it with curious fingers.

"Captain Quack," Duke informed me with mock seriousness. "Very respected in maritime circles. Just don’t ask him how he lost his eye."

A smile tugged at my lips. Duke's playfulness was yet another side of him I was just discovering, a gentleness that seemed at odds with his imposing presence as an MC president, yet somehow fit him perfectly.

He lifted a bubble wand from the basket then raised it to his lips and blew gently. A stream of tiny bubbles floated across the tub, landing on my shoulder in a constellation of opalescent spheres.

Something tight inside me began to unwind. I found myself reaching for another duck, this one wearing a tiny crown.

"That's the Duchess," Duke explained, his deep voice softening. "Very high society, very particular about her bubble baths."

I ducked the toy beneath the water, then watched it bob back to the surface. "Does she know Captain Quack?" I asked, and was startled by how young my voice sounded, how free of the constant wariness that had colored it for months.

Duke's eyes crinkled at the corners. "They have tea every Tuesday," he confirmed solemnly. "Very formal affairs, but there’s something between them, so people say. Course it would be a scandal if someone as fancy as Duchess were to have a fling with a rogue like Quack." He glanced left and right before leaning in close and whispering, “He’s not even a real Captain!”

A laugh escaped me then, small but genuine. Duke's smile deepened in response, as if my laughter was a prize he'd been hoping to win.

For several minutes, we played with the toys, creating stories about the duck society and their maritime adventures. Duke showed me how to create a bubble beard, gathering foam in his palms and carefully applying it to his chin. I giggled at the sight of the fierce MC president with a bubble beard down to his chest.

"Your turn," he declared, scooping more bubbles.

I leaned forward, allowing him to sculpt a frothy crown atop my head. His fingertips brushed my temples, gentle and careful not to get soap in my eyes.

"A queen needs a crown," he murmured, his fingers lingering for just a moment on my cheek. "There. Perfect."

I caught my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall – hair piled high with bubbles, cheeks flushed from the heat, eyes brighter than I'd seen them in months. For a moment, I didn't recognize myself. The woman in the reflection looked . . . happy.

Duke reached for a bottle of shampoo, squeezing a small amount into his palm. "Lean back for me?" he asked.

I did, resting my head against the edge of the tub. Duke's fingers slid into my hair, massaging the shampoo into a lather. His touch was firm but gentle, working in small circles across my scalp. The tension I carried there —headaches from constant vigilance—began to dissolve under his ministrations.

"That feels nice," I murmured, my eyes drifting closed of their own accord.

"Good," Duke replied, his voice a low rumble above me. "You deserve nice things, Little One."

The simple statement brought unexpected tears to my closed eyes. I'd spent so long believing I deserved nothing but fear and pain—Jesse had made sure of that. Duke's casual kindness cut through those beliefs like a knife through butter, exposing them for the lies they were.

"Close your eyes, Little One," he instructed as he reached for the detachable showerhead. I felt his broad palm shield my forehead as warm water cascaded over my hair, rinsing away the soap. The gesture was so protective, so considerate, that it threatened to undo me completely.

"Good girl," he praised softly when I kept my eyes obediently closed.

Those two simple words sent a gentle warmth through me that had nothing to do with the bathwater. I felt myself slip deeper into Little space, the worries of the adult world receding further with each moment spent in Duke's careful hands.

When all the shampoo was rinsed away, Duke repeated the process with conditioner, his fingers working through tangles with infinite patience. By the time he was done, I felt relaxed in a way I couldn't remember feeling since childhood.

"Time to get out before you turn into a prune," Duke announced, standing to retrieve a towel from the rack. He shook it open—a huge, fluffy thing that looked big enough to wrap around me twice.

He held it open like welcoming arms. "Ready?"

I nodded, standing slowly, water and bubbles cascading down my body. Without hesitation or embarrassment, Duke wrapped the towel around me, enveloping me in softness and warmth. His movements remained respectful, focused on drying rather than lingering. Yet there was intimacy in the care, in the gentle way he patted my shoulders dry, the careful attention he paid to making sure I was comfortable.

As he worked, Diesel watched from the bath mat, head tilted as if supervising Duke's technique. The dog's presence added another layer of normalcy, of domesticity to the scene.

When Duke deemed me sufficiently dry, he wrapped the towel more securely around me and guided me toward the door. "I have something special for you to wear," he said, his eyes bright with that now-familiar mix of nurturing and pleasure at providing care.

I followed him from the bathroom, feeling lighter than I had in days.

"Special jammies for my special girl," he said, his gruff voice softened around the edges like a well-worn leather jacket. When I peeled back the paper, I found the softest pajamas I'd ever touched—pale blue cotton printed with silver stars and crescent moons that seemed to shimmer in the low light. I ran my fingers over the fabric, marveling at how something so simple could feel so precious.

"Do you like them?" Duke asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice that seemed out of place coming from the president of the Heavy Kings MC.

"They're beautiful," I whispered, clutching them to my chest. The towel slipped slightly, and Duke turned away, giving me privacy without being asked.

"Get dressed, Little One. I'll be waiting in the living room."

When he was gone, I let the towel drop and slipped into the pajamas. The fabric felt impossibly soft against my skin, still warm and flushed from the bath. The pants had an elastic waistband that sat comfortably on my hips, and the long-sleeved top hung loosely, not clinging anywhere.

The pajamas weren't sexy; they weren't meant to be. They were meant to make me feel comfortable, safe. That Duke had chosen them specifically for me, with care and thought, made them more meaningful than any expensive lingerie could ever be.

It made me glow with happiness.

I padded out to the living room, bare feet silent on the hardwood floors, and stopped short at what I found. Duke had transformed the space in the short time I'd been dressing. The coffee table had been pushed aside, and in its place was a nest of pillows and blankets arranged on the floor. The overhead lights were off, replaced by the warm glow of a few strategically placed lamps. Diesel was already curled contentedly at one edge of the setup, his wrinkled face watching me with what looked like approval.

Duke stood from where he'd been arranging a final pillow, his eyes sweeping over me in the new pajamas. His expression softened into something that made my heart stutter.

"Perfect," he said simply. "How do they feel?"

"Soft," I answered, running my hands down the sleeves. "Really soft."

He nodded, pleased. "Hungry, Little One?"

The question startled me. In the emotional roller coaster of the day—the contract signing, the Serpents' appearance, this new experience of Little space—I'd completely forgotten about food. Now that he mentioned it, I realized I was famished. I couldn't remember eating anything since a hurried piece of toast at breakfast.

"Yes," I admitted, somewhat sheepish.

Duke's smile widened. "Good timing. Dinner's ready." He held out his hand to me, and I took it without hesitation, letting him lead me to the small kitchen area of his apartment.

On the counter sat a tray that made me blink in surprise. Two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches had been cut into star shapes, crusts removed. Apple slices were arranged in the shape of a smiley face. And there, in a colorful plastic cup with a bendy straw, was chocolate milk. It was a child's meal, prepared with an adult's attention to detail.

"Daddy made dinner," Duke announced with exaggerated pride that made me giggle despite myself.

"You did all this while I was getting dressed?" I asked, amazed at the effort.

Duke shrugged, but I could see he was pleased by my reaction. "I'm a man of many talents," he said, picking up the tray. "Come on, let's eat in our fort."

Fort. The word made me smile. The pillow nest did look like a fort – like the kind of hideaway a child would create to feel safe and hidden from the world.

Duke led me back to the living room and settled the tray in the center of the pillow arrangement. He lowered himself to sit cross-legged, his large frame somehow making the childish setup seem more legitimate rather than absurd. He patted the space beside him, and I joined him, folding my legs beneath me.

"PB&J is the ultimate comfort food," Duke declared, handing me one of the star-shaped sandwiches. "Especially when it's star-shaped."

I took a bite, and the familiar flavors of peanut butter and grape jelly flooded my mouth. It was simple, ordinary, and perfect. We ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds being Diesel's contented snoring and the occasional clink of the tray as we reached for apple slices.

Duke watched me with quiet satisfaction as I ate, his own meal seemingly secondary to the pleasure of seeing me enjoy mine.

I reached for the chocolate milk, guiding the bendy straw to my lips. The sweet, cold liquid was a shock of simple pleasure. It reminded me of the first time I’d eaten with Duke, while Diesel had been in the veterinary clinic. I’d come a long way since then.

I was so caught up in the taste, the moment, that I didn't notice the straw slipping slightly. A drop of chocolate milk landed on the front of my new pajama top, a small brown splotch against the pale blue fabric.

Panic seized me instantly. I froze, the cup still in my hand, staring at the spot with horror disproportionate to the minor spill. Jesse's voice filled my head: Clumsy bitch. Look what you've done. Can't even drink without making a mess. You ruin everything you touch.

I braced for anger, for disgust, for the sharp words that always followed any mistake, no matter how small.