Page 17

Duke simply reached for a napkin from the tray and gently dabbed at the spot.

"No worries, Little One," he said, his voice casual, unconcerned. "That's what washing machines are for."

The breath I'd been holding escaped in a shuddering exhale. My hand trembled, sloshing the milk dangerously close to the rim of the cup. Duke noticed and gently took it from me, setting it safely on the tray.

"Hey," he said, his brow furrowing in concern. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't answer. The contrast between what I'd expected and what had happened was too stark, the relief too overwhelming. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over before I could stop them.

"Mia," he said softly, taking my hands in his. "It's just a little milk. Even if you'd spilled the whole cup, it wouldn't matter. Even if you spilled a million cups."

Logically, I knew a drop of milk on a washable pajama top was nothing to fear. But years of conditioning had taught my body to expect punishment for even the smallest imperfection.

Duke's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of my hand as he waited for me to calm. When my breathing steadied, he reached up to tenderly lift my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"What's wrong, baby girl?" he asked, though I suspected he already knew.

The words tumbled out, vulnerable and raw. "You're so nice to me. Even when I mess up."

"That's what being your Daddy means," he said softly, but with absolute conviction. "Caring for you through mistakes, not despite them."

Duke's fingers brushed a stray tear from my cheek. "Your job isn't to be perfect, Little One. Your job is just to be you. The real you, whoever that is in each moment."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Duke smiled, that rare, soft smile that seemed reserved just for me.

"Now," he said, picking up my cup and holding it out, "would you like to finish your chocolate milk? I promise the washing machine won't mind if we have to do an extra load."

I took the cup, guiding the straw carefully to my lips, and took a deliberate sip.

"Good girl," Duke praised quietly, and again those simple words sent warmth flooding through me.

We finished our meal surrounded by pillows and blankets, with Diesel snoring softly beside us. Outside this apartment, dangers waited. The Serpents, Jesse's obsession, the complicated world of MC politics—none of it had disappeared. But for now, sitting cross-legged in star-speckled pajamas, eating a peanut butter sandwich cut into the shape of a star, I felt sheltered from it all.

As the evening unfolded, Duke revealed an understanding of Little space that spoke of experience and thoughtfulness. He had tons of activities, all in a big pink box, ready to go, which seemed perfectly designed to help me slip deeper into regression. My adult mind observed this with a kind of detached fascination—watching myself respond to these childish things with genuine pleasure, seeing the hard edges of my trauma-sharpened personality soften under his careful attention. It should have felt strange. Instead, it felt like finding a piece of myself I'd thought was gone forever.

"What would you like to do first?" Duke asked, setting the basket between us in the pillow nest. He'd cleared away the dinner tray, leaving us comfortably ensconced in our makeshift fort.

I looked at what was available to me. Coloring books with intricate designs – not the simple outlines of children's books, but the more complex patterns of adult coloring books. A set of wooden blocks, smooth and painted in primary colors. Another bubble wand with a bottle of solution. A few other items nestled at the bottom that I couldn't quite make out.

My fingers hovered uncertainly over the options. Jesse had always decided how we spent our time together. Choosing for myself felt foreign, almost dangerous.

"Whatever you want is fine," Duke said, misreading my hesitation as concern for his preferences. "This time is for you."

I touched the coloring book on top, drawn to its pattern of stars and moons that matched my pajamas. "This one," I said, pulling it from the basket.

Duke nodded approvingly. "Fantastic choice. And look," he said, producing a pack of markers from the basket. "These are special ones. Scented."

He peeled back the packaging, revealing a set of markers in bright colors. Uncapping a purple one, he held it out to me. "Smell."

I leaned forward, inhaling cautiously. The sweet scent of grape filled my nostrils, unexpectedly pleasant. A small smile tugged at my lips.

"Try the green one," Duke encouraged, clearly pleased by my reaction.

The green marker smelled like apple, the pink like strawberry. Each scent was artificial but cheerful, evoking childhood memories of stickers and candy.

We moved the basket aside, spreading the coloring book open on a pillow between us. Duke selected the blue marker—blueberry scented—and I chose the purple. Together, we began filling in the elaborate pattern of celestial shapes.

I focused on staying within the lines, on selecting colors that pleased me, on the gentle scratch of marker against paper. The pressures of the outside world receded further with each section I completed.

Duke colored beside me, his large hand dwarfing the marker, moving with surprising delicacy for a man whose hands I'd seen break up bar fights and work on motorcycle engines. Occasionally our elbows would brush, a casual contact that felt both ordinary and significant.

"You have a good eye for color," Duke commented, nodding at the portion I'd completed—a crescent moon in shades of purple and blue. "You're a fucking artist."

The compliment warmed me. "I used to draw a lot," I admitted. "Before . . ."

I let the sentence trail off, but Duke understood. Before Jesse.

"Well, you can start again," Duke suggested, his tone carefully casual. "The club's been wanting new designs for some merch. T-shirts and stuff. If you're interested."

The offer was presented lightly, but I understood what he was really saying: You have a place here. You have value beyond being protected. You have a future.

When we'd filled several pages with color, Duke reached for the wooden blocks. "Want to build something with me?"

I set aside the markers and helped him arrange the blocks on the floor. They were smooth beneath my fingers, worn at the edges from use. I wondered if they'd been Duke's as a child, or if he'd bought them specifically for moments like this.

"When I was a kid," Duke said as he carefully balanced one block atop another, "my dad would build towers just so I could knock them down." A smile touched his lips at the memory. "Big Mike Carson, feared president of the Heavy Kings, spending hours building block towers for his son to destroy."

"Did you always want to be like him?" I asked, placing a red block on our growing structure.

Duke considered the question, his hands never pausing in their careful construction. "Yes and no," he finally answered. "I wanted to be strong like him. Respected like him. But I also saw the toll it took—the constant vigilance, the hard decisions." He glanced up at me. "I never wanted the circumstances that made me president, but I always knew I'd serve the club however it needed me."

There was weight behind his words, grief for his father's death, commitment to the legacy he'd inherited. Even in this peaceful moment, building a block tower in pajamas, Duke Carson was still the president of the Heavy Kings MC. That responsibility never fully left him.

Our tower grew taller, more precarious. My tongue poked out in concentration as I added a yellow block to the top, holding my breath as it wobbled before settling.

"Good job," Duke praised, and the simple affirmation sent a ripple of pleasure through me. "Want to be the one to knock it down?"

I hesitated, then nodded, feeling childishly excited at the prospect of destruction. At Duke's encouraging gesture, I reached out and pushed the middle section of the tower. The blocks clattered satisfyingly to the floor, scattering across our pillow nest. Diesel raised his head at the noise, gave us a disgruntled look, then settled back to sleep.

Duke's laughter joined mine, deep and genuine. "Again?" he asked, already gathering the blocks.

“Again, again!” I cried in delight.

We built and demolished three more towers, each time my inhibitions loosening a little more. By the fourth collapse, I was giggling unrestrained, loving the simple pleasure of controlled chaos.

Next, Duke introduced the bubble wand. It was larger than any I'd seen before, the size of a dinner plate, with an elaborate design that created enormous, floating spheres.

"This thing's wild," Duke said, dipping the wand into the solution.

He lifted the wand, drawing it slowly through the air. An enormous bubble formed, shimmering with rainbow hues as it detached and floated across the room. Diesel's eyes tracked it, his wrinkled face a study in canine confusion.

"Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this inside,” he said with a grin.

“It’s alright, Daddy, bubble mix is very clean.”

Duke laughed. “Well, in that case, it’s your turn," he said, handing me the wand.

My first attempts produced misshapen bubbles that popped almost immediately. But Duke's patient guidance—"Slower, that's it. Let the air do the work."—soon had me creating impressive spheres that drifted lazily across the apartment.

"You're a natural at this," Duke declared when I managed to create an especially large bubble that survived long enough to bounce off the ceiling. "My little artist."

The endearment sent a warm flush through me. Diesel had finally given in to curiosity and was now trailing around the room, trying to catch the massive bubbles on his nose, which only made me laugh harder.

After we'd exhausted ourselves with bubbles, Duke sat back against the couch, patting the space beside him in invitation. I settled next to him, leaning naturally into his solid warmth. His arm curved around my shoulders, holding me securely against his side.

"I have something else," he said, reaching into the basket one more time. "This might seem a little strange at first, but many Littles find it helpful."

He produced a soft purple pacifier, the shield decorated with small silver stars. It was clearly designed for an adult, nothing like the infant ones you'd find in a baby store.

"Sometimes this helps quiet the busy brain," Duke explained, his tone matter-of-fact, without hint of judgment. "Helps you stay in the right headspace too."

I stared at the pacifier, feeling a mix of curiosity and embarrassment. This seemed to cross a line that coloring books and bubbles hadn't—something unmistakably infantile rather than merely childlike.

Duke read my hesitation correctly. "No pressure," he said, setting the pacifier on the coffee table within reach. "Just an option if you want to try. It's totally normal to feel weird about it at first."

His calm acceptance made the choice easier. After a moment's more consideration, I reached for the pacifier, turning it over in my hands. The silicone nipple was soft, the shield smooth plastic.

Before I could overthink it, I put it in my mouth. The sensation was foreign at first—the weight of it, the feeling of the shield against my lips. But as I began to suck reflexively, I found it oddly soothing. The rhythmic motion created a kind of meditative state, focusing my attention and quieting the constant chatter of anxious thoughts.

Duke watched me with soft eyes, no judgment or mockery in his expression. "You're so beautiful like this," he said quietly. "Just being you, no walls up."

The compliment made me blush, but the pacifier gave me a strange buffer against the embarrassment. I could accept his words without feeling the need to deflect or deny them.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, my head resting against Duke's shoulder, his steady breathing a counterpoint to the gentle rhythm of my sucking. Diesel had settled on a pillow near our feet, occasionally twitching in his sleep. The apartment was quiet except for these small sounds of contentment.

The bubble of peace shattered when sudden headlights swept across the window, illuminating the room in a harsh white glare before plunging it back into dimness. I started violently, the pacifier falling from my mouth.

Duke's body tensed instantly, his presence changing from gentle caregiver to fierce protector in a single breath. He moved with fluid efficiency, placing himself between me and the window, one hand already reaching toward the side table where I knew he kept a gun.

"Stay down," he ordered, his voice no longer the soft tone of Daddy but the hard command of the MC president.

I froze, clutching a pillow to my chest, watching as Duke moved to the window with predatory grace. He peered through a gap in the curtains, his body coiled tight, ready for whatever threat might materialize.

After a moment, his shoulders relaxed marginally. "Just someone turning around in the lot," he reported, still watching to confirm his assessment.

Relief washed through me, leaving me shaky in its wake. The spell of Little space had been broken by the intrusion of reality, by the reminder that outside these walls, danger still waited.

Duke turned back to me, and I saw the transition happen—the hard edges of the protector softening once more into the caregiver. He returned to the pillow nest, settling beside me again.

"You okay?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I nodded, but my hands still trembled. Duke noticed, covering them with one of his own.

"I've got you, Little One," he murmured. "Nothing bad gets past Daddy."

Overcome with gratitude and a tangle of emotions I couldn't fully name, I crawled into his lap, curling against his strong chest as he wrapped his arms around me. I felt his heartbeat again, steady and sure, as his hand stroked soothing patterns on my back.

As the night deepened, my eyelids grew heavy despite my best efforts to stay awake. Each blink lasted longer than the one before, the soft lamplight blurring at the edges of my vision. Duke noticed—he seemed to notice everything about me—and gently announced, "Bedtime for my little girl."

"Not tired," I mumbled, the lie transparent even to my own ears. A yawn betrayed me halfway through the words.

Duke's mouth quirked in amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The expression transformed his usually stern face, softening the hard angles into something tender. I felt a strange flutter in my chest at being the cause of that transformation.

"No? So that wasn't a yawn I just saw?" he teased, his voice low and gentle. "Those aren't sleepy eyes about to close?"

I couldn't help the pout that formed on my lips, a childish expression of protest that surfaced naturally in this space we'd created.

Duke chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Bedtime doesn't mean the fun is over," he promised, rising to his feet with fluid grace. "It means story time."

Before I could respond, he bent and gathered me into his arms as if I weighed nothing. One arm supported my back, the other tucked beneath my knees. I let out a small squeak of surprise, my arms instinctively circling his neck for balance.

"I can walk," I protested weakly, even as I nestled closer to his warmth.

"Of course you can," Duke replied simply. "But Daddy wants to carry you."

Duke carried me down the short hallway to the bedroom. With careful movements, he lowered me onto the bed, maintaining his hold until I was settled against the pillows. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he sat on the edge beside me.

"Arms up," he instructed gently.

I raised my arms, allowing him to pull back the covers and tuck them around me with meticulous care. He smoothed the blankets, arranging them just so, making sure I was completely covered against the slight chill of the room.

From the bedside table, Duke retrieved Thumper, the stuffed rabbit from earlier. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up a worn, dog-eared book. "This was my favorite when I was little," he said, showing me the cover.

The Velveteen Rabbit stared back at me, its illustrations faded with time and handling. The book looked like it had been read countless times, its spine creased, its pages softened by years of fingers turning them.

Duke stretched out beside me on top of the covers, his large frame making the bed seem smaller, safer. He opened the book, and I noticed his hands – hands I'd seen knock a man unconscious in a bar fight just days ago – handling the fragile pages with reverent care.

"There was once a velveteen rabbit," Duke began reading, his deep voice dropping to a gentle rumble that vibrated through the mattress, "and in the beginning he was really splendid . . ."

I snuggled deeper into the blankets, clutching Thumper to my chest as Duke's voice brought the story to life. The tale of a toy becoming real through love was achingly beautiful in its simplicity. Duke read with unexpected skill, changing his voice slightly for different characters, adding emphasis in just the right places.

"'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'"

The words resonated through me in unexpected ways. I wondered if I'd begun to become real again under Duke's care—if the person I'd been before Jesse had started to emerge from hiding, drawn out by Duke's steady presence and unconditional acceptance.

Despite my fatigue, I found myself hanging on each word, giggling at the amusing parts, feeling a childlike wonder at the magic of the story. Duke's occasional glances at my reactions, the small smile that played at his lips when I laughed—it was clear he enjoyed sharing this piece of his childhood with me.

When he finished the story, closing the book with careful hands, a comfortable silence fell between us. Duke set the book aside and brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingertips lingering against my cheek.

"One more thing before sleep," he said softly. From the drawer of the nightstand, he produced a small, leather-bound journal and a pen. "Every night, we'll write down three good things that happened today and one thing we're looking forward to tomorrow."

He flipped open the journal to a blank page, dated it at the top in neat handwriting. "It helps keep the nightmares away," he explained. "Ends the day on good thoughts."

The thoughtfulness of the ritual struck me deeply. Duke wasn't just caring for my physical needs or even my emotional ones in the moment—he was trying to build structures that would support me even when he wasn't there, tools to help me heal from the inside out.

"Three good things," Duke prompted gently. "What made you happy today?"

I thought for a moment, my mind drifting over the events of the day. "The bubble bath," I said finally. "With all the glitter and the toys."

Duke nodded, writing it down in his strong, angular script. "That was a good one. What else?"

"Diesel catching bubbles," I continued, smiling at the memory of the bulldog's confused face as the bubbles popped on his nose. As if hearing his name, Diesel huffed from his spot on the rug beside the bed.

Duke added it to the list. "And one more?"

The answer rose to my lips before I could overthink it. "Feeling safe in your arms."

Duke's pen paused for a fraction of a second before continuing, writing the words with what seemed like extra care. When he looked up, something in his eyes had deepened, intensified.

"And what are you looking forward to tomorrow?" he asked, his voice slightly rougher than before.

The question was harder. Tomorrow meant facing reality again. But it also meant . . .

"Waking up here," I said softly. "With you."

Duke wrote it down, then closed the journal and set it aside. His hand returned to my face, cupping my cheek with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

In the soft light, with the safety of our shared vulnerability wrapped around us, I found courage I didn't know I possessed. "Duke?" I whispered, my voice small but steady.

"Yes, Little One?" he replied, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.

"I think I'm falling in love with you."

The words hung in the air between us, fragile and frightening in their nakedness. I felt my heart pounding against my ribs, waiting for his response, suddenly terrified I'd ruined everything. It was too soon, too much, too honest.

Duke's breath caught audibly. For a moment that stretched like eternity, he was utterly still. Then, like the dawn breaking, a smile spread across his face—not the controlled, measured expression he showed the world, but something raw and genuine that transformed him completely.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips gently to my forehead in a kiss that felt like benediction. "That's the best news I've heard all day," he murmured against my skin. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm falling in love with you too."

Relief and joy crashed through me in equal measure, leaving me light-headed. Duke drew back just enough to meet my eyes, his own filled with an emotion I was only now learning to recognize, to trust.

"Sleep now, Little One," he said softly. "I'll be right here."

He made no move to leave, continuing to sit beside me, his hand stroking gently through my hair in a rhythmic motion that tugged at my already heavy eyelids.

"Promise?" I whispered, already half-dreaming.

"Promise," Duke affirmed. "Nothing gets past me, remember?"

I nodded, believing him completely in that moment.

Nothing got past my Daddy.