Page 19 of Duke (Heavy Kings MC #1)

Duke turned and caught me watching him. For a moment, our eyes locked through the glass, and I saw something shift in his expression—the hard edge of anger giving way to something softer, something that made my breath catch in my throat.

Duke returned with quiet purpose, his footsteps measured against the hardwood floor. The anger had drained from his face, replaced by a solemn determination that made my stomach flip. He motioned toward the kitchen table. "Let's sit," he said, his voice steady. "If we're going to do this, we do it right—clear communication before, during, and after. Understood?" I nodded, my throat suddenly dry, as I realized this was really happening.

We sat across from each other, the worn wooden table between us like neutral territory. Duke's hands rested flat on the surface, his president's ring catching the light. Diesel had retreated to his bed in the corner, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

"I want you to go wait in the bedroom," Duke said, his gaze never leaving mine. "Take some time to think about what happened today. About why the rule exists, and why breaking it was dangerous." He wasn't lecturing or scolding—his tone held the same quiet authority he used when handling club business. "This isn't punishment for punishment's sake, Mia. I need you to understand that."

"I do," I whispered, a tremor in my voice that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the intensity of his focus.

"Good. Ten minutes. I'll be in after." He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles against my cheek, the briefest touch that sent warmth cascading through me. "Go on, little bird."

I stood on legs that felt suddenly unsteady and made my way to the bedroom, hyperaware of Duke's eyes following me. Once inside, I perched on the edge of the bed, Duke's t-shirt hanging loose over my jeans, my bare feet cold against the hardwood.

Ten minutes to think. To breathe. To center myself.

I'd never had this with Jesse—this cooling off period, this time for reflection. With him, discipline had been immediate and violent, driven by his rage rather than any desire to guide or teach. There had been no discussion, no consent, just pain designed to break rather than build.

My hands twisted in my lap as memories rose unbidden. The first time Jesse had hit me—a slap that had come out of nowhere when I'd questioned one of his decisions in front of his club brothers. The way he'd dragged me into the bedroom afterward, hissing that I needed to learn my place.

I pushed the memory away, focusing instead on the quiet safety of Duke's bedroom. The neatly made bed with its dark blue comforter. The heavy wooden dresser with pictures of the club members—his chosen family—arranged carefully on top. The window that looked out over the mountains, framed by curtains I'd picked out just days ago.

Little touches of me were beginning to appear in Duke's space. My hairbrush on the nightstand. My favorite mug in the dish drainer. My plush rabbit, Thumper—a gift from Duke on my second night here—sitting upright against the pillows.

Duke had recognized my Little side almost at once. He just got me. Never made me feel bad, never belittled me. He cherished me, celebrated me.

The bedroom door opened, jolting me from my thoughts. Duke entered carrying our daily journal—a leather-bound notebook where I’d been writing the things I was grateful for and excited for. He sat beside me on the bed, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him but not so close that I felt trapped.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his deep voice gentle.

"Nervous," I admitted. "But not scared."

A flicker of something—pain? relief?—crossed his face. "Good. That's good." He opened the journal to a fresh page. "I need to know, how are you approaching this? From your Little side, or your adult side?"

The question caught me off guard. With Jesse, there had never been this level of consideration, this careful attention to headspace and consent.

I considered it, searching my feelings. "Both," I finally said. "I understand what I did was dangerous. That's my adult side talking. But I also need . . ." I trailed off, struggling to articulate the complex tangle of needs that had been building in me all week.

Duke waited patiently, his blue eyes steady on mine. No pressure.

"I need to feel safe in this . . . dynamic," I continued, finding the words as I spoke them. "Safe enough to be vulnerable. To know that even when I mess up, you'll guide me without breaking me."

"I understand," he said. He made a note in the journal, his handwriting precise and masculine. "Here's how this will work. Ten swats, my hand only. Over your jeans—we're not ready for bare skin yet."

The matter-of-fact way he laid out the parameters should have been clinical, but instead it sent a shiver down my spine.

"I'll check in with you throughout," Duke continued. "We'll use the traffic light system. Green means you're okay and we continue. Yellow means you need a moment or an adjustment. Red means we stop immediately, no questions asked." He looked up from the journal. "And let’s not forget your safeword, either."

"Home," I said, the word tasting strange and sweet on my tongue.

"Good girl," Duke said, and the simple praise warmed me from the inside out. "If you say 'home,' everything stops immediately. We reset completely. Understood?"

I nodded, throat tight with emotion at the care he was taking, the boundaries he was establishing to keep me safe—not just physically, but emotionally.

"I need verbal confirmation, little bird," Duke prompted gently.

"Yes, I understand," I said. "Green, yellow, red, and 'home' for a full stop."

Duke nodded once, decisive. "Good. All right. I want you across my lap, face down. You can hold onto a pillow if you need something to ground you."

He sat further back on the bed, making room for me. I moved slowly, letting my body adjust to each new position until I was lying across his thighs, my cheek pressed against a pillow, my hands clutching the soft fabric. Duke was solid beneath me, his jeans rough against my stomach where my—his—t-shirt had ridden up.

"Comfortable?" he asked, one large hand coming to rest on my lower back. The weight of it was reassuring rather than restricting.

"Yes," I breathed, my pulse racing with a mixture of apprehension and something else, something I wasn't ready to name.

"Remember your words," Duke reminded me, his voice a low rumble I could feel through his body. "And remember why we're here—because your safety matters. Because you matter."

Those simple words threatened to undo me before we'd even begun. I blinked back tears, nodding against the pillow.

"You ready to count each one out loud?" Duke asked, his hand a warm presence through the denim of my jeans.

"I'm ready," I whispered, and felt Duke's hand lift from my back, drawing a line of cool air across my skin as he prepared for the first swat.

The first swat landed with a soft pop against my jeans. I flinched more from surprise than pain—it was little more than a firm tap, Duke clearly testing the waters. Still, my breath caught as I whispered, "One." My body tensed, bracing for something harsher. But Duke's free hand began stroking along my spine, a gentle reminder that I wasn't alone, that this wasn't then, that I was safe.

"Good girl," Duke murmured, his deep voice rumbling through me where my stomach pressed against his thighs. "Remember to breathe."

I exhaled shakily, consciously relaxing muscles that had gone rigid with anticipation. The room was quiet except for our breathing and Diesel's occasional snuffle from his bed in the corner.

The second swat came down firmer, a distinct sting that radiated outward. "Two," I counted, my voice steadier now. This one I felt—a warm ripple that spread through the denim and across my skin. It wasn't painful exactly, more like a sudden rush of sensation, sharp then immediately diffusing.

Duke's hand rested on my lower back again, a solid anchor. "Still green?" he asked.

"Green," I confirmed, surprised by how calm I felt.

The third swat landed, and I felt something unexpected stir inside me—a warmth that had nothing to do with the sting and everything to do with the intimacy of the moment. "Three," I managed, my pulse quickening not from fear but from a growing awareness of my body and its responses.

It took me by surprise. I hadn’t been ready for this strange mix of feeling.

Duke seemed to sense the shift. His hand moved from my back to trace around my hip, a touch that was half comforting, half possessive. "You're doing so well," he said, his voice dropping to that deeper register that always sent shivers through me.

Fourth and fifth swats came in quick succession, targeted at the fullest part of my bottom. The sting was building now, a layered heat that made me gasp. "Four. Five," I counted, my voice catching as I realized I was becoming unquestionably aroused—a response that confused and embarrassed me.

Duke paused, his hand a warm weight against my heated skin. "Color check," he prompted.

"Green," I whispered, face flushing with more than just the physical effects of the spanking. I buried my face deeper into the pillow, hoping he wouldn't notice the shift in my breathing, the way my hips had instinctively pressed down against his thigh.

But Duke missed nothing. His free hand slipped beneath the hem of my t-shirt, fingers splaying across the small of my back, skin to skin. The touch was innocent but electric, sending sparks racing along my nerve endings.

"Six," I gasped as the next swat landed, harder than the ones before. My body jerked involuntarily, pressing me down more firmly against Duke's thigh. The friction sent a jolt of pleasure through me, so unexpected and intense that I bit my lip to stifle a moan.

Duke's hand stayed on my back, but his thumb began making small circles against my skin—a deliberate movement that told me he was fully aware of my response. This wasn't just discipline anymore; it was evolving into something more complex, more intimate.

"You're being so brave, little bird," Duke said, his voice a low caress. "Taking your consequences so well."

His praise washed over me, settling deep in my chest where a knot of emotion was forming. With Jesse, discipline had been about humiliation, about breaking me down and making me feel worthless. With Duke, I felt... valued. Like even in this moment of correction, I was precious to him.

The seventh swat caught me off guard, landing slightly lower where thigh met bottom. "Seven!" I yelped, the sting sharper here. My hands clutched at the pillowcase, twisting the fabric between my fingers.

"Too much?" Duke asked immediately, concern evident in his voice.

"No," I said quickly. "Just . . . different. Still green."

Duke's hand returned to soothing strokes, easing the sting before it fully blossomed. "Almost done," he murmured. "You're doing beautifully."

The eighth swat landed, and I lost track momentarily, distracted by the confusing mix of sensations coursing through me—the heat building across my skin, the pressure of Duke's thigh against my center, the emotional storm brewing inside me. Duke's gentle prompt—"Number, little bird"—brought me back.

"Eight," I whispered, a tremor in my voice. Tears were forming now, not from pain but from the release of something I'd been holding onto for too long—fear, shame, the lingering shadows of Jesse's abuse. Duke was replacing those memories with new ones, showing me that discipline could be rooted in care rather than cruelty.

His hand moved higher, fingers threading through my hair at the nape of my neck in a gesture so tender it nearly broke me. "Two more," he said softly. "You're almost there."

The ninth swat was firm and precise, landing exactly where the others had, intensifying the warmth that had built across my skin. "Nine," I counted, my voice thick with unshed tears. A single droplet escaped, trailing down my cheek to darken the pillowcase.

Duke noticed immediately, his body tensing beneath me. "Color," he demanded, the word sharp with concern.

"Green," I insisted, blinking back more tears. "I promise. It's a good cry." And it was. These weren't tears of fear or pain; they were tears of release, of letting go, of trusting someone enough to be vulnerable.

Duke's exhale was audible, his relief palpable. "One more," he said, his palm rubbing circles on my back. "Ready?"

I nodded against the pillow, then remembered his preference for verbal confirmation. "Yes," I whispered. "I'm ready."

The tenth swat came down harder than the others, a final punctuation to our lesson. I cried out, my hips jolting forward involuntarily, sending a shock of pleasure through me as I pressed against Duke's thigh. "Ten," I gasped, tears flowing freely now as the emotional dam broke.

It was over. I'd done it—taken my first real discipline from Duke, reclaimed something Jesse had tainted, proven to myself that I could be vulnerable without being destroyed.

Duke's hands shifted immediately to soothing strokes, one cupping my heated bottom through my jeans, the other continuing to stroke my hair. "You did so well, sweetheart. That's it, little bird. All done," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion. "I'm so proud of you."

I lay across his lap, breathing ragged, caught between the lingering sting, the unexpected arousal, and the overwhelming emotional release. Duke let me stay there, giving me time to process, his hands never leaving my body—constant reminders that I wasn't alone, that I was held, that I was safe.

When my breathing finally steadied, Duke gently helped me to sit up, maneuvering me so that I was cradled in his lap rather than draped across it. The position brought a fresh awareness of the warmth radiating from my bottom, a pleasant reminder rather than a stinging rebuke.

I buried my face against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him. His heartbeat was strong and steady beneath my ear, a rhythm that helped anchor me as I drifted in the aftermath of intense emotion.

"How do you feel?" Duke asked, his arms tightening around me.

"Floaty," I admitted, surprised by how disconnected I felt from everything except the points where our bodies touched. "But good. Safe."

Duke's chuckle rumbled through his chest. "That's normal," he assured me. "It's called subspace—a kind of natural high from the endorphins and adrenaline." His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "You're going to stay right here with me until you come back down, okay?"

I nodded, content to remain in the circle of his arms, in this strange, peaceful headspace where nothing existed except Duke and the cocoon of safety he created around me.

True to his word, Duke held me, occasionally pressing kisses to the top of my head or murmuring soft reassurances. Gradually, the floaty feeling receded, replaced by a deep, bone-level relaxation and clarity I hadn't experienced in years.

"There you are," Duke said when I finally looked up at him, his blue eyes warm with affection. "Welcome back, little bird."

My face heated as full awareness returned, bringing with it memories of how my body had responded, how I'd pressed against him, how I'd all but announced my arousal with every gasp and shift. But Duke's expression held no judgment, only understanding and a banked heat that matched my own.

"I didn't expect . . ." I began, then faltered, unsure how to articulate the complex tangle of physical and emotional responses.

"That it could feel good?" Duke finished for me, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That's the difference between abuse and discipline, Mia. One destroys; the other builds trust. And trust . . ." His voice deepened, sending a shiver through me. "Trust is the foundation of everything meaningful between two people."

Duke's eyes darkened. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me—his gaze dropped to my lips, his head tilting slightly. But then he took a deep breath and gently shifted me off his lap.

"You need water and something to eat," he said, his voice gruff. "And some lotion for the soreness. Stay here."

He stood, adjusting himself discreetly—a movement that sent a thrill through me, knowing he'd been affected too. Then he was gone, leaving me sitting on the bed with my skin still singing from his touch and my heart fuller than it had been in years.

My body felt wonderfully heavy, muscles relaxed in a way they hadn't been for years. The lingering warmth across my bottom was a reminder rather than a punishment now—a physical manifestation of Duke's care, of boundaries established and respected, of consequences delivered with love rather than anger.

Love. The word floated through my mind unexpectedly, landing with the weight of revelation. Was that what this was becoming? This thing between Duke and me that had started as protection and evolved into something so much more complex?

I didn't have time to examine the thought further because Duke returned, carrying a warm washcloth, a glass of water, and a small plate of sliced apples and cheese. The thoughtfulness of it made my throat tight with emotion.

"You thought of everything," I said, my voice cracking.

Duke's smile was gentle, a softening of his usually stern features that was reserved exclusively for me. "That's what aftercare is about," he explained. "Here. Wipe your face. It'll help you feel more grounded."

I pressed the warm cloth to my tear-streaked face, the simple sensation anchoring me back in my body.

After I'd cleaned my face and sipped some water, Duke guided me to the bed. I moved gingerly, still acutely aware of the warmth radiating from my bottom. It wasn't pain exactly—more like a lingering reminder, a sensation that kept me present in my body in a way I hadn't been for years.

"Lie down," Duke instructed, his voice gentle but firm. "On your stomach."

I did as he asked, stretching out on the bed and burying my face in the pillow that still held the scent of his cologne. The mattress dipped as Duke sat beside me, and I heard the soft click of a bottle cap opening.

"This will help with any soreness," he explained. His hand came to rest on the small of my back, warm and reassuring. "You mind if I take your pants down? Your panties, too?”

I nodded, then remembered his preference for verbal consent. "No, I don’t mind," I murmured, turning my head to look at him. "Thank you."

Duke's eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, were soft now, filled with a tenderness that made my chest ache. He carefully tugged my pants and panties down. For a moment, I wondered how my butt might like—pink and tender. I imagined his eyes lingering for a moment.

He began to massage lotion onto my still-stinging bottom, his touch firm but careful. The coolness of the lotion seeped into me, soothing the lingering heat.

I sighed, melting into the mattress as his strong hands worked in slow, methodical circles. It should have been clinical, this act of practical care, but it wasn't. It was intimate in a way that transcended the physical—Duke tending to the marks his discipline had left, taking responsibility for my comfort after I'd submitted to his authority.

Duke's hands moved lower, massaging my thighs where tension had gathered from holding myself still during the spanking. His touch was sure and practiced, finding knots of muscle I hadn't even realized were there and gently working them loose.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.

I considered the question, taking inventory of my body and emotions. "Like I took something back that Jesse stole," I said finally, the words coming slowly as I processed the realization. "I never realized a spanking could feel . . . safe. Even . . . good."

Duke's hands paused briefly before resuming their gentle work. "That's how it's supposed to be," he said, a hint of gravel in his voice.

I nodded, my throat tight with emotion. "With Jesse, it was never about helping me or teaching me. It was about control, about making me afraid."

Duke's expression darkened, a flash of the dangerous man beneath the gentle caretaker. "He'll never touch you again," he promised, the words carrying the weight of an oath. "Not while I'm breathing."

I reached for his free hand, threading my fingers through his. Our palms pressed together, his so much larger than mine, calloused from years of hard work and harder fighting. "I know," I whispered. "I trust you."

Something shifted in Duke's eyes—a softening, a vulnerability I'd never seen in him before. He cleared his throat and carefully capped the lotion bottle, setting it aside.

"Come here," he said, stretching out beside me and drawing me against his side. I went willingly, curling into the shelter of his body, my head finding its natural place on his shoulder. Diesel jumped up and settled at our feet, his warm weight a comforting presence.

We lay like that for a while, Duke's fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm, my breathing gradually syncing with his. It was peaceful in a way I hadn't experienced in years—this quiet intimacy, this shared silence that required no words to fill it.

Eventually, Duke shifted slightly, looking down at me with a question in his eyes. "May I open it now?" he asked, nodding toward the small package I'd brought home, still sitting on the nightstand where he'd placed it earlier.

My heart pounded with a mixture of vulnerability and anticipation. "Yes," I said softly.

Duke reached for the package, handling it with careful reverence that made my chest ache. He unwrapped it slowly, methodically, preserving the paper rather than tearing into it.

When the braided leather bracelet was finally revealed, Duke went very still. His finger traced the pattern where “My Hero” was woven into the design, barely visible unless you knew to look.

"It's perfect," he said finally, his voice rough with emotion. "Thank you." He slipped it onto his wrist, adjusting it to sit beneath the heavy cuff he typically wore—exactly as I'd envisioned, a private token of our connection that would stay with him even when the world saw only the fearsome president of the Heavy Kings. “I’m no hero though.”

“You saved me,” I replied, simply.

The sight of my gift on his wrist, accepted and appreciated, filled me with a warmth that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the spanking and everything to do with the growing bond between us.

Duke's expression turned serious as he adjusted the bracelet. "We do need to talk about something else," he said, his tone shifting subtly toward the business-like cadence he used for club matters. "One of our men spotted a guy on a motorcycle watching the jewelry shop soon after you came out."

The warm glow inside me dimmed, replaced by a cold prickle of fear that danced along my spine. "Could've been coincidence, but—" I began.

"Or it could've been a Serpent," Duke finished, his jaw tightening. "Didn’t get close enough to ID him without risking being spotted, but the bike had Coldwater plates."

"You think they've found me," I said, not a question but a statement. The sanctuary I'd found with Duke suddenly felt more fragile, the apartment walls thinner, the windows more exposed.

Duke's arm tightened around me. "I think we need to be cautious," he said carefully. "The club has protocols for this kind of situation. Contingency plans."

I nodded, the fear now a solid lump in my throat. I'd known this day might come—that Jesse wouldn't give up easily, that my brief taste of freedom might be just that: brief.

"I think it's best to move you to our safe house for a bit," Duke continued, his voice steady and sure. "Just until we can confirm whether it was a Serpent and what they know." He paused, his blue eyes searching mine. "Is that all right with you?"

The fact that he was asking—not ordering, not demanding, but asking for my consent—made the lump in my throat expand with emotion. Even now, with potential danger looming, Duke was respecting my agency in a way Jesse never had.

"Yes," I whispered, exhaling shakily.

"Thank you for protecting me even after I broke your rule. For . . ." My voice faltered. "For caring about what happens to me."

Duke's expression softened, a hint of pain flickering behind his eyes. "Mia," he said, his voice rough. "Little bird. Look at me."

I did, meeting his gaze through the blur of fresh tears.

"You are not disposable," he said fiercely. "You are not a burden. You are . . ." He paused, seeming to search for words. "You are precious to me. In ways I didn't expect. In ways I'm still figuring out."

I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his certainty. "When do we go?"

"Tonight," Duke said. "After dark. Thor and Ryder are making arrangements now. The fewer people who know where you are, the safer you'll be."

I nodded, absorbing this new reality. Another move, another adaptation. But this time, I wasn't fleeing alone in terror. This time, I had Duke and his club—my newfound family—at my back.