Page 11

Six

M arley

I wake up with my face pressed against a wall of muscle and the horrifying realization that I'm drooling on my wilderness survival instructor.

Not my finest moment.

Cade is already awake, one arm pinning me against his chest like I'm a teddy bear he's claimed in his sleep. The other hand is doing something that feels suspiciously like petting my hair.

"Morning, little girl."

His voice is rough with sleep and way too satisfied for someone who's spent the night fully clothed in a sleeping bag with a nineteen-year-old academic disaster.

"Did I drool on you?" I mumble into his chest.

"Little bit."

"Oh God." I try to pull away, but his arm tightens around me. "I'm sorry. I don't usually... I mean, I've never shared a bed with anyone before, so I don't know my sleep habits and—"

"Marley."

"What?"

"You're rambling."

"I ramble when I'm embarrassed."

"I noticed." His hand stills in my hair. "You also ramble when you're nervous, when you're thinking too hard, and when you're trying to avoid dealing with how good this feels."

He isn't wrong. Waking up wrapped around him feels ridiculously good in a way that probably violates several sections of my thesis methodology.

"We should get up," I say, making no effort to actually move.

"Probably." He doesn't let go either. "But first, ground rules for today."

"More rules?"

"Different rules. Today we're going deeper into the wilderness. Real survival training." His voice has gone more serious. "Which means when I tell you to do something, you do it immediately. No questions, no analysis, no debate."

I tilt my head back to look at him. "That seems a little extreme."

"This isn't a fucking dorm room, Marley. One wrong step out there, and you could break an ankle, fall off a cliff, or walk into a bear. When I say jump, you don’t even say ‘how high’, you just leap and trust me to be there to catch you."

"But surely there's room for discussion if I don't understand—"

"No." His hand cups my chin, forcing me to maintain eye contact. "No discussion. No questions. No thinking your way through everything. You trust me to keep you alive, and you do exactly what I tell you to do."

The authority in his voice sends that familiar ache through my body that means I'm in trouble again. "What if I disagree with your methods?"

"Then you'll learn what happens when little girls don't listen to their Daddy."

The way he says it—casual and matter-of-fact—makes my breath catch.

"Also," I say, trying to regain some academic ground, "I'm supposed to check in with my thesis advisor today. Professor Harrison wants a progress report by two o'clock."

"Fine. We'll use the sat phone when we break for lunch." He sits up and starts getting dressed with the same efficient movements I watched the night before. "But that's the only exception. Everything else, you follow my lead."

"Understood."

Famous last words.

Two hours later, I'm standing in a clearing about a mile from his cabin, staring at a pile of branches and sticks and trying to figure out how they're supposed to turn into shelter.

"This is impossible," I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. "The structural integrity is completely compromised by the irregular angles."

"The what now?" Cade looks up from where he's demonstrating knot techniques I apparently can't master.

"The angles are all wrong. Basic physics says this won't hold." I gesture at my sad attempt at a frame. "The load-bearing capacity is insufficient for the distributed weight, and the connection points are fundamentally unstable."

"Jesus Christ." He stands up and walks over to examine my work. "You're building a shelter, not designing a skyscraper."

"But the principles are the same. If you don't account for structural stress and load distribution—"

"Marley."

"What?"

"Shut up and build the fucking shelter."

I blink at him. "That's not very constructive feedback."

"You want constructive feedback? Stop overthinking every goddamn stick and just follow the instructions I gave you twenty minutes ago."

"But your instructions don't account for the fact that this branch is clearly too weak to support—"

"Are you questioning me?"

Something in his tone makes me pause. "I'm trying to understand the engineering behind—"

"That's questioning me." He moves closer, and I automatically back up until I hit a tree. "What did I tell you about questioning me in the wilderness?"

"You said not to, but that was for when safety is paramount. This is obviously a teaching moment where discussion would be beneficial—"

"Strike two."

"Strike two? This isn't baseball, it's an academic exercise in applied survival methodology—"

"And there goes strike three." His hands settle on either side of my head, caging me against the tree. "Looks like someone needs a reminder about following instructions."

My mouth goes dry. "A reminder?"

"Remember what I told you in the cabin? About doing exactly what I say when I say it because it's dangerous out here?"

I nod.

"And what did you just spend the last hour doing?"

"Learning survival techniques?"

"Try again."

I think about it. "Questioning your methods based on theoretical applications of structural engineering principles?"

"That's a fancy way of saying you didn't listen to a damn thing I told you." His thumb traces along my jawline. "You know what happens when little girls don't listen to Daddy?"

"They get timeouts?"

He laughs, but it isn't particularly comforting. "Something like that. Turn around."

"Why?"

"Are you trying for four strikes?"

I shake my head and turn around, pressing my palms against the rough bark of the tree. Behind me, I hear him moving around, but I can't see what he's doing.

"Hands flat against the tree.” I suddenly feel his hands on my waistband, and a moment later my pants and panties are tugged down, making me gasp as cold air hits my ass. “Don't move."

"Cade, what are you—"

His hand comes down on my ass hard enough to make me gasp and arch against the tree.

"That's one," he says calmly. "Every time you questioned me gets a smack. I counted nineteen."

" Nineteen ?" I try to look back at him. "That seems like an excessive tallying system—"

Another sharp slap cuts off my protest.

"Twenty. And that's for arguing with me about the count." His hand settles on my lower back, holding me in place. "Color?"

"What?"

"Green means keep going, yellow means slow down, red means stop. What color are you?"

The fact that he's checking in with me, making sure I'm okay even while disciplining me, sends a burst of heat straight to my pelvis. It takes me a moment to gather enough breath to answer. "Green."

"Good girl."

He continues with methodical precision, each swat perfectly placed to build heat without causing real pain. By the time he reaches ten, I'm breathing hard and fighting the urge to press back against his hand.

"You're not listening to save your life out here," he says, his voice steady while I try to process the strange mix of arousal and shame. "You're listening because I know what I'm doing, and you don't."

Another smack, harder this time.

"You're listening because when you question every instruction, you are setting yourself up for getting hurt.”

Three more in quick succession.

"And you're listening because this pretty little ass belongs to me, and I don't like it when what's mine doesn't behave."

The possessive statement sends heat shooting straight between my legs. By the time he finishes, I'm trembling all over and definitely not from fear.

"Turn around."

I push myself away from the tree on shaky legs, my pants and underwear around my ankles, my face burning with embarrassment and arousal and something that feels dangerously close to gratitude.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

I take inventory as I lean my tender ass against the rough bark. It’s sore in a way that will remind me of this moment every time I sit down. My breathing is unsteady but my brain feels quiet for the first time in hours.

"Focused," I say, surprising myself.

"Good. That's what happens when you stop thinking and start trusting." He pulls me against his chest, and I melt into his warmth. "Now, are you ready to build a shelter the way I taught you?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"What do you say?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"That's my good girl. Now pull up your big girl pants and let’s get to work.”

The second attempt goes much better. Instead of analyzing every piece of wood, I follow his instructions step by step. Instead of questioning his methods, I pay attention to how the materials feel in my hands. Instead of trying to understand the engineering, I focus on the task.

An hour and a half later, with a break for lunch, I have something that actually looks like shelter. It’s not as good as the one he’s built, that we’re apparently going to sleep in tonight, but it looks like I could sleep in it if I absolutely had to, and probably not die.

"Better," Cade says, examining my work. "Much better. Good girl."

Those magic words make my pussy weep. "It's not going to win any design awards."

"It doesn't need to win awards. It needs to keep you alive." He checks his watch. "Speaking of which, it's almost two. You want to call your professor?"

I had completely forgotten about the check-in, which is probably a first in my academic career. "Oh. Right."

He hands me the satellite phone, and I dial Professor Harrison's direct line.

"Marley!" His voice crackles through the connection. "Right on time. How's the research going?"

"Good. Really good, actually." I glance at Cade, who's pretending not to listen while he organizes gear. "I'm gathering a lot of... hands-on data."

"Excellent. I'm particularly interested in your observations about power dynamics and authority structures in survival situations. Are you documenting the psychological patterns you discussed in your proposal?"

I look at my notebook, "I'm taking a more... experiential approach to the research."

"Experiential?"

"Immersive. Participatory observation rather than detached analysis."

"Hmm." Professor Harrison sounds skeptical. "That's a significant departure from your methodology. Are you maintaining academic objectivity?"

Academic objectivity. Right. The thing I'm supposed to be doing instead of getting spanked by my research subject.

"I'm gathering comprehensive data," I say, which isn't technically a lie.

"Okay, good. I've scheduled your defense for next Friday. That gives you exactly one week to complete your analysis and prepare your presentation."

My stomach drops. "Next Friday?"

"Is that a problem?"

I look at Cade, who's definitely listening now. "No, that's... that's fine."

"Excellent. Don't disappoint me, Marley."

The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone like it just delivered my death sentence.

"Everything okay?" Cade asks.

"My thesis defense is next Friday."

"That's good, right? You'll be done with school." The way he says it, like it’s a relief but for me, my life is planned. I only see more school ahead. Then, teaching, then more school more than likely. My parents have seven advanced degrees between them; this is the Voss legacy and I’m the more crystalline example of what they believe is true success.

"Right. Then I start my PhD program at Harvard in the fall." I hand him back the phone, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. "My parents applied for me. They want me to go into academia like them."

He goes very still. "That what you want?"

"I wanted to be a journalist. Real journalism, like Christiane Amanpour.

Travel, investigate, tell stories that matter.

" The words tumble out before I can stop them.

"But they said journalism was unstable and beneath my intellectual capacity. The industry isn’t what it once was.

They put me on birth control when I was sixteen to make sure I didn't mess up my future. "

The last part slips out without me meaning to say it, and I immediately feel my cheeks burn.

“Not that I had any distractions of that kind. Not until…” I sigh as I look at him.

"Right." He stops packing and turns to face me fully. "I’ll deal with that little nugget another time. But, what do you think? You think telling stories that matter is beneath you?"

"No, I—"

"You think Christiane Amanpour is some kind of failure because she chose to inform the world instead of hiding in a classroom?"

"Of course not, but—"

"Then what the hell are you doing letting other people decide what your potential is?" His voice is firm but not harsh. "You're smart enough to do anything you set your mind to, baby. But smart doesn't mean shit if you don't have the guts to actually do something with it."

I stare at him. The words bounce around in my head and I know he’s right. These decisions, things that are going to affect the rest of my life, should be mine to make, not anybody else’s.

But how do you stop doing exactly what you’re told, when that’s all you’ve ever known?

“Come on, I’m going to show you how to track. Put on your warm clothes, but leave your pack here, we’ll be back before nightfall.”