Page 17 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Kiara

D addy.

The word had fallen from my mouth like a key turning in a lock, opening something I'd kept sealed for years. And he'd answered—God, the way his voice had dropped when he'd said it back.

Daddy's got you.

My stomach twisted with equal parts want and terror. What if morning had brought him clarity? What if he'd woken up, remembered who I was—his brother's broken ex—and realized his mistake? What if right now he was figuring out how to let me down gently, how to take it back without destroying me?

I sat up slowly, cataloging the evidence of last night.

My clothes from yesterday draped over the chair where he'd placed them after helping me change into sleep clothes.

Two empty water glasses on the nightstand—he'd made sure I stayed hydrated after all the crying.

Small acts of care that made my chest ache.

The mirror above the dresser showed me exactly what I'd expected—puffy eyes, tangled hair, the general disaster of a woman who'd sobbed through a thunderstorm in a man's arms. I looked young. Vulnerable. Exactly like the little girl I'd let him see.

Panic tried to claw its way up my throat. I needed to look normal. Adult. Put together. Show him I could handle whatever gentle rejection was coming.

I dressed carefully, each choice deliberate.

Jeans that actually fit instead of hanging loose.

A soft blue sweater that brought out my eyes—not little clothes, not yet, but not the shapeless things I'd been hiding in either.

I brushed my teeth twice, used mouthwash, tried to scrub away any trace of neediness.

My hands shook as I braided my hair, muscle memory from years of making myself presentable after bad nights. Look normal. Act normal. Don't let them see how desperate you are for kindness.

When I finally opened my door, prepared for emptiness or awkwardness, I found Gabe instead.

He leaned against the opposite wall like he'd been carved there, two cups of coffee steaming in his hands.

His prosthetic bore his weight easily, and he'd changed into fresh jeans and a black henley that did criminal things to his shoulders.

But it was his expression that stopped my heart—soft and sure and looking at me like I was something precious.

"Morning, baby girl," he said, voice still rough from sleep.

The endearment hit me like a physical touch. My knees actually wobbled, and I had to grab the doorframe for support. Not a mistake then. Not something to take back in daylight.

"Hi," I managed, brilliant conversationalist that I was.

He pushed off the wall, offering me one of the cups. "Vanilla latte with an extra shot. Figured you might need the caffeine after last night."

The coffee was perfect—exactly how I liked it. Such a small thing, but it made my eyes burn. When was the last time someone had paid attention to my preferences without me having to spell them out?

"We need to talk," he said gently. "But first, I have something to show you."

Those words should have terrified me. Nothing good ever followed "we need to talk." But Gabe's expression held nervous excitement, not regret. He looked like a kid with a secret he couldn't wait to share.

"Okay," I said, truly trusting him.

He led me down a hallway I hadn't explored, past the main rooms where club business happened, into what seemed like private quarters. The purple door stood out like a beacon among the standard whites and grays—soft lavender with silver hinges that caught the light.

Gabe stopped in front of it, suddenly hesitant. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I remembered from years ago when he was nervous about something.

"I've been modifying the space since you got here," he admitted, not meeting my eyes.

"Some of the other Littles stayed here for a while, in this room, and so they used it as a nursery.

I just . . . I wanted you to have somewhere that felt safe.

Somewhere you could be yourself without worrying about anyone else. "

He set his coffee on the hallway table, hand moving to the doorknob. "Didn't know if you'd want it, but after last night . . ."

The door swung open.

The world tilted off its axis.

Soft pink walls glowed in the morning light, warm and comforting as a hug.

Fairy lights strung like constellation across the ceiling, casting everything in gentle sparkles.

A bed—God, an actual princess bed with white gauze curtains tied back with silk ribbons.

The comforter was thick and fluffy, covered in tiny butterflies that looked hand-embroidered.

A bookshelf lined one wall, already filled with coloring books and picture books and stories I recognized from childhood. Goodnight Moon. The Velveteen Rabbit. Where the Wild Things Are. Books I'd loved and lost and mourned.

The toy chest painted with butterflies made my throat close.

Inside, I could see the edge of stuffed animals, their soft fur calling to parts of me I'd buried.

A low table perfect for coloring, with a caddy full of supplies—good colored pencils, a 64-pack of crayons—just like the set I'd been too scared to use, markers in every shade imaginable.

Plush carpet in the softest cream, thick enough to sink into. Perfect for sitting on while coloring or reading or just being small. A reading chair in the corner with a blanket draped over it—pale yellow with clouds, impossibly soft looking.

“So this was here already?”

“Most of it. But I’ve made some changes. The butterflies. The coloring stuff. I wanted it to feel like your space.”

Everything I'd dreamed. Everything I'd denied myself. Everything I'd been too terrified to want. Made real by hands that had loved me enough to see what I needed before I could ask.

My legs gave out.

His arms came around me without hesitation, pulling me against his chest. He held me, one hand stroking my hair while I sobbed years of want into his henley.

"Too much?" he asked, worry threading through his voice. "I can change things, take stuff out if it's—"

"No." The word came out fierce even through tears. "Perfect. It's too perfect and I don't—I can't—"

"Shh." He rocked me gently, the motion soothing something primal. "Just breathe for me, baby girl. We've got time."

The sobs eventually gentled to hiccups, then to shaky breaths.

My face was probably a disaster, nose running and eyes swollen, but Gabe just pulled a soft tissue from his pocket and cleaned me up with the same care he'd shown organizing medical supplies.

Patient. Thorough. Like I was worth the effort.

When I finally felt stable enough to lift my head, we were sitting on the plush carpet with me in his lap. Not sexual—just safe. His back rested against the princess bed, prosthetic stretched out carefully, and I fit against him like I'd been designed for this exact space.

"We need to talk about last night," he said gently, chin resting on top of my head. "About what you called me."

Shame tried to creep in, hot and familiar. I'd exposed too much, shown the desperate parts that sent people running. But before the spiral could catch, Gabe tipped my chin up with gentle fingers.

"Not bad, baby girl. Perfect. Exactly what I'd been hoping for since that first night on your couch." His eyes held mine, hazel gone dark with sincerity. "But we need to make sure we're on the same page. Need to talk about what this means for both of us."

"I don't really know the rules," I admitted. "I mean, I've read about it. DDLG dynamics and protocols and stuff. But I've never actually . . ."

"There's no one right way," he assured me. "Every dynamic is different. What matters is what works for us. So tell me—what does being Little mean to you?"

I traced patterns on his shirt, gathering courage. This was harder than crying, harder than calling him Daddy in the dark. This was explaining the unexplainable in daylight, in a room he'd built for exactly this purpose.

"It's not about pretending to be an actual child," I started carefully.

"It's . . . a headspace? Where I feel small and safe and protected.

Where I don't have to make all the decisions or be responsible for everything.

Where someone else is in charge and that's okay because they care about keeping me safe. "

He made an encouraging sound, hand still stroking my hair.

"I first realized when I was nineteen," I continued, the words coming easier now.

"Found this blog about DDLG dynamics. The writer talked about how being Little helped her anxiety, gave her permission to not be perfect all the time.

I stayed up all night reading, crying because finally—finally—I had words for what I needed. "

My voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I used to hide pacifiers in my jewelry box.

Bought them at different stores so no one would notice.

Told myself it was just stress relief, not weird, not sick.

Then Alex found them during one of his paranoid searches.

Said I was fucked up. Twisted. That no normal person would want someone who needed baby things to feel safe. "

Gabe's arms tightened, a low growl rumbling through his chest. "You're not sick. You're not twisted. You're perfect exactly as you are."

"I threw them away," I confessed, the memory still sharp. "Burned the coloring books I'd hidden. Tried to kill that part of myself because if Alex was right, if I was broken—"

"He wasn't right." Gabe's voice went firm, definitive. "He was a scared, addicted asshole who couldn't handle anything that wasn't about him. Your needs, your wants—they're valid. Beautiful. Part of what makes you who you are."

I turned in his lap to see his face better. "When did you know? About being a . . ."