Page 20 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Wings

W atching Kiara sleep was my new religion.

These past few days, since we confessed our feelings for each other, I’d watched her every morning. It felt like the biggest privilege of my life.

Today was no different. I'd been awake for an hour, maybe more, just watching her breathe.

She'd curled into me during the night, one small hand fisted in my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.

The fairy lights cast shadows across her face, highlighting the peace that sleep brought her—no hypervigilance, no careful masks, just my baby girl dreaming safe.

My chest ached with something fierce and protective.

Three years of wondering if she was okay, if Alex had finally pushed too far, if she'd found someone who could give her what she deserved.

Now she was here, wrapped in butterfly sheets I'd picked because they reminded me of her sketches, trusting me with parts of herself she'd kept hidden from everyone else.

The weight of that trust settled over me like body armor—heavy but necessary.

I made a soft sound as I shifted, careful not to wake her as I slipped from the bed. She made a small moan of protest, burrowing deeper into the warm spot I'd left behind. I pulled the blanket up to her chin, couldn't resist pressing a kiss to her temple.

The dresser drawer opened silent—I'd oiled the tracks yesterday while she was downstairs with Mia.

Inside, folded neat as any military inspection, lay the things I'd bought for her.

Soft cotton panties in pastels. A few pairs with lace edges for when she wanted to feel pretty.

Nothing overtly sexual—this wasn't about that.

This was about care. About starting each day with an act of love, even in something as simple as choosing what she'd wear.

I selected a pair in pale yellow with white lace trim. Soft as butterfly wings. They'd make her blush when she realized what I'd done, but they'd also remind her throughout the day that someone was thinking about her comfort, her needs.

"Mmm . . . Daddy?"

Her sleep-rough voice made me turn. She'd pushed up on one elbow, hair a mess of copper tangles, eyes still heavy with dreams. My heart did that complicated thing it always did when she called me that—part possession, part protection, all love.

"Morning, baby girl." I moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge. "Sleep good?"

She nodded, then noticed what I held. Color flooded her cheeks exactly like I'd predicted. "Did you—are those for me?"

I smoothed her hair back, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Thought we'd start the day with Daddy taking care of you. That okay?"

The vulnerability in her eyes nearly undid me. Like she still couldn't quite believe someone would care about such small details. She nodded again, shy but trusting.

"Good girl. Why don't you get cleaned up, put these on, and meet me in the kitchen? I'll make coffee."

Twenty minutes later, she padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing the jeans and soft sweater from yesterday but moving different. Knowing what she wore underneath, what I'd chosen for her, had shifted something in her posture. She looked cared for. Claimed.

The clubhouse was tomb-quiet this early. Just us and the gurgle of the coffee maker, the occasional creak of the building settling. I'd already set out two mugs—hers with butterflies, mine plain black. The vanilla creamer she liked waited on the counter.

"Sit," I said gently, pouring coffee. "Let’s talk."

Fear flashed across her face before she could hide it. Old conditioning—serious talks meant bad news, disappointment, someone listing all the ways she'd failed. I caught her hand before she could retreat into herself.

"Not bad, baby girl. Just important."

She settled into the chair, hands wrapped around her mug like it could anchor her. I took the seat across from her, close enough our knees touched under the table.

"I've been thinking about what you need," I started, watching her face. "Structure. Consistency. Making sure that you take care of yourself. I know you’ve struggled with that."

Her breath hitched. Direct hit.

"So we're going to have some rules. Not many, not complicated. Just a foundation to build on."

"Rules?" The word came out small, curious more than scared.

"Three to start." I held up fingers as I counted. "First—bedtime. Every night, ten PM, you're in bed. Not scrolling your phone, not reading medical journals, not organizing supplies. In bed, lights out, actually resting."

She opened her mouth—to protest, probably—but I pressed on.

"Your body needs sleep, Ki. Consistent, quality sleep. I've watched you the past few days. You stay up until you're exhausted, crash for a few hours, then do it again. That's survival mode. We're not in survival mode anymore. It’s time to thrive."

Her eyes had gone soft, listening. I continued.

"Second—three meals a day. Real meals, not coffee and whatever crackers you find. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. I'll help, make sure there's always something available, but you have to eat."

"I forget sometimes," she admitted quietly. "When I'm busy or stressed, I just . . . don't notice I'm hungry."

"Which is why you need someone noticing for you." I reached across, taking her free hand. "That's my job now. Making sure my baby girl is healthy and strong."

The third rule was the hardest. The most important.

"Last one—honesty. Always. About everything, but especially about how you're feeling.

" I squeezed her hand gently. "No more 'I'm fine' when you're drowning.

No more pretending you don't need things.

If you're scared, you tell me. If you're sad, you tell me.

If you're slipping into little space and need your Daddy, you tell me. "

Tears had gathered in her eyes. "What if I mess up? What if I can't—"

"Then we deal with it together," I cut in firmly. "These aren't tests you can fail, Ki. They're guardrails. Ways to keep you safe while you learn to trust that you deserve care."

She was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, so soft I almost missed it: "What happens if I break a rule?"

"Depends on why and how. If you're struggling, we talk about it.

Find out what's making it hard and adjust." I paused, making sure she was really hearing me.

"But if you're being careless with yourself, if you're not eating because you 'don't deserve it' or staying up because you're punishing yourself.

.. then yeah, there'll be consequences."

"Like what?"

"Corner time. Spanking. Writing lines. Loss of privileges." I watched her carefully for signs of panic, but she just looked . . . interested. "Nothing that would actually hurt you, baby girl. Just reminders that your wellbeing isn't negotiable."

She chewed her bottom lip, that tell that meant she was working up to saying something important. I waited, patient.

"I want to be good," she finally whispered. "Want to follow your rules and make you proud. But I'm not . . . I've been taking care of myself badly for so long. What if it's too hard to change?"

I stood, pulling her up and into my arms. She melted against me immediately, face pressed to my chest.

"Change is hard," I agreed, stroking her back. "But you're not doing it alone anymore. I'll remind you about meals. I'll help you wind down for bed. I'll create space for you to be honest. All you have to do is try."

She nodded against my shirt, arms tightening around me. We stood there in the quiet kitchen, coffee cooling on the table, while she absorbed this new reality. Structure. Safety. Someone giving enough of a damn to set boundaries.

"Thank you, Daddy," she mumbled, and I felt the words in my chest like a physical thing.

"Always, baby girl. Always."

Three days was all it took to see the change. Like watching a time-lapse of a flower blooming—so gradual you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention, but I was always paying attention to Ki.

Monday morning, she'd laughed at something Mia said over breakfast. Not the polite chuckle she'd been offering since arriving, but a real laugh that crinkled her eyes and made her cover her mouth like she was surprised by the sound.

Mia had been describing her attempts to teach Duke how to braid hair, complete with hand gestures and increasingly ridiculous voices.

Ki's joy hit me like a physical thing, warming places that had been cold since the desert.

Tuesday, I'd found her at the kitchen table with Mandy, medical supplies spread between them like they were planning an invasion.

But Ki had been doodling in the margins of the inventory sheets—tiny butterflies and stars and hearts that crept across the pages like joy made visible.

Her shoulders were loose, posture open. When she'd caught me watching, she'd blushed but didn't stop drawing.

"Mandy says the doodles help her remember which supplies go where," she'd explained, shy but not ashamed.

Wednesday brought the biggest change. She'd worn one of the soft sweaters from the nursery—lavender with clouds across the front—to breakfast. Such a small thing, choosing comfort over camouflage, but it meant everything.

Thor had complimented it, gruff but sincere, and she'd beamed like he'd handed her the moon.

Now it was Thursday evening, and I watched her help Cleo organize toys in the common room.

They sat cross-legged on the floor, heads bent together, sorting by some system only they understood.

Ki's hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the light.

She'd stopped pulling it back so tight, stopped armoring herself in severe ponytails and rigid control.

"The blue cars have to go here," Cleo explained earnestly, "because they're the same color as the sky, and sky things should point up."

"Makes perfect sense," Ki agreed, adding a blue car to the designated pile. "What about the purple ones?"

"Those are the special ones. They go in the middle because purple is between red and blue."