Page 21 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

"You're absolutely right."

The easy acceptance in Ki's voice made my chest tight. She'd found her place here, among the other Littles who understood the need for soft things and arbitrary sorting systems and logic that only made sense if you didn't think too hard about it.

"Baby girl," I called softly. "Time for inspection."

She looked up, and I caught the flash of anticipation in her eyes. We'd done this the past two nights—our private ritual that was quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. A chance to check in, to connect, to make sure she was taking care of herself.

"Coming, Daddy." She gave Cleo's hand a squeeze. "We'll finish tomorrow?"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She followed me upstairs to the nursery, that familiar shyness creeping back in. Privacy did that sometimes—made her more aware of our dynamic, more conscious of the vulnerability in it. I'd learned to go slower in these moments, let her settle into the safety of routine.

"On the bed, baby girl," I instructed gently, closing the door behind us. "You know the drill."

She climbed onto the butterfly comforter, sitting cross-legged in the middle. The fairy lights cast everything in that soft glow that made the room feel separate from the world. Just us in our bubble of safety and trust.

I sat facing her, close enough our knees touched. "How was your day?"

"Good." She twisted her fingers in her lap. "Helped Mandy with inventory. Lena showed me some of her tattoo designs. Had lunch with—"

She stopped abruptly, color draining from her face.

"Ki?" I kept my voice neutral, but inside, alarms were going off. "What's wrong?"

"I—nothing. Just remembered something."

But I knew her tells now. The way her shoulders hunched when she was trying to make herself smaller. How her breathing changed when she was calculating whether to lie or confess. I waited, giving her space to make the right choice.

"Talk to me, baby girl."

She met my eyes, and I saw the war there—old habits of hiding versus new patterns of honesty. Finally, her shoulders dropped in defeat.

"I forgot lunch," she whispered. "Lena and I got talking about her tattoo equipment, and then Thor needed help with something, and suddenly it was three PM and—I'm sorry."

My jaw tightened, but I kept my touch gentle as I took her hands. "Thank you for telling me the truth. That was very brave."

Hope flickered in her eyes. "So . . . it's okay?"

"No, baby girl. It's not okay." I squeezed her hands carefully. "What's rule number two?"

"Three meals a day," she recited, voice going smaller.

"And why do we have that rule?"

"Because I need to take care of myself."

"Because you matter," I corrected firmly. "Because your health matters. Because going six or seven hours without food hurts your body, and I won't let anything hurt you—including yourself."

Tears gathered in her eyes. "I didn't mean to. I just—"

"I know you didn't mean to." I pulled her into my lap, holding her close. "But that's exactly why we need the rule. Because when you get distracted or busy, taking care of yourself is the first thing you drop. And that's not acceptable anymore."

She pressed her face into my neck, and I felt her tears, hot and guilty. "Are you mad?"

"Not mad. Disappointed that you didn't take care of my baby girl." I rubbed her back in slow circles. "And now there have to be consequences."

She went very still against me. "What kind of consequences?"

"Corner time. Ten minutes to think about why eating matters and how we can make sure this doesn't happen again."

"Corner time?" She pulled back to look at me, eyes wide. "Like . . . standing in the corner?"

"Exactly like that." I helped her off my lap, standing with her. "It's not meant to hurt or humiliate you, Ki. It's meant to give you time to reflect. To reset. To remember that these rules exist because you're precious and deserve care."

Her face had gone pink, embarrassment and something else—relief, maybe? Like having consequences made the rules real, made my care tangible in a way words couldn't.

I guided her to the corner by the bookshelf, positioning her facing the wall. "Hands at your sides or clasped in front. No fidgeting, no turning around. Just stand quietly and think."

"For how long?"

"Ten minutes. I'll be right here."

She took a shaky breath, then stepped into the corner.

The sight of her there—my strong, capable girl accepting discipline because she trusted me to know what she needed—hit me like a freight train.

This wasn't about power or control. This was about love.

About creating boundaries strong enough for her to lean on.

I settled in the reading chair where I could see her, pulling out my phone to set a timer.

But I didn't look at anything else. Just watched her, cataloging the way her shoulders slowly relaxed, how her breathing evened out.

She wasn't fighting this. She was sinking into it, letting the structure hold her.

The minutes ticked by quiet except for our breathing. Once, she shifted her weight, and I made a soft sound of warning. She stilled immediately, obedient and trusting.

When the timer finally chimed, I was on my feet immediately. "All done, baby girl. Come here."

She turned, and her face was exactly what I'd hoped—calm, centered, the anxiety that usually lived behind her eyes muted. I opened my arms and she flew into them, clinging like I was her lifeline.

"Such a good girl," I murmured into her hair. "Took your punishment so well. I'm so proud of you."

She shook against me, not from fear or cold but from something deeper—the release that came from being held accountable by someone who gave a damn. I held her tighter, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles on her spine.

"You did so good, baby girl," I murmured against her temple. "So brave, standing there when I know it was hard. Taking your consequence like the perfect girl you are."

A sob escaped her, muffled against my chest. "I'm sorry I forgot to eat. I'm sorry I disappointed you."

"Shh." I guided us to the carpet, settling with my back against the bed and her curled in my lap. The plush carpet cushioned us, soft as clouds under my legs. "You apologized. You took your punishment. It's all forgiven now."

She pulled back enough to see my face, eyes red-rimmed but clearer than before. "Really?"

"Really." I thumbed away a stray tear. "That's how this works, Ki. You make a mistake, there's a consequence, then we move forward. No holding grudges, no bringing it up later to hurt you. Clean slate."

The wonder in her expression gutted me. How many times had Alex thrown her mistakes back at her days, weeks, months later? Used them as weapons when he needed to tear her down?

"Stay right here," I said, shifting her off my lap carefully. "Daddy's going to get you something to eat."

"I'm okay—"

"Rule two, baby girl." My voice stayed gentle but firm. "You missed lunch, so now you need a snack. Non-negotiable."

She ducked her head, but I caught the tiny smile. Being cared for was still so new to her, but she was learning to accept it. Learning that resistance was futile when it came to her wellbeing.

I made it quick—grabbed an apple from the kitchen, some cheese, crackers, and a juice box I knew would make her blush. Back in the nursery, I found her exactly where I'd left her, sitting on the carpet with her legs folded to one side, playing with the hem of her sweater.

"Juice box?" She took it with pink cheeks. "Really?"

"Best way to get your blood sugar back up." I settled beside her, close enough our hips touched. "Plus, I know my little girl likes them."

She ducked her head again but obediently stuck the straw in, taking a small sip. I laid out the snacks between us, watching her eat with the same focus I used to scan for threats overseas. Different kind of protection now, but just as vital.

"Can I ask you something?" she said after finishing half the apple.

"Always."

"Why does it matter so much? The eating thing. I've been taking care of myself—or not taking care of myself—for years. Why do you care if I skip a meal?"

I turned to face her fully, making sure she could see my eyes. "You remember that butterfly you drew? The monarch with purple wings?"

She nodded, confused by the seeming non sequitur.

"Carried it for two years. Through basic, through deployment, through nights when I thought I might not make it to morning. Know why?"

"Because..." She worried her bottom lip. "Because it reminded you of home?"

"Because it reminded me that beautiful things exist. That somewhere in the world, you existed.

Creating art and smiling that smile that made my chest tight.

" I touched her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin.

"You were my proof that life was worth fighting for.

That there were still soft things worth protecting. "

Her breath hitched.

"So when you don't eat, when you don't sleep, when you treat yourself as disposable—" My voice roughened. "You're hurting something I'd have died to protect. Something I came home to protect. Understand?"

"Gabe . . ." Tears spilled over, tracking down her cheeks.

"My job is keeping you safe," I continued. "From external threats, yeah, but also from the voice in your head that says you don't matter. From the habits that hurt you. From the belief that you're not worth basic care."

She abandoned the snacks, crawling into my lap and wrapping herself around me like she could fuse us together. "I'm trying. I want to be good for you. Want to be worth—"

"You're already worth it." I crushed her against me, probably too tight but unable to help it.

"You were worth it when you were seventeen and drawing butterflies.

Worth it when you were trying to save Alex.

Worth it during all those years we were apart.

Your worth isn't something you earn, baby girl. It just is."