Page 24 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Kiara

T he automatic doors of Ironridge General's ER whooshed open with the same pneumatic hiss that had greeted me for three years, but everything about walking through them felt different now.

My scrubs were the same scratchy blue polyester, my shoes the same sensible white sneakers that could handle twelve hours of blood and chaos.

But under the v-neck of my top, the delicate silver butterfly rested against my throat, its weight both secret and sacred.

I touched it through the fabric—a new habit already, like checking for keys or phone—and felt my shoulders drop from around my ears.

Three weeks ago, I'd fled this place in tears, certain my career was over.

Now I walked the familiar hallways like I belonged here.

Because I did. Because someone had fought for me, had made sure I could come back.

The ER hummed with its usual controlled chaos. Monitors beeped their electronic heartbeats, phones rang with incoming traumas, and the smell of industrial disinfectant mixed with burnt coffee from the nurses' station. Dr. Martinez looked up from a chart, his face breaking into a genuine smile.

"Mitchell! Thank God you're back. Night shift's been a disaster without you."

"Good to be back," I said, and meant it. The words came out steady, sure. No tremor of anxiety, no second-guessing. Just truth.

The first few hours flew by in a blur of IVs, medication administration, and patient assessments.

But it wasn't the frantic, edge-of-panic blur I'd grown accustomed to.

My hands moved with practiced efficiency, my mind clear and focused.

When a combative drunk in Bay 3 started screaming obscenities, I didn't flinch.

When we got slammed with a multi-vehicle accident, I triaged with calm precision.

The difference was the collar. Every time I moved, I felt it shift against my skin—not heavy, just present.

A constant reminder that someone was thinking about me, that I had rules to follow and someone who cared if I followed them.

That I'd eaten breakfast because Daddy had made sure of it.

That I'd get eight hours sleep tonight because bedtime was non-negotiable.

That I mattered to someone in a way that went bone-deep.

During a blessed lull around two AM, I escaped to the break room for coffee. The ancient machine gurgled and hissed, producing something that barely qualified as coffee. I'd just taken my first sip when arms wrapped around me from behind.

"Oh my God, Ki!"

I turned to find Stephanie—my closest friend here, the friend I’d spoken to about Gabe all those weeks ago. She worked nights maybe once a month, picking up overtime, and seeing her face made something in my chest loosen.

"Steph!" I hugged her back, breathing in her familiar vanilla lotion scent. "What are you doing here?"

"Picked up a shift. Saving for vacation." She pulled back, hands on my shoulders, studying me with those sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. "Holy shit, look at you."

"What?" I ducked my head, suddenly self-conscious.

"You look . . ." She tilted her head, searching for words. "Good. Like, really good. You've put on weight—in a healthy way," she added quickly when I stiffened. "Your skin's glowing. And you're not doing that thing where you hunch like you're trying to disappear."

Heat crept up my neck. "I've just been taking better care of myself."

"Bullshit." But her grin took the sting out of it. "This is man-related, isn’t it?"

She dragged me to the corner table, the one farthest from the door where we'd shared countless conversations over the years. The break room was empty—that magic hour when most of the staff were catching up on charting—giving us privacy I both wanted and feared.

"There's . . . someone," I admitted, fidgeting with my coffee cup.

"I knew it! It’s Gabe, isn’t it?"

My face flamed. "You remembered!"

"Ki, of course I remember!" She leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "So? Details. All of them. Now."

I took a shaky breath. Stephanie had been my safe person here, the one who'd noticed when I came in with bruises I couldn't explain, who'd slipped me pamphlets about domestic violence that I'd been too scared to read. If anyone would understand . . .

"It's more than just dating."

Her eyebrows rose. "More how?"

The words stuck in my throat. How did you explain something like this? How did you tell your normal friend that you called your boyfriend Daddy, that you had rules and consequences and a nursery full of stuffed animals?

"He's my Daddy," I whispered, the words barely audible.

Stephanie blinked. "Your what now?"

"My Daddy. It's—God, this is hard to explain." I pressed my palms against my eyes. "It's not weird sex stuff. Well, not just that. It's this whole dynamic where he takes care of me and sets rules and I can be..." I swallowed hard. "Little."

Silence stretched between us. I kept my eyes covered, not wanting to see disgust or confusion or worse—pity. The break room's fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and somewhere down the hall, a monitor alarmed.

"Ki." Stephanie's voice was gentle. "Look at me."

I dropped my hands reluctantly. Her face held no judgment, just that same steady warmth that had gotten me through so many bad shifts.

"Is he good to you?" she asked simply.

"So good." The words tumbled out in a rush.

"He makes sure I eat three meals a day and get enough sleep.

He holds me when I have panic attacks. He bought me coloring books and doesn't think I'm broken for needing them.

He has rules, but they're all about keeping me safe and healthy.

And when I mess up, there are consequences, but then it's over.

No grudges, no throwing it in my face later. "

"That sounds . . ." She paused, choosing words carefully. "Like exactly what you needed."

"Really?"

"Ki, honey, I've watched you run yourself into the ground for three years. Forget to eat, live on coffee, jump at shadows. If this man is making sure you're taking care of yourself, if he's giving you structure and safety . . ." She shrugged. "Then I'm team Daddy all the way."

A laugh bubbled up, surprised and relieved. "I have a collar," I blurted, then immediately covered my mouth.

"A collar?" Her eyes lit with interest rather than horror. "Can I see?"

With shaking fingers, I pulled the collar out from under my scrubs. The butterfly caught the harsh fluorescent light, transforming it into something softer.

"It's beautiful," Stephanie breathed. "And it locks?"

I nodded. "He has the key. It means—it means I'm his. That he's responsible for me. That I'm protected."

"And loved," she added softly. "I can see it all over your face, Ki. You're loved."

Tears pricked my eyes. "It shouldn't work. He's my ex's twin brother. I'm probably too damaged for anything healthy. But—"

"But nothing." Stephanie reached across the table, squeezing my hand. "You survived Alex. You rebuilt your life from nothing. You get to have something good now. Something that makes you glow like this."

"The rules help," I admitted. "Having someone else make some decisions, having structure—it's like I can finally breathe. Like all that anxiety about whether I'm doing enough, being enough, just . . . quiets."

"Then he's giving you exactly what you need." She studied the collar again. "And the fact that you can wear it here, have that reminder while you're saving lives? That's pretty perfect."

"I was so scared to tell you," I confessed. "Thought you'd think I was sick or weak or—"

"You're the strongest person I know," Stephanie interrupted firmly. "And if being Little sometimes, having a Daddy, wearing a collar—if that's what gives you peace? Then rock that shit, babe."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, her acceptance washing over me like warm water. The collar seemed to pulse against my throat, reminding me that this was real. That I was claimed and cherished and safe.

"So," Stephanie said, grin turning wicked. "Hot biker Daddy, huh? How's that working out in other departments?"

"Steph!" But I was laughing, face burning.

"What? I need details! For science!"

"He's . . ." I bit my lip, searching for words that wouldn't combust on contact. "Attentive."

"Attentive," she repeated, deadpan. "Girl, you're glowing like you've been thoroughly attended to."

Seven AM finally arrived, the end of my first shift back blurring into the gray morning light that leaked through the hospital's glass doors.

My feet ached in their sensible shoes, my lower back protested twelve hours of constant motion, and I could feel my ponytail listing severely to the left.

But I was smiling. Actually smiling after a night shift, which felt like its own kind of miracle.

I pushed through the exit doors, breathing in air that didn't smell like disinfectant and desperation.

The employee parking lot stretched before me, mostly empty at this hour except for the day shift starting to trickle in.

And there, parked in the closest motorcycle spot like he'd claimed it by divine right, was Gabe.

He leaned against his Harley like every bad boy fantasy I'd ever pretended not to have.

Black leather jacket despite the warming morning, dark jeans that fit in ways that should be illegal, boots planted wide.

But it was his face that stopped me—the way it transformed when he spotted me, going from vigilant to soft in a heartbeat.

"There's my baby girl," he said as I approached, voice carrying that particular morning roughness that made my stomach flip.

"Hi, Daddy." The title still felt new on my tongue in public, even whispered, but the way his eyes darkened made it worth the blush.

He studied me with that intense focus, cataloging everything. "Good shift?"

"Really good," I said, and meant it. "Busy but manageable. Ate lunch and dinner. Even got a fifteen-minute break around four."