Page 25 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

"That's my good girl." He pulled me in for a hug, and I melted into him, breathing in leather and soap and that scent that was just inherently Gabe. "Proud of you for taking care of yourself."

Into his chest, I mumbled, "The collar helped. Every time things got crazy, I'd touch it and remember."

His arms tightened. "Remember what?"

"That someone's waiting for me. That I matter."

He made a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a purr. "You ready to go home?"

Home. Not my apartment, not the clubhouse, just . . . home. Where he was.

"Beyond ready."

He helped me onto the bike, hands steady on my waist as I swung my leg over. Even exhausted, the position sent a thrill through me. There was something about being on his bike, pressed against his back, entirely at his mercy as we flew through the streets. Vulnerability and safety wrapped into one.

I wound my arms around his waist, cheek resting against the leather of his jacket. The engine roared to life beneath us, vibration traveling up through my thighs. He kicked off, and we were moving, leaving the hospital and its controlled chaos behind.

The morning air whipped past, cool enough to wake me up despite my exhaustion. I closed my eyes, trusting him completely as we leaned into turns. My hands found their way under his jacket, seeking warmth and the solid reassurance of his body.

We'd been riding for maybe ten minutes when he leaned back slightly, his voice carrying over the engine noise. "Been thinking."

"Yeah?" I had to speak directly into his ear, lips almost brushing the shell of it.

"My baby girl deserves a proper date."

My heart stuttered. "A date?"

"Not just clubhouse dinners and takeout in the nursery. A real date, out in the world." He paused at a red light, turning his head so I could see his profile. "Want to show you off."

The words hit me in competing waves—warmth at being wanted, terror at being visible. Going out in public as a couple meant risking recognition. Meant someone might see us and report back to Alex. Meant leaving the safety of Heavy Kings territory.

"Where would we go?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"There's this Italian place across town. Quiet, intimate. They make their pasta fresh." The light turned green, and we were moving again. "Want to see you in a pretty dress, hold your hand over candlelight. Court you proper, like you deserve."

Court me. Like I was worth the effort, worth the romance. My eyes burned with sudden tears that I blamed on the wind.

"I don't know," I said into his ear. "Being out there, where people might see . . ."

"I'll keep you safe," he promised immediately. "Anyone tries to bother you, they go through me. But Ki, we can't hide forever. Part of being mine means the world gets to know it."

He was right. I knew he was right. Hiding felt safe, but it also felt like letting Alex still control my life. Like giving him power he didn't deserve.

"When?" I asked, decision made.

"Tonight, if you're up for it. Give you time to sleep first, then I pick you up at seven?"

"Okay," I whispered, then louder, "Yes. I'd like that."

His hand found mine briefly where it rested on his stomach, squeezing. "That's my brave girl."

The rest of the ride passed in a blur of sensation—wind and warmth and the steady thrum of the engine. By the time we pulled into the clubhouse lot, exhaustion was winning over anxiety. He helped me off the bike, steadying me when my legs wobbled.

"Bed," he ordered, steering me toward the entrance. "Sleep until at least two. Then we'll figure out what you're wearing tonight."

"Bossy," I mumbled, but I was already leaning into him, letting him guide me.

"That's Daddy's job," he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Being bossy about taking care of you."

Inside, the clubhouse was quiet—too early for most of the members, too late for the real night owls. He walked me to my room, not the nursery but the regular bedroom I'd been assigned when I first arrived. At the door, he cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

"Sleep well, baby girl. Dream of pasta and candlelight."

"And you," I added sleepily.

His smile was soft, private, just for me. "And me."

Two PM came too soon, consciousness returning in slow waves like tide creeping up sand. Not long until Gabe would pick me up for our date. Our real date. In public. Where people would see us together and know I belonged to him.

The butterfly collar shifted against my throat as I sat up, a gentle reminder that centered me immediately. Right. I was his. He would keep me safe. All I had to do was trust him—something that got easier every day but still required conscious choice.

I padded down the hall to the nursery, needing the comfort of that space while I figured out what to wear. The fairy lights were on—Gabe must have come in while I slept—casting everything in that dreamy glow that made the room feel separate from reality. My safe space. Our safe space.

The closet door stood open, revealing more clothes than I'd ever owned at once.

Gabe had been adding things gradually—a dress here, a soft sweater there, always in colors that made me feel pretty.

Nothing harsh or severe like the armor I'd worn for three years.

These clothes were for a girl who was allowed to be soft.

But standing there in my sleep shorts and one of Gabe's t-shirts I'd stolen, I felt paralyzed by choice.

The red dress was beautiful but felt too bold for a first public date.

The floral one might be too casual. The black one was sophisticated but reminded me too much of the person I'd pretended to be—controlled, distant, untouchable.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, pulling out hangers at random. "It's just dinner. Just picking something to wear. Normal people do this every day."

But I hadn't been normal people in so long. I'd been surviving-people. Hide-in-plain-sight people. Don't-draw-attention people. The idea of dressing to be seen, to be admired, to belong to someone publicly—my hands shook as I held up another option.

"Having trouble, baby girl?"

I spun to find Gabe in the doorway, hip cocked against the frame, watching me with that particular blend of amusement and affection that made my insides go liquid.

He'd changed into dark jeans and a button-down that probably cost more than my old work wardrobe combined.

The sleeves were rolled up, showing forearms that made my mouth water.

"I don't know what to wear," I admitted, gesturing helplessly at the chaos I'd created. "Everything feels wrong."

He pushed off the doorframe, moving into the room with that deliberate grace. Not rushing, just steady. Sure. He stopped at the closet, fingers trailing over fabric as he considered.

"What feels wrong about them?" he asked, pulling out the red dress I'd rejected.

"Too much," I said immediately. "Too look-at-me."

He nodded, hanging it back up without argument. "What about this?" The floral dress.

"Too little? Like I'm not taking it seriously?"

Another nod, another rejection. He understood. He always understood.

Then his hand stopped on a dark blue dress I'd barely noticed, pushed between louder choices. He pulled it out, holding it up with a certainty that brooked no argument.

"This one," he said, voice gentle but firm. "I want to see you in this."

The dress was simple but elegant—navy blue that would make my eyes pop, with a sweetheart neckline and a skirt that would hit just above my knees. Modest but pretty. Sophisticated but soft. Something a cherished girl would wear to dinner with her Daddy.

"You're sure?" I asked, taking it with careful hands.

"Very sure." He stepped closer, backing me against the closet door. "Want to see my baby girl feeling beautiful. Want everyone in that restaurant to know you're mine."

My breath caught. "Everyone?"

"Everyone." He braced his hands on either side of my head, caging me in without touching. "The waiter who's going to flirt with you until he sees how you look at me. The couples who'll wonder what I did to deserve you. Every single person who'll see us and know you're treasured."

"Gabe," I breathed, overwhelmed.

"Get dressed," he ordered softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead before stepping back. "I'll wait in the living room."

After he left, I stood there clutching the dress, heart racing. This was real. We were doing this. Going out into the world as Daddy and baby girl—not that anyone would know that part, but we would. That secret knowledge, that private dynamic playing out in public, sent heat through my entire body.

I changed slowly, savoring the transformation. Off came his stolen t-shirt and my ratty sleep shorts. On went the matching underwear set he'd bought—pale blue lace that made me feel delicate and desired. The dress slipped over my head like water, settling against my skin with a whisper.

When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn't recognize myself.

The girl staring back wasn't the exhausted nurse who'd worked herself to the bone.

Wasn't the terrified ex-girlfriend who'd changed her name and hidden for three years.

This girl looked . . . cared for. Cherished.

Like someone worth taking to dinner and showing off.

I touched the collar visible above the neckline. Such a simple thing—silver butterfly at my throat—but it changed everything. Marked me as belonging to someone who saw all of me and wanted me anyway. The scared parts and the little parts and the competent nurse parts. All of it.

"You're allowed to have this," I told my reflection. "You're allowed to be happy."