Page 26 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Verona's sat tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop, the kind of place you'd walk past without noticing unless you knew to look.

Soft light spilled through windows draped with sheer curtains, and the name was etched in gold script so delicate it looked handwritten.

Gabe's hand was warm on my lower back as he guided me through the door, and I tried not to think about how many exits there were. Old habits.

Inside, the restaurant wrapped around us like a warm embrace. Exposed brick walls, candlelit tables with actual white tablecloths, the soft clink of real silverware against china. A hostess in a black dress that made me feel underdressed smiled at Gabe like she knew him.

"Mr. Moreno, so lovely to see you again. Your usual table?"

He had a usual table. Of course he did. The Gabe I'd known at seventeen wouldn't have known what fork to use first, but this Wings—Daddy—moved through the world with quiet confidence that made my knees weak.

"Thank you, Maria," he said, then to me, "You'll love the view."

She led us to a corner booth that somehow felt private despite the bustling dining room. The promised view was of a small courtyard garden, lit with string lights that turned everything golden. Gabe helped me slide in, then surprised me by sitting beside me instead of across.

"Want to be close to you," he murmured when I looked at him questioningly. "That okay?"

More than okay. Under the tablecloth, his hand found my knee, thumb stroking absent circles through the fabric of my dress. Such a simple touch, but it grounded me, reminded me I was safe.

"Wine?" he asked, then caught himself. "Wait. You're probably exhausted from your shift. Would you rather—"

"Wine sounds perfect," I interrupted, touched that he was thinking about my needs even now. "Something sweet?"

He ordered something in Italian that made the waiter nod approvingly before disappearing. Then his attention was entirely on me, those hazel eyes taking in everything from my carefully styled hair to the way I kept touching the collar.

"You look beautiful," he said simply. "Worth the wait."

"The wait?"

"Three years of wondering if you were okay. If you were happy. If you ever thought about me." His hand squeezed my knee gently. "Having you here now, knowing you're mine—worth every second."

My eyes burned. "I thought about you all the time. Especially when things were bad. I'd remember how careful you were with everything—fixing my bike that time, teaching me to change oil. How you never raised your voice, even when Alex was being impossible."

"Couldn't raise my voice around you," he admitted. "Too busy trying not to stare. Do you know how many times I had to excuse myself from family dinners because watching you was physically painful?"

"Gabe—"

"The way you'd bite your lip when you were concentrating on something. How you'd tuck your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. The little humming thing when you were content." He shook his head. "Drove me crazy."

The wine arrived, along with a basket of bread that smelled like heaven.

Everything felt dreamlike—the soft lighting, the gentle touch of his hand, the way he looked at me like I was precious.

For the first time in years, I felt like a normal woman on a normal date.

No running, no hiding, no constantly checking over my shoulder.

"Tell me about the Army," I said, buttering a piece of bread. "Your messages were always so vague."

"Operational security," he said with a slight smile. "Couldn't say much. But mostly it was . . ." He paused, searching for words. "Clarifying. Realized what mattered. What I was fighting for."

"Democracy? Freedom?"

"You." The simple word hit like a physical thing. "Every mission, every close call, I thought about coming home to you. Even knowing you were with him, just the idea that you existed in the world made it worth surviving."

I abandoned the bread, appetite gone. "I'm sorry. For choosing him. For not seeing—"

"Hey." He turned my face to his with gentle fingers. "No apologies. We weren't ready then. Had to become who we are now."

The waiter appeared to take our orders. Gabe ordered for both of us—normally that would spike my anxiety, but he chose exactly what I'd been eyeing, proving he'd been paying attention to where my gaze lingered on the menu.

When we were alone again, I leaned into his side, letting his warmth seep through me.

"This is nice," I said softly. "Being normal."

"We're never going to be normal, baby girl," he said with a soft laugh. "Normal people don't have nurseries and rules and collars. But we can be us, openly. That's better than normal."

He was right.

The couple at the next table probably didn't have a dynamic like ours. The businessman at the bar definitely didn't understand the safety of surrender. But that was okay. We'd found what worked for us, even if it wasn't conventional.

Our food arrived—pasta that tasted like clouds, sauce that made me moan indecently, bread that definitely violated my nutrition rules but Gabe encouraged me to eat anyway. "Special occasions don't count," he said, watching me savor each bite with satisfaction that bordered on proprietary.

I was laughing at a story about Thor trying to teach Dex to ride when I saw him.

The man at the bar, nursing a whiskey, profile sharp in the mirror behind the bottles. My blood turned to ice water, stomach clenching hard enough to hurt. I knew that face. The scar through his eyebrow. The way he held his shoulders. The snake tattoo creeping up his neck.

Connor. Alex's enforcer from the Iron Serpents. The one who'd helped him terrorize me, who'd laughed when Alex had shoved me into that glass table. Who'd offered to "break me in right" if Alex ever got tired of me.

"Baby girl? What's wrong?"

Gabe's voice came from very far away. My hands were shaking, pulse hammering so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. Connor was here. In our restaurant. On what was supposed to be our perfect night.

"Kiara." Sharper now, Daddy voice cutting through the panic. "Look at me."

I dragged my gaze to his, saw the concern there, the ready protection. All I had to do was tell him. Point out Connor. Let him handle it. That was the rule—honesty, always.

But if I told him, our perfect night would be over.

There'd be violence or police or running.

I'd ruin everything with my broken past, prove I was too damaged for normal dates and public happiness.

The old voices crowded in—you're not worth protecting, you bring chaos everywhere, you destroy good things.

"Nothing, Daddy," I forced out, made my lips curve in what might pass for a smile. "Just tired."

The lie tasted like acid. His eyes narrowed slightly, reading me, and I knew he wasn't fully buying it. But before he could push, I pressed closer to his side, hand finding his thigh under the table.

"The pasta is amazing," I said, taking another bite I couldn't taste. "Thank you for bringing me here."

He studied me for another long moment, then let it go. But his body had shifted into alert mode, scanning the restaurant with the kind of casual surveillance that spoke of military training. I kept my eyes firmly on my plate, praying Connor would leave without seeing us.

"Want dessert?" Gabe asked, but his tone had changed. The easy romance replaced by something watchful.

"Maybe we could get it to go?" I suggested, hating how desperate I sounded. "I really am tired."

"Of course." He was already signaling for the check, and I wanted to cry at ruining our night.

The ride home felt like traveling through molasses, every mile stretching longer than the last. Gabe's body was rigid beneath my arms, his shoulders set in a way that made my stomach churn with more than motion sickness.

I pressed my face against his leather jacket, breathing in his scent, trying to ground myself. But the usual comfort wasn't there. He knew I'd lied. Of course he knew. The man who noticed when I forgot lunch could certainly tell when I was concealing terror.

By the time we pulled into the clubhouse lot, my whole body was shaking. Not from cold or fear of Connor, but from the weight of what I'd done. Rule number three—honesty, always. The most important rule. The foundation everything else was built on.

And I'd shattered it for the sake of pasta and candlelight.

Gabe helped me off the bike with the same careful hands as always, but he didn't pull me close after. Didn't call me baby girl or praise me for the date. Just placed his hand on my lower back—still protective, still claiming, but distant somehow—and guided me inside.

The clubhouse was rowdy with evening activity.

Pool games and laughter and the clink of beer bottles.

But Gabe steered me past all of it, up the stairs, down the hall to my room, then through to the nursery.

Each step felt like walking toward judgment, and the worst part was knowing I deserved whatever came next.

Inside the nursery, the fairy lights that usually meant safety felt like spotlights exposing my failure. The room that had been sanctuary now felt like a courtroom. Gabe closed the door with quiet finality, and when he turned to face me, his expression made my knees weak.

Not angry. That would have been easier. This was disappointment, deep and encompassing, and it hurt worse than any rage could have.

"Kiara," he said, voice low and controlled. "Look at me."

I forced my eyes up from where I'd been studying the carpet. His face was set in serious lines, the Daddy who'd given me rules and structure and safety. Who I'd failed.

"What is rule number three?"

The question landed like a stone in my chest. I knew this was coming, had known since the lie left my lips, but hearing it made everything real.

"Honesty," I whispered. "Always."

"And what happened at the restaurant?"

My throat closed up. The words stuck there, sharp as glass, not wanting to emerge. But this was my chance to fix it, to at least be honest now.

"I saw someone," I managed, voice cracking. "From before. One of Alex's . . . friends. Connor. He used to—" I stopped, swallowed hard. "He scared me. Brought everything back."

"And when I asked what was wrong?"

"I lied." The admission came out small, broken. "Said I was just tired."

"Why?" Not accusatory, just seeking to understand. That almost made it worse.

The tears came then, hot and shameful. "Because I didn't want to ruin our night. Because we were having such a perfect time and I was normal for once and not the girl with the dangerous ex and the baggage and—"

"Stop." He crossed to me in two strides, hands gentle on my shoulders despite his serious expression. "You're spiraling. Breathe."

I tried, but the sobs were coming faster now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I broke the rule and disappointed you and—"

"Shh." He pulled me against his chest, and I broke completely. His arms came around me, strong and steady, holding me while I fell apart. "There we go. Let it out."

I cried into his shirt—ugly, wrenching sobs that left me hiccupping and snotty. Cried for the ruined date and the broken rule and the fear that still lived in my bones despite all his protection. Cried because I'd had one job—be honest—and I'd failed at the first real test.

He held me through it all, one hand stroking my hair, the other rubbing circles on my back. Murmuring soft things I couldn't quite hear over my own breakdown. When the storm finally passed, leaving me wrung out and empty, he guided me to sit on the bed.

"Better?" he asked, using tissues to clean my face with the same patience he showed with everything.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Good. Now we talk." He sat beside me, close but not touching. "First—you didn't ruin anything. Our night was perfect because we were together. That doesn't change because some asshole showed up."

"But—"

"Second," he continued firmly, "you are not responsible for your past. For Alex or his associates or the fear they created. That's not baggage—that's survival, and I'm proud of you for getting through it."

Fresh tears threatened. "Then why do I feel so bad?"

"Because you lied to me." His voice gentled but remained firm. "Not about something small, but about being afraid. That's exactly when you need to tell me the truth most. When you're scared or triggered or panicking—that's when honesty matters most."

"I know." I twisted my hands in my lap. "I just . . . I wanted to protect the night."

"That's my job." He tipped my chin up, making me meet his eyes. "I protect you. I protect our nights and our days and everything in between. Your job is to be honest so I can do mine effectively."

The logic of it, the simple truth, made my chest ache. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

"I know you are." He studied my face, thumb brushing away a stray tear. "And I forgive you. But baby girl, a rule was broken. A very important one."

My stomach dropped even as I nodded. I knew this was coming. Had agreed to it, even wanted it on some level. Consequences meant the rules mattered. Meant I mattered enough to be held accountable.

"What happens now?" I asked in a small voice.

"Now we deal with it, and then it's over. Clean slate, like always." He stood, moving to the center of the room. "But this wasn't a forgotten meal or staying up past bedtime. This was dishonesty about safety. That requires something more significant than corner time."

My breath caught. We'd discussed this possibility, but facing it was different.

"A spanking," I whispered.

"Yes." He sat in the reading chair, looking every inch the Daddy who loved me enough to follow through. "But first, I need you to tell me why. Not to shame you, but so you understand. Why are you being punished?"

I stood on shaky legs, moving closer but not all the way. "Because I lied when you asked what was wrong. Because I hid being afraid instead of trusting you to handle it."

"And why does that matter?"

"Because . . ." I thought about it, really thought beyond the surface. "Because you can't keep me safe if I don't tell you when I'm scared. Because hiding things breaks the trust between us. Because I matter enough to be honest about my needs."

"Good girl." The praise in the midst of impending punishment made my head spin. "That's exactly right. Now, I want you to go change into your pajamas. The yellow ones with the ducks. Then come back here."

The specificity of it—choosing what I'd wear for my punishment—made everything more real. More intimate. This wasn't just discipline; it was care wrapped in consequences.