Page 33 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Wings

T he kitchen counter held evidence of my pre-dawn mission—cutting board dusted with breadcrumbs, empty jam jar waiting for the trash, star-shaped cookie cutter I'd found buried in Kiara's baking drawer.

I'd been up since five, moving through her apartment with the same careful precision I'd used on night ops.

Except instead of rigging charges, I was cutting peanut butter sandwiches into butterfly shapes.

The picnic basket sat ready by the door, an old-fashioned wicker thing I'd spotted at a thrift shop and immediately known she'd love.

Inside, everything arranged with tactical precision: butterfly sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper, juice boxes—apple and fruit punch because I couldn't remember which she'd reached for last time—string cheese in its own cooler pocket, and a white bakery box tied with ribbon.

The cookies from Sweet Dreams's had required a detour yesterday, timing it when I knew Cleo would be working.

She'd raised an eyebrow at my order—snickerdoodles, the soft kind with extra cinnamon sugar—but hadn't asked questions.

Kiara thought I didn't notice her sneaking them during late-night shifts, leaving careful crumbs she'd sweep up later.

Like I didn't catalog every detail about her, every preference and quirk.

Three days since she'd spotted Connor surveilling our supply run.

Three nights of her tossing beside me, muscles tight even in sleep, little whimpers that had nothing to do with pleasure.

Duke had the club on high alert, running extra patrols, varying routes and schedules.

Necessary precautions that did nothing for the guilt eating at my girl.

She blamed herself. Kept apologizing for bringing the heat to us. As though any of this was her fault. No amount of reassurance seemed to penetrate—not Duke's approval, not Doc's gruff praise for her quick thinking, not my own repeated promises that she'd done everything right.

So I'd planned this. Pulled up maps last night while she colored at the clubhouse, searching for somewhere perfect. Somewhere far from Ironridge's industrial grit, from Serpents and supply runs and the weight she carried like armor.

Willow Creek Trail. Forty minutes northwest, tucked into the foothills where tourists rarely ventured. The website promised wildflower meadows and butterfly gardens, gentle streams and shaded groves. Isolated enough for privacy, beautiful enough to make her forget everything but the moment.

My phone weather app confirmed what I'd hoped—sunny, high of seventy-five, light breeze. Perfect for the breezy sundress I'd laid across her chair.

Her bedroom door creaked softly as I pushed it open.

Morning light filtered through the gauze curtains, painting everything in soft focus.

She lay curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow, the other clutching Mr. Butterscotch, the golden monkey stuffie she loved so much.

Dark hair spread across the pillowcase in waves that begged for my fingers.

Beautiful. Mine.

I moved to the bed, sitting carefully on the edge. She didn't stir, too deep in whatever dream she was in. Her brow furrowed slightly, some worry following her even into sleep.

Not today. Today was about joy, about reminding her that life held more than threats and fear. Today she got to be little, be free, be mine to spoil and protect.

I leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to her forehead. Her skin warm, smelling like the lavender lotion she used before bed. "Wake up, baby girl," I whispered against her temple. "Daddy has a surprise for you."

She stirred, a small sound in her throat that went straight to my chest. Those green eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused and confused. "Wings?"

"Morning, angel." I smoothed hair back from her face, watching awareness creep in. "Sleep good?"

"Mm." She stretched, catlike and languid, then froze. "What time is it? Do I have to work? I didn't—"

"Shh." I pressed a finger to her lips. "No work today, remember? It’s your day off."

Her eyes widened. "Oh good."

"Your Daddy urgently needs to take you on an adventure."

"Adventure?" She sat up, sheet pooling at her waist, my old Army shirt hanging off one shoulder. "What kind of adventure?"

I reached behind me, holding up the sundress. The morning light caught the yellow fabric, made the daisies seem to dance. "The kind that requires this."

Her intake of breath was pure delight. "My favorite dress." Her fingers reached out, tracing one embroidered daisy. "Where are we going?"

"That's the surprise part." I stood, laying the dress across her lap. "But I can tell you it involves butterflies, a picnic, and absolutely no Serpents, supply runs, or anything that isn't about making my baby girl happy."

Tears gathered in her eyes, just enough to make them shine. "Gabe . . ."

"No crying." I caught her chin, tilting her face up. "Today's about smiles. Think you can give Daddy smiles?"

She nodded quickly, already sliding out of bed. "I can do smiles. So many smiles. All the smiles you want."

"That's my good girl." I headed for the door, pausing to look back. "Fifteen minutes. Dress, sandals, and grab a hair tie. I'll be in the kitchen."

"Fifteen minutes," she repeated, already pulling my shirt over her head. "Don't leave without me!"

"Never," I promised, and meant it.

The Harley's engine ticked as it cooled in the empty parking area, just us and one dusty Subaru.

This felt perfect. Kiara sat pressed against my back, arms still wrapped tight around my waist like she wasn't quite ready to let go.

The picnic basket balanced on her lap, secured by bungee cords that had taken me ten minutes to get right.

"We're here, baby girl." I kicked the stand down, feeling her shift behind me.

"It's so pretty!" She was already craning to see around me, voice bright with wonder. "Look at all the flowers! Are those lupines? The purple ones?"

I helped her off first, hands spanning her waist as I lifted her clear. The yellow sundress fluttered in the morning breeze, daisies dancing across the fabric. Her sandaled feet hit the gravel with a little bounce, like she couldn't contain the energy thrumming through her.

"Steady." But I was smiling, watching her spin in a slow circle to take it all in.

The meadow stretched before us like something from her coloring books—purple lupines mixed with orange California poppies, patches of wild mustard adding splashes of yellow.

The trail entrance was marked by a wooden sign, worn smooth by weather and time.

Beyond that, pine trees promised shade and secrets.

"Can I?" She gestured at the flowers growing right up to the parking area's edge, already gravitating toward them.

"In a minute." I unstrapped the picnic basket, testing its weight. She'd added something when I wasn't looking—the container had a suspicious rattle that sounded like colored pencils. "Let me just—"

"Daddy!" Her gasp cut me off, finger pointing at a smaller sign I'd noticed on the website. "Butterfly Garden, half a mile! Can we go? Please please please?"

The excitement in her voice was everything I'd hoped for. Three days of worry, of second-guessing, of apologizing for things that weren't her fault—all of it falling away as she bounced on her toes.

"That's the plan, angel." I snagged the basket in one hand, held out the other. "Come on."

The trail wound through tall grass that whispered against our legs. Morning sun warmed my shoulders, brought out the scent of pine and wildflowers and that particular smell of wild places. Clean. Untouched. Nothing like the oil and exhaust of Ironridge.

Kiara stopped every dozen feet. First for a patch of Indian paintbrush—"Look how red!"—then for an interesting rock that might have mica in it. A lizard sunning on a boulder required a full minute of silent observation. When a blue butterfly danced past, she actually squeaked.

"He's showing us the way," she declared, tugging me forward. "Following the butterfly path."

I let her lead, content to watch her explore. This was what I'd wanted—to see her lost in simple joy, forgetting everything but the moment. No hypervigilance, no checking over her shoulder, no apologies bubbling up every time she spoke.

"Daddy?" She'd stopped at a cluster of wild roses, breathing in their scent. "This must have taken so much planning."

"Worth it." I shifted the basket to my other hand, reaching out to tuck escaped hair behind her ear. "You've been so brave this week. So strong. But I could see the weight you were carrying."

Her face fell slightly. "I'm sorry—"

"No." I cut her off firmly. "That's not what this is about. You did everything right, baby girl. You were perfect."

"But—"

"This is all for you." I gestured at the trail, the flowers, the promise of butterflies ahead. "Because my brave girl told Daddy the truth even when it was scary. Good girls who are honest get special rewards."

Her eyes went soft, that particular look that meant she was sinking into our dynamic. "Rewards?"

"So many rewards." I started walking again, drawing her along.

She went quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "I love you."

"Love you too, angel."

The trail curved, following a small stream that gurgled over smooth stones. She had to investigate that too, crouching carefully in her dress to peer at minnows darting through the shallows. I stood guard, basket at my feet, watching her wonder at tiny fish like they were treasure.

This. This was what we were protecting when we ran supplies to injured brothers. This was why the Heavy Kings existed —to carve out spaces where innocence could survive. Where beautiful girls could chase butterflies without fear.

"Oh!" She shot upright, pointing ahead. "I hear water! Bigger water!"