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Especially if that man believes I am his Daddy.
It’s an ugly calculation, and I hate myself a little for turning it over in my head while Kamden sleeps naked and trusting against me.
Not enough to stop, though, because the calculation protects him, and that’s what matters.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I run my thumb along the delicate skin under his eye.
Mathias needs to believe Kamden won’t betray us.
The man is ruthless, but he isn’t wasteful.
He won’t create a war with me over a witness who no longer behaves like one. And if he sees Kammie soft and trusting, calling me Daddy with that shy little voice?
The thought is a cold vacuum in my chest. It has to be enough. My jaw tightens until the muscle aches. I don’t like this part—not the wanting. God no, I want that shy little “Daddy” more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
What I hate is holding something that fragile and turning it over in my hands like a piece of evidence to be presented at trial.
But this is the world I built for him by keeping him here. Nothing is simple anymore. Caring for him is tenderness; it’s also armor. Wanting him is hunger; it’s also a tactic. Love—
No.
Too soon for that word.
Point is—whatever this growing thing between us is, it can be real, and it can be strategic. They don’t have to eat each other alive.
I press my lips to the crown of his head, breathing in the scent of my shampoo in his hair. “That’s what we’re going with.”
Kamden sighs softly in his sleep.
I chuckle quietly. “Glad you approve.”
Slowly, carefully, I lift him from my chest.
His brows pinch together immediately. A soft, unhappy sound catches in his throat, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.
“Shh.” I slide one arm beneath his shoulders, holding him close against me, while my free hand reaches for the towel I left on the bedside table. “You’re alright, sweetheart. Daddy’s got you.”
His face relaxes again as I say it, the tension melting away like he understands.
There’s no dignity in what comes next—cleaning the sweat and cum from his skin, and the scent of ammonia from between his thighs—but dignity was never the point. I want him to learn that bodies make messes. Sweat. Blood. Cum. Piss. Tears. None of it defines what he’s worth when the mess is over.
I work slowly so I don’t wake him, wiping his stomach first with a warm cloth, then between his legs, careful not to press too hard. Drying him thoroughly before I ease a soft cotton shirt over his head. It would be easier if he weren’t dead weight, but I don’t mind guiding his limp arms through the sleeves or cupping the back of his head as I lift him.
If anything, it satisfies something primal in me—the trust he shows me even while unconscious.
There’s probably something wrong with how much that settles me.
Add it to the list.
I pull soft shorts up his legs, no underwear, then find another pair of the socks he likes—a soft mint green this time.
Once he is clean and dressed, I wrap him in the blanket from my bed and lift him, his face nuzzling instinctively into my neck.
My chest constricts as I carry him back down the hall.
His bedroom smells faintly of urine. I settle Kamden temporarily into the chair beside the bed, wrapped tightly enough in a blanket that he doesn’t slide anywhere, his rabbit tucked beneath his arm.
His head lolls to one side.
