Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Felix
What the hell was I doing?
I took a slow breath and looked at Clayton, forcing my shoulders to loosen. He didn’t need commands—he needed care. Desperately. Losing his mom, that asshole Jason, and his job had stripped away every bit of joy and confidence he’d ever had.
He needed help. My help.
And then it hit me. My club didn’t have a Little room, but the one south of Charlotte did—Adrian’s place. Adrian was a good man, solid and kind, and the Little room there would be perfect.
Clayton was staring at me like he thought I might bite. And yeah, that lip of his was begging for it, but scaring him was the last thing I wanted. I dropped my stance, softened everything about my voice.
“Here’s what I think,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I was clear.
When I said I was going to be your Daddy for the holidays, I meant you were to stay with me.
So we’ll go home. Warm up. Shower. Eat. Then—if you’re up for it—we’ll drive to Charlotte.
There’s a club I know that has a Little room.
You don’t have to do anything, but I’d like you to see it.
Maybe talk to a few people. No pressure. ”
His brows drew together like he was trying to find the trap in my words.
But when I put my coat around his shoulders because his own jacket was way too thin and gestured toward the door, he followed.
He shivered the second the cold air hit him, and I bit back the instinct to just wrap him up and carry him inside.
Instead, I kept it easy—steady hands, steady voice.
By the time we reached the car, his shoulders were locked tight, and he moved like someone bracing for impact. He didn’t speak on the drive, just clasped his hands in his lap and stared out the window.
I waited until the silence settled deep enough for him to hear me. “Why’d you leave this morning?”
He startled, then ducked his head. “The realtor. I just… I didn't want to be a bother.”
I swallowed the curse that rose. That one sentence said everything.
The rest of the drive passed quietly. When he started to curl in on himself, I nudged the heat up a notch.
“Warm enough?” I asked.
He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
When we got to my house, he hesitated at the front door like it might swing open and swallow him. I touched his elbow, light, guiding him in. The heat hit us both, and I didn’t give him the chance to argue.
“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s get you thawed.”
He didn’t resist when I steered him toward the bathroom. His clothes came off slowly, like the movement hurt. I turned the water on, tested it, and caught him watching me—quiet, uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do without being told.
The sudden urge to just get in there and wash him myself nearly knocked me off balance. I covered it with a quick smile. “I’ll start dinner,” I said, backing out before I did something that meant too much.
In the kitchen, I let myself breathe. We’d already been intimate, but this—this felt different. Permanent. Dangerous.
I focused on the food. Something warm and grounding—pasta and roast chicken. I worked on autopilot, mind circling back to the club. The Little room there wasn’t just for play; it was for belonging. And that was what Clayton had never been allowed to have.
When the water stopped, I forced myself to stay put. He needed space to choose, not someone hovering over him.
“Clothes on, then come eat,” I called, keeping my voice gentle.
“Yes, sir,” came the small reply.
He emerged a few minutes later, hair damp, dressed in soft gray sweats that made him look younger, more breakable. He lingered at the edge of the kitchen like he didn’t know if he was allowed in.
“Sit wherever you like,” I said, motioning toward the counter stool.
He obeyed, tentative, and I set a plate in front of him—pasta, chicken, steam curling up between us. “Eat. You need it.”
His hands trembled, and I softened the tone before it turned into an order. “Take your time.”
He nodded, then started. Slow at first, then faster, as if the warmth itself reminded him what hunger felt like. Watching him ease notch by notch, seeing the tension drain from his shoulders, did something strange and quiet in my chest.
When he’d nearly finished, I said softly, “You did well.”
He froze. The fork clattered against the plate. For a second, I thought he’d shatter.
“Sorry,” he whispered, wiping at his eyes.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I said, leaning in just enough that he had to see I meant it. “You never have to apologize for needing something. Ever.”
He gave a shaky nod. I handed him a glass of water, and when he drained it, I passed him another. Then, without thinking, I brushed a bit of sauce from his cheek. He leaned into the touch. Just a breath, but enough to make my throat ache.
“Full?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Good.” I ruffled his hair, gentle. “I like seeing you eat.”
He went pink, and I let it be.
He tried to do the dishes, but I waved him away, so he sat quietly, waiting for direction, even if his eyes kept gazing at the dishes I stacked as if it worried him.
I dried my hands and turned to him. “So. About tonight.”
His fingers twisted in his lap. “The club?”
“Yeah. The one near Charlotte. They’ve got a Little room. I want you to see it. No expectations, no tests. Just…see what it feels like.”
He looked terrified—and a little hopeful. I smiled, slow and sure. “You’ll be safe. I’ll be right there. If you want to leave, we go. Deal?”
A small nod. “Yes, sir.”
That was enough.
The drive there was quiet again, but softer somehow. Less fear, more wondering. When we parked outside, he hesitated, taking in the blank building front.
“Hey.” I reached out, palm up. Not a command, just an offer. “With me?”
After a beat, he slipped his hand into mine.
Inside, the club glowed gold and warm, a low hum of conversation. Adrian caught my eye from across the room and lifted a surprised brow, but I shook my head. Later. This was just for Clayton.
The Little room’s sign and a picture of a teddy bear made him stop. I opened the door and let him look.
Soft carpet. Bright beanbags. A movie playing low on the TV. Two grown men and a woman in onesies laughing over a tower of blocks. A snack table loaded with juice boxes and crackers. It smelled like sugar and crayons and calm.
Clayton went still. Not afraid this time—just overwhelmed.
“Easy,” I murmured. “Just look.”
He did, eyes wide, drinking it in.
When a Little with a badge reading Rowan – Monitor approached, I recognized the nervous glance he sent to his Dom across the room. The Dom nodded encouragingly, and Rowan smiled.
“Hi!” he said brightly, then looked to me. “My name's Rowan. Would it be okay if I showed him around? It’s Quiet Night, so just coloring and puzzles, but we’ve got dress-up too.”
I smiled, catching Clayton’s uncertain gaze. “I think that sounds perfect.”
Rowan offered his hand, and I held my breath until Clayton took it. Rowan’s Dom…Daddy I guessed, stood up and held out a hand.
“Gabriel.”
I knew most places didn’t always give last names out, so I didn’t think it strange, and I shook. “Felix.”
Gabriel poured us both a coffee. “New to the club?”
I shook my head. “I've been, but never in here. I’ve been in the scene a while, but I don’t consider myself a Daddy.” I saw Gabriel’s puzzlement. “He’s a sub, but I think he needs more. I’m a member at Black and Gold, but we don’t have a dedicated Little space.”
Gabriel smiled, kind and a little knowing.
“You remind me of me. Rowan was playing at being a Little because he considered it a safe space. He needed structure. Rules, food, sleep. The basics. But he’s actually more into the sort of toys an older child would like, even if when he feels extra safe, he can go deeper. ”
“Clayton ran a retail department. He’s very talented.”
Gabriel grinned. “Rowan’s got three degrees.”
I grinned back and inclined my head. I knew better than to stereotype, and Gabriel was right to call me out on it.
I watched as one of the Littles sat down next to Clayton, and she picked up a pencil to color, but the second she pressed it to the paper the point snapped.
She stared at it like her world was ending, but before anyone else had the chance to react, Clayton had used a pencil sharpener and it was as good as new.
The Little beamed as Clayton asked her a question, and she shyly pointed to another drawing.
I watched as he engaged another Little who was trying to glue something, then helped.
Gabriel followed my gaze. “Is he a caretaker submissive?”
I glanced over in surprise. “A caretaker?” I’d never heard of that.
Gabriel shrugged. “Sorry, I just noticed him helping Brandon and Emily. Caretakers have a need to care for others, their Dom especially. He might be displaying Little tendencies, but it can be more complicated.”
I thought about how quiet he went when I cooked for him, almost agitated when I hadn’t let him clear the plates. Was it less about being a burden as he’d insisted and more that he wanted to care for me as well?
I decided to be honest. “But he loved it when I helped him get bathed. I didn’t once get the impression he didn’t enjoy what I did.”
Gabriel’s eyes crinkled as he leaned back in his chair, hands wrapped around his mug.
“That’s the tricky part,” he said, his voice low and patient.
“Caretakers usually do like being cared for. It’s not a rejection of submission—it’s a different shape of it.
They give by nurturing, by anticipating.
But when someone refuses that care, it can be seen as a rejection. ”