8. Henry
Henry
The boy’s fallen asleep. Again . And I can’t say I blame him.
The van’s engine hums steady as I guide the van along the long, winding coastal road, the dark ocean a faint shimmer to my left.
The night’s still thick, no headlights in the rearview, but my Guard instincts keep me sharp, scanning for any sign of trouble.
The reality of this situation is that we don’t know who we’re dealing with yet.
Not really. Sure, it’s someone who isn’t fooling around—they want to kill Bodie and have the means of doing it.
But what I need to know is what level of asshole we’re talking about here. From all my experience, knowing your enemy’s strengths and weaknesses is pretty much up there as the most valuable information you could hold.
I turn and glance at the boy once more…
Bodie’s curled up in the passenger seat, walrus stuffy clutched tight, his breathing slow and soft. He’s out cold, the spanking and the night’s chaos pulling him under again.
Damn, he’s cute.
Maybe too cute.
But he’s a handful too…
My Daddy side feels a tug, wanting to tuck a blanket over him, but I keep my hands on the wheel. We’re not safe yet, not with Vince and his killers still out there.
I need intel, and I need it fast .
The road straightens, and I spot a turnout ahead, a gravel patch shadowed by pines.
Perfect .
I ease Shred off the pavement, the tires crunching soft, and kill the engine.
The silence hits hard, just the distant waves and Bodie’s faint snores. I pull my burner phone from my pocket, a habit from too many ops where traceable tech could get you killed.
Cole’s number is one of the few I’ve got memorized, and I tap out a quick message…
H: Need you to dig into a guy named Vince Gray.
Could be a smuggler, maybe cartel, based out of the West, but could be from anywhere.
Targeting a boy, Bodie, around 23, surfer.
Sent shooters after him tonight. Get me everything you can find—associates, reach, current location. Heading to safehouse north. ASAP.
I hit send, knowing Cole will come through. He’s a mountain of a man, lethal as hell, but sharp with intel, always sniffing out dirt others miss.
If anyone can get a read on Vince, it’s Cole.
And if I thought that Cole was going to go soft now that he had a boy in his life, I couldn’t be more wrong.
Ever since he got together with his love, he’s been even more focused, ruthless, and efficient.
Turns out that having something to live for makes you an even better Guard. Who would have thought it?
I lean back, the seat creaking under me, and glance at Bodie. His face is soft in sleep, freckles dusting his nose, that stubborn pout gone for once.
The boy a fighter, but he’s fragile too, his Little side peeking out with that stuffy. It stirs something in me, a desire to shield him, to be the Daddy he doesn’t know he needs. But he’s made it clear he doesn’t trust easy, and after Vince, I can’t blame him.
A rustle pulls my eyes back to him. He’s stirring, blinking slow, his blue eyes foggy as he sits up, Poot still in his arms.
“What’re you doing?” Bodie mumbles, voice thick with sleep, a hint of that pout creeping back. “Why… why did we stop?”
“Go back to sleep,” I say, keeping my tone low, tucking the phone away. “Just handling something. Business. You know.”
Bodie rubs his eyes, hugging Poot tighter.
“Can’t go back to sleep now,” Bodie says, a whine edging his voice, his Little side slipping through. “I’m too awake. My butt’s still sore, thanks to you.”
He shoots me a glare, but it’s half-hearted, more playful than pissed. There’s a spark in Bodie’s eyes, like the spanking left him rattled but maybe a little intrigued.
I raise an eyebrow, fighting a smirk.
“You earned that, boy,” I laugh. “But if you can’t sleep, do something quiet. Draw or something. Keep your mind off it. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of supplies in the back of this van.”
He huffs, but his eyes light up, like I’ve hit on something he didn’t expect me to get.
“Fine,” Bodie says, twisting to reach into the back of the van. He digs through his mess of blankets and pillows, pulling out a worn sketch pad and a ziplock bag of colored pencils. “But you better drive smooth, Henry. I don’t want my lines all wobbly because of your crap driving.”
I chuckle, the sound rough in the quiet.
“Smooth as jazz, princess,” I chuckle. “Just don’t stab me with those pencils if I hit a pothole.”
I start the engine, easing the van back onto the road, the hum settling in again.
There’s a good feeling between us, a lightness that wasn’t there before. The spanking set some boundaries, and while he’s still prickly, he’s not fighting me tooth and nail. Progress .
Bodie flips open his sketch pad, the pencil scratching soft as he starts to draw.
I steal a glance, catching the curve of waves taking shape, bold and fluid, like he’s pouring his soul onto the page.
His hand moves with a surfer’s grace, and his face softens, that Little side peeking out in the way he bites his lip, focused but relaxed. It’s damn near mesmerizing, seeing him like this—not the defiant brat, but a boy lost in his art, his world small and safe for a moment.
My Daddy side hums, wanting to praise him, to set rules that keep him in this soft space, but I know better than to push too hard. Bodie’s skittish, and I’m not here to scare him off.
“Nice waves,” I say, keeping my voice casual, eyes on the road. “You draw like you surf?”
Bodie glances up, a shy smile tugging at his lips before he catches himself and shrugs.
“Maybe,” Bodie says. “Been drawing the ocean since I was a kid. It’s… my thing.” His voice is softer, like he’s letting me in just a crack, and it feels like a win.
“Bet you’re a hell of a surfer,” I say, testing the waters, a grin creeping in. “All fire and no fear out there, huh ? You know, I’d like to see you shred a wave. Bet you look good doing it.”
His cheeks flush, and he ducks his head, pencil pausing.
“Flirt much?” Bodie mutters, but there’s a giggle in there, light and teasing, his Little side dancing close to the surface. For a second, it’s easy, the air warm with something that feels like possibility. “Don’t get any ideas, Henry. I’m not your type.”
“Oh, you’re exactly my type,” I shoot back, keeping it playful but letting a little heat slip in. “Trouble with a side of sass? Sign me up.”
I wink, and he laughs—a real laugh, bright and unguarded. It’s the best sound I’ve heard all night, and my chest tightens, wanting more of it, more of him.
But then his laugh fades, and he pulls back, his eyes dropping to his sketch pad, fingers tightening on the pencil.
“Yeah, well, I don’t do types anymore,” Bodie says, voice quieter, edged with something raw. “Guys like you… you’re trouble too.”
He’s scared, I can see it, that wall slamming back up.
Vince burned him bad, and trust’s a long way off. I want to tell him I’m not Vince, that I’d never twist his Little side or cage him, but words won’t fix this. Not yet.
“Fair enough,” I say, easing off, giving him space. “Just keep drawing, princess. Those waves are looking good.”
Bodie nods, his pencil moving again, and I focus on the road, the safehouse still a half hour out. The silence settles, but it’s not heavy, just a pause, like we’re both figuring out what this is.
As Bodie keeps sketching, his pencil scratching softly, I let my mind wander, the road a steady rhythm under the van’s tires.
He’s a puzzle, this boy—fire and defiance one minute, soft and Little the next.
I steal another glance, watching him shade a wave, his fingers delicate but sure. It’s easy to imagine him out there, board under his feet, cutting through the water like he owns it.
But it’s not just his strength that’s got me hooked. It’s the way he clings to Poot, the way his pout hides a need for safety, for someone to set boundaries and mean it.
I picture him in a different life, one where he’s not running…
Bodie’s in a cozy beach house, my place maybe, his sketch pad spread out on a table cluttered with colored pencils. He’s in a romper, his Little side free, giggling as I set out juice boxes and tell him it’s time for a nap.
I’d be his Daddy, firm but gentle, giving him rules to keep him safe, spankings when he sasses too hard, and all the praise he deserves for his art, his fire.
Bodie would trust me, let me shield him from the Vinces of the world, and I’d come home from missions to his smile, his waves, his softness.
The fantasy’s vivid, too vivid, and my grip tightens on the wheel.
I want him—his sass, his Little side, his everything .
But he’s not ready, maybe never will be. Vince’s left scars, and my life’s no fairy tale, all blood and shadows.
Still, driving through the dark, his pencil scratching beside me, I can’t help but hope. If I can keep him alive, neutralize this threat, maybe there’s a chance. Not just to balance the scales for past Guard losses, but to build something real.
For now, I’ll drive, keep the boy safe, and let him sketch his waves, hoping one day he’ll let me in for real…