Tame Me Daddy

Chapter 7 #2

Hoppy's fur was damp with my tears. I clutched him to my chest, rocking slightly on the edge of my bed. The stuffed bunny had seen me through countless nights of loneliness, but tonight felt different. Tonight, I felt like I was losing everything I'd built.

A soft knock at my door made me flinch. I shoved Hoppy under my pillow—an old reflex, hiding evidence of my "sickness."

"Cherry? It's Maya. Can I come in?"

I wiped at my face, but the tears wouldn't stop coming. "It's not a good time," I called, my voice betraying me with a crack.

The door opened anyway. Maya took one look at me and crossed the room without hesitation. The bed dipped as she sat beside me, her arm wrapping around my shoulders.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked simply.

I shook my head, then nodded, then broke into fresh sobs. Maya pulled me closer, letting me cry against her shoulder. She smelled like hay and sunshine and horse—familiar ranch scents that usually comforted me but now just reminded me of everything I stood to lose.

"Your family's really doing a number on you, huh?" she said when my crying slowed.

I pulled back, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "It's complicated."

"Family usually is." She squeezed my shoulder. "But that doesn't give them the right to barge in here and try to ship you off to some military camp."

A hiccuping laugh escaped me. "You heard about that?"

"Word travels fast." She hesitated, then asked gently, "What is this really about, Cherry? What's this 'program' supposed to fix?"

The question hung between us. I'd never told Maya about my little side. Had never told anyone voluntarily, until Grant. The thought of exposing this part of myself again, after my parents had just tainted it with their disgust, made my stomach twist.

But Maya had been nothing but kind to me since I arrived. And if my parents dragged me away tomorrow, I'd never get the chance to tell her the truth.

I reached under my pillow and pulled out Hoppy. Maya's expression didn't change as I settled the worn bunny on my lap.

"When I told my family I was a Little, they disowned me," I said, the words coming out in a rush. "It's . . . it's a kind of identity. Sometimes I need to—to be smaller. Younger. To be taken care of in specific ways. It's not—" I swallowed hard. "It's not sexual. Or it can be, but it doesn't have to be. It's about feeling safe and cared for."

I couldn't look at her as I spoke, focusing instead on Hoppy's threadbare ear. "Some people call it age regression, but it's more complicated than that. I don't actually think I'm a child. I just, sometimes I need to access that part of myself. The vulnerable part that needs different kinds of care."

When Maya didn't immediately respond, I forced myself to continue. "My parents found my little things when I told them. They said I was sick. Perverted. That I needed professional help." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe they're right."

Maya was quiet for so long that I finally looked up, braced for disgust or confusion. Instead, I found her regarding me thoughtfully, no judgment in her expression.

"So this military program," she said finally. "It's what, some kind of conversion therapy with a different name?"

I nodded, surprised by her perceptiveness. "Basically. They think they can drill it out of me. Make me 'normal.'"

"Normal is overrated," Maya replied immediately. "And that program sounds like abuse with a fancy brochure."

A surprised laugh escaped me. "That's one way of putting it."

Maya shifted to face me more directly. "Listen, Cherry. I don't pretend to understand everything about being a Little. But I know this: you're not sick. You're not broken. And anyone who tries to 'fix' you instead of accepting you is the one with the problem."

Her words were like cool water on a burn. "You don't think it's weird?"

"Of course it's weird," she said with a grin. "But so am I. So is everyone, in their own way. Weird isn't bad. It's just different."

I felt something loosen in my chest. "Grant's been helping me accept that part of myself. He . . ." I hesitated, then decided to go all-in. "He's a Daddy Dom. He takes care of me. Helps me feel safe being little sometimes, and strong the rest of the time."

Maya's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded as if pieces were falling into place. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

"It does?"

"The way he looks at you. How you two interact. I figured something was going on, but this—" She gestured to Hoppy. "This actually explains a lot about the dynamic I was picking up on."

I stared at her. "Really?"

"For what it's worth, I think you're good for each other. He seems... lighter since you came."

"I love him," I admitted, the first time I'd said it aloud to anyone. "But maybe that's not enough. Maybe I'll always be this broken thing people want to fix."

Maya's response was fierce. "You're not broken. And anyone who thinks you need fixing doesn't deserve you."

The conviction in her voice was almost enough to make me believe her. Almost. But my parents' words had wormed their way back into my head, reviving doubts I thought I'd put to rest.

"I don't know what to do," I confessed. "Part of me wants to just go with them tomorrow. Get it over with. Maybe they're right and this program will help me be . . . normal."

"Or maybe it'll crush the best parts of you to fit someone else's idea of normal." Maya's voice was gentle but firm. "Cherry, from what you've told me, your parents don't want to help you—they want to erase parts of you they don't understand or approve of. That's not love. That's control."

She was right, I knew she was right, but the doubt had taken root. Despite Maya's support, I felt myself spiraling deeper into confusion and fear. The confident woman I'd become at Warwick seemed like a distant memory, replaced by the uncertain, ashamed person I'd been before.

After she left, I slipped out of my room and headed toward the barn. The evening had deepened into night, the ranch quiet except for the occasional whicker of horses and the distant sound of coyotes. The barn doors stood partially open, releasing warm light from the interior lamps left on for night checks.

I moved through the shadowy interior, finding comfort in the familiar sounds and scents. Starlight nickered softly as I passed her stall. I paused to stroke her velvet nose, drawing comfort from her steady presence.

"She misses you when you're not around."

The deep voice startled me. I turned to find Grant leaning against a support beam, his face half in shadow. He looked tired, lines etched deeper around his eyes than usual.

"Your parents like to talk," he said quietly, moving to stand beside me at Starlight's stall.

My stomach dropped.

"Now you know what you've gotten yourself into," I whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

"I already knew," Grant replied, his voice gentle but firm. "Nothing they said changes how I see you."

"Maybe it should," I said, voicing the doubt that had been growing since my parents' arrival. "Maybe they're right."

Grant's hand covered mine where it rested on the stall door. "Cherry, look at me."

I forced myself to meet his gaze, braced for pity or uncertainty. Instead, I found nothing but absolute conviction.

"There is nothing wrong with you," he said, each word deliberate and weighted. "Nothing that needs fixing. Do you hear me? Nothing. Today, I held back—and it was difficult, believe me. But I’m on your side. A thousand percent."

The certainty in his voice reached something deep inside me, a small flame of hope in the darkness of doubt. But fear lingered. "What do we do? They're my family. If I don't go with them . . ."

"Sometimes the family we're born into isn't the family we belong with," Grant said softly. His hand tightened on mine. "And whatever you decide," he continued, "I need you to know something." He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving mine. "I love you. All of you—every part. And I'll support whatever choice you make, even if it breaks my heart."

His declaration—the first time he'd said the words—stole my breath. I reached up to touch his face, feeling the slight stubble under my fingertips. "You love me?"

"Like you can’t believe. You're not broken, Cherry. You're whole in a way most people never manage to be—honest with yourself about what you need, brave enough to seek it despite the cost."

He drew me closer, his arms encircling me. In his embrace, the world felt briefly right again, the confusion and shame receding.

"I love you too," I whispered against his chest. "I think I have since the first time we met."

We stood there in the quiet, the horses occasionally shifting in their stalls, the night sounds of the ranch surrounding us. Grant's heartbeat under my ear was steady and strong.

I leaned into him, drawing strength from his certainty. The decision still loomed, but for the first time since my parents' arrival, I felt a glimmer of the confidence I'd built at Warwick. The person I'd become here was real. The acceptance I'd found was real.

*

I pulled on my boots with deliberate movements—left foot, right foot, tug the tabs, stand. My ranch clothes felt like armor—worn jeans, flannel shirt, leather belt with the buckle Maya had given me after my first month. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself. Not because I'd changed so much, but because for the first time, I was seeing all of me at once—the capable ranch hand, the woman in love, and yes, the little girl who sometimes needed care. All of me, integrated and whole. I grabbed my hat and walked out to face my family.

The morning air held a bite that matched my mood—sharp and clarifying. Maya waited outside my door, leaning against the railing. She straightened when she saw me.

"You okay?" she asked, falling into step beside me.

"Not yet," I admitted. "But I will be."

We walked together toward the main house where my family's car sat packed and ready. My father checked his watch as we approached, his impatience visible even from a distance. My mother stood with her purse clutched to her chest like a shield. Amber hovered nearby, her expression torn between hope and resignation.

I felt eyes on us from all directions. Word had spread through the ranch like wildfire—the boss's new hand was being hauled away by her family. Ranch drama better than any soap opera. Ryder stood by the equipment shed, arms crossed, watching with unveiled interest. Two stable hands paused in their morning duties, whispering to each other. Mrs. Hernandez observed from the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand like a scepter.

The audience should have made me nervous. Instead, it steadied me. These people had seen me work, had accepted me based on what I contributed, not who my family thought I should be.

My father's face brightened with expectation when he spotted me. "Good, you're ready. We should get on the road."

I stopped several feet away from him, planting my boots firmly in the Texas dirt. "I'm not going with you."

The words came out clear and steady, surprising even me with their certainty.

My father's expression darkened, familiar lines of disapproval etching themselves deeper. "This isn't a negotiation, Charlotte."

"My name is Cherry," I corrected him firmly. "And you're right—it's not a negotiation. I'm an adult telling you my decision."

The simple declaration hung in the air between us. Behind me, I heard Maya shift her weight, a silent presence of support.

My mother stepped forward, her eyes pleading. "Sweetie, you're confused. These people don't know you like we do."

A laugh nearly escaped me at the absurdity of her statement. "That's where you're wrong," I replied, finding strength with each word. "They know me better than you ever tried to. They see all of me and don't demand I cut away parts of myself to be acceptable."

The confrontation drew more attention. A few more ranch hands drifted closer, pretending to check equipment while obviously eavesdropping. I felt exposed, standing there with my family drama on display, but I continued anyway. I was tired of hiding.

"What I am—who I am—isn't something to be fixed or cured," I said, my voice growing stronger. "My little side isn't a disease. It's just part of me, like being right-handed or having hazel eyes."

My father's face contorted with disgust. "You're parading your perversion in front of all these people now?"

The word hit like a slap. Perversion. I flinched but held my ground. "It's not perversion. It's just another way of being human."

He looked around at the gathered ranch hands, his eyes narrowing. "Is this the influence of someone here? Who's encouraged this sickness?"

The moment stretched taut as a wire. I opened my mouth to defend myself again when a deep voice cut through the tension.

"I have."

Grant stepped forward from the main house doorway where he'd been watching. His posture was commanding, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Every inch the ranch owner—but his eyes, when they met mine, held something else entirely.

"I've encouraged Cherry to accept herself," he continued, moving to stand beside me. "All parts of herself."

My father's gaze darted between us, understanding dawning like a thundercloud. "You? What kind of operation are you running here, Warwick?"

"A place where people can be their authentic selves," Grant replied evenly. His voice carried across the yard, ensuring everyone heard his next words. "And for the record, your daughter and I are in a relationship. One based on mutual respect and acceptance—something you might want to try."

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the watching ranch hands. I felt a moment of panic at our secret being revealed so publicly, then profound relief as Grant's hand found mine, fingers intertwining for everyone to see.

"You're her boss," my mother said, scandalized.

"I'm her partner," Grant corrected. "In all ways that matter."

He turned to address the gathered staff, his voice carrying easily across the yard. "For those who haven't figured it out yet, Cherry and I are together. It doesn't change how this ranch operates or her position here. Anyone who has a problem with that can come see me directly."

The ranch hands exchanged glances. I braced myself for judgment or derision, but instead noticed smiles breaking out. Maya gave me a thumbs up from nearby. Even Ryder, the most cynical cowboy on the ranch, offered what looked suspiciously like a nod of approval.

Mrs. Hernandez crossed herself, then broke into a wide grin. "Gracias a Dios," she called out. "Now maybe he'll stop being so grumpy all the time."

A ripple of laughter broke the tension. I felt a blush spreading across my cheeks, but Grant's hand remained firmly in mine, an anchor in the storm.

He turned back to my parents, his expression serious once more. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, you have a remarkable daughter. She's skilled with animals, respected by everyone here, and loved by me. If you can't see her worth exactly as she is, that's your loss. But she has family here now too."

My father's face had reddened to a dangerous shade. "This is ridiculous." He fixed his gaze on me, eyes hard. "Charlotte, this is your last chance. Get in the car or don't bother coming home. Ever."

The ultimatum hung in the air, heavy and final. Six months ago, it would have crushed me. Even yesterday, it might have broken my resolve. But standing there with Grant's hand in mine, surrounded by people who accepted me—all of me—I found the threat held less power than I expected.

"I am home," I said simply.

My mother began to cry, bringing a handkerchief to her face. My father turned away in disgust, grabbing her elbow to steer her toward the car. His back was rigid with anger, shoulders squared with the indignation of a man whose authority had been challenged and found wanting.

Only Amber lingered, tears in her eyes but a small smile on her lips.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, stepping close enough that only I could hear. "I didn't know this would happen."

I pulled her into a quick hug, feeling both the familiarity of my sister and the chasm that had opened between us. "It's okay. Maybe someday they'll understand."

"I understand," Amber said softly. "And I'll always be your sister, no matter what."

She pressed something into my hand—a small piece of paper with her number written on it. "My new cell. Dad doesn't have access to this one. Call me, okay?"

I nodded, tucking the paper into my pocket. "I will."

My father called sharply from the car. "Amber! Now!"

With a last squeeze of my hand, she turned and walked away. I watched as they loaded into the car, as my father backed out with more speed than caution, as the vehicle disappeared down the long ranch road in a cloud of dust.

The finality of it hit me then—the choice I'd made, the family ties I'd just severed. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't process the magnitude of what had just happened.

Then Grant's arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close against his side in full view of everyone.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his breath warm against my hair.

I looked around at the ranch that had become my home. At Maya, who grinned and mouthed "Proud of you" before turning back to her work. At Mrs. Hernandez, who was already heading back to her kitchen, muttering something about making my favorite apple pastries for dessert. At the other hands, who were returning to their duties with knowing smiles and casual acceptance.

And finally up at Grant, this man who had seen all of me—the strong and the vulnerable, the adult and the little—and had chosen to love every part.

"I am," I answered, and meant it completely. "I really am."

Grant kissed me then, right there in the yard, not hiding anything anymore. When we parted, his eyes held mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"I meant what I said," he murmured. "I love you, Cherry. Every part of you."

I rose on tiptoes to press my forehead against his. "I love you too. Thank you for standing with me."

"Always," Grant promised, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard. "And for good measure, want to hear my official position on the matter? Little, adult, cowgirl, lover—you are perfect exactly as you are."

"We should get to work," I said eventually, though I made no move to step out of his embrace. "People will talk."

Grant laughed, a rich sound that made my heart swell. "Let them talk. Nothing they say could possibly be as interesting as the truth."