Chapter 3
Imake it exactly twelve minutes before I cave.
Twelve minutes. That might be a personal record for impulse control.
I don't even try to ease into it. I drop straight into the group chat labeled NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRLS BOOK CLUB and type.
Me: I accidentally flirted with a government man today.
The typing bubbles explode instantly.
Lily: Define government man.
Amber: Like accountant government or don't ask questions government?
I type back: Tall. Broody. Bossy. Definitely the don't ask questions variety.
Maya: Oh no. Your CIA man again?
I groan and flop back onto my couch. CIA man. Like he's mine. Like I have any claim whatsoever to Ty Garcia beyond two chance encounters and a phone number I haven't worked up the nerve to use. I don’t even know if he is CIA. CIA, FBI, Secret Service… any number of alphabet soup agencies would fit.
Me: He told me to behave.
A full three seconds pass.
Emily: Oh. Oh no. Oh yes.
Lily: DID HE SOUND LIKE A DADDY?
Me: I hate all of you.
Holly: Do you, though?
I can practically hear Holly's smug little laugh through the screen.
She's the only one among us who has actually locked down a Daddy Dom.
Justin, who owns an amusement company that just built a new one not even an hour from here, and who apparently has absolutely no problem telling her what to do.
She wears that fact like a crown. One of the reasons I drove down was to meet with Holly and Chloe in person.
The other littles are all talking about moving here, since their jobs are mobile and can be done from anywhere.
Holly: Because when Justin first told me to behave I pretended to be offended. I was not offended.
My cheeks burn. I pull a throw pillow over my face like that will somehow protect me from the truth of what's happening.
Me: This is different. He's serious. Intense. He looked at my phone like it personally disappointed him.
Amber: That's foreplay.
Chloe: I am begging you to find a picture or snap a picture of him. Wonder if he ever drives through my shop. A lot of military and government types grab their coffee from me early in the morning.
Maya: What did he want with your phone? Did he give you a rule or something?
I pause, fingers hovering over the screen. Because yes. Yes he did.
Me: He told me not to post my location. Told me to stay in public places. Told me to think about whether I want him to walk away or step closer.
Emily: Protective, authoritative, concerned but controlled.
Lily: Girl. That man is already taking responsibility for you.
My pulse kicks at that. Because that's exactly what it felt like.
The chat continues buzzing with teasing, speculation, more than one eggplant emoji from Amber but I'm not really paying attention anymore. Because my phone is buzzing with a new notification. Ty.
Ty: Did you make it home safely?
My heart slams into my ribs. There is no world in which I should like this. No world in which I should find it attractive that he's checking on me like I'm something that needs monitoring.
Except I do.
Me: Yes.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Ty: Good girl.
Just that. No emoji. No filler. Pure, simple approval.
I swallow hard, fingers shaking slightly as I type: You text all the women you give driving directions to?
A pause this time. Long enough that I second-guess everything.
Ty: Only the ones who don't listen well and need reminders.
Heat blooms low in my stomach, spreading through my limbs like the heat from a good whiskey.
Me: I listen fine.
Ty: We'll see.
My breath catches. Before I can overthink it, another message comes through.
Ty: Make sure you get some sleep tonight. You have a busy day tomorrow.
I frown.
Me: How do you know that?
Several seconds pass.
Ty: I watched your videos; you don't slow down. I won’t be available for the rest of the day, I wanted to text you before I lost service.
My chest tightens but not with fear. With something dangerously close to comfort. To being seen. To mattering to someone.
Me: I will make sure to get sleep tonight, Ty.
A beat.
Ty: You’d better.
I drop the phone like it's hot, staring at the ceiling with a ridiculous smile on my face. I like bossy. This kind of bossy.
Holly: So did he text you yet?
I don't even try to deny it.
Me: Maybe.
Holly: Welcome to the beginning, sweetheart.
Later that night, I crawl into my bed at the rental at a very reasonable time. I’d been thinking about Ty all day long. Somewhere deep down, past the nerves and the heat and the absolute insanity of what's happening, I realize something that both thrills and terrifies me.
I don't want to run away this time.
Last time a man started giving me what I wanted, what I needed, I got scared. It was intense and I wasn’t ready. I ran away from him and the relationship. It’d been years, I’d grown both physically and emotionally more mature. I’m able now to recognize and vocalize exactly what I’m looking for.
I want to see what happens if this plays out.
What kind of Daddy is Ty? Is he a cinnamon roll?
A golden retriever? A stern but fair Daddy?
I want to see what happens with him when I don't behave at all. Like the girls in the romance books we read. The characters who find their forever Daddy who nurtures them and spanks their naughty butts when they misbehave. Is Ty a spanker? Why am I thinking these things? I toss and turn in bed, so many questions going through my mind. It’s late when I finally drift off to sleep.
The next morning, I wake up to another text.
Ty: Where are you filming today?
I stare at the message for a long moment, coffee halfway to my lips. The smart thing would be to tell him it's none of his business. That I'm an adult who can make her own decisions about where she goes and what she films.
Instead, I type:
The trail off County Road 6. Why?
Three dots. He’s taking a while, I’m expecting a paragraph by the time the text pops up.
Ty: No you aren’t.
Um, what? What makes him think he can dictate where I film? He hasn’t even asked me out on a date yet. What. The. Hell.
Me: Yes, I am.
Ty: No, you are not.
Me: I’m going to need a bit more than that from you.
Ty: The area's been flagged for suspicious activity. Pick somewhere else.
My eyebrows shoot up.
Me: Suspicious how?
Ty: The kind I can't discuss. Trust me.
And here's the thing, I do. Despite barely knowing him. Despite every rational part of my brain screaming that this is weird and probably unhealthy and definitely not how normal people operate.
I trust him.
Me: Okay. Where should I go instead?
Ty: The botanical gardens. They're public, well-trafficked, and actually scenic. I'll send you the address. There’s a new very rare flower blooming that is trending all over Tiktok. Something about vampires.
A link drops into the chat a moment later. Then another message.
Ty: And, Madison? Thank you for listening.
Those four words shouldn't affect me the way they do. But warmth spreads through my chest, settling somewhere deep and dangerous.
Me: You're welcome.
I end up at the botanical gardens, which are admittedly gorgeous.
There are winter flowers in heated greenhouses, snow-covered paths that look like something out of a fairy tale, and exactly zero ominous government vibes.
I found the plant Ty mentioned. It was featured on the cover of a dark romance trilogy.
A rare beauty with incredibly sharp thorns.
I record a quick video for my viewers, when I get back to my rental, I’ll add a photo of the book cover and the music from the movie soundtrack and post it.
Trying to make the best out of my time in the garden, I record several shorter videos throughout the space. I'm filming a walk-through, narrating about winter blooms and mountain aesthetics, when movement catches my eye through the greenhouse glass.
Dark jacket. Broad shoulders. Deliberate stride.
Ty.
He's not watching me—or at least he's pretending not to. He's standing near the entrance, ostensibly looking at his phone, but I know he's tracking me. I can feel it like a physical touch.
I finish my video and walk over, trying to keep my expression neutral even though my heart is racing.
“Are you following me?” I ask.
He glances up, completely unsurprised to see me. “Making sure you got here safely.”
“That's called stalking.”
His mouth quirks. “That's called protection. There's a difference. I was driving right by here, thought I’d stop and check in on you.”
“And if I don't want to be protected? Checked in on?”
He steps closer, voice dropping low enough that only I can hear. “Then tell me to leave, Madison. Say the words, and I walk away right now. No judgment. No pressure. I gave you a chance at the coffee shop, too. If you want me gone, I’ll leave.”
I open my mouth. Close it. My pulse pounds in my throat.
I can't say it.
I don't want to say it.
His eyes search mine, reading everything I'm not saying. “That's what I thought.”
“You're very sure of yourself,” I manage.
“No,” he says quietly. “I'm sure of you.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Before I can process them, he continues.
“I need you to understand something. This thing between us? It only works if it's consented to. Every step. Every rule. Every moment. Your consent or it doesn’t continue.”
“What thing?” I ask, even though I know. Even though we both know.
“The thing where you stop pretending you don't want someone to take care of you,” he says evenly. “And I stop pretending I don't want to be that person.”
My breath stutters. “That's very direct.”
“I don't do indirect, Madison. Not about this.”
He reaches out, thumb brushing my cheek so lightly I might have imagined it. But the heat that follows is real. The way my skin tingles is real. I’m not imagining this. He’s not a vampire or a werewolf. He’s not a figment of my overactive imagination. He’s real and standing right next to me.
“Think about what you want,” he says. “Not what you think you should want. What you actually need.”
“And if I already know? What if I’ve spent the last several years thinking about what I want and more importantly, what I need?”
His eyes darken. “Then we talk. Soon.”
He steps back, putting deliberate distance between us again. But the connection doesn't break. If anything, it pulls tighter.
“Be safe,” he says. “I'll see you soon.”
And then he's gone, leaving me standing in a greenhouse full of flowers with my heart pounding and the absolute certainty that everything is about to change.