Chapter 20 Wyatt
Wyatt released the door handle, listening as the latch clicked firmly into place. He stood there in the dim hallway for a few seconds, completely still, tracking the quiet through the wood. The apartment was entirely silent now.
The heavy, constant knot of tension that had been sitting right behind his ribs since he first stepped into her chaotic world finally started to ease up. She was warm, she was safe, and for the first time since he'd known her, she was exactly where he could keep an eye on her.
Turning away from her door, Wyatt began a final walkthrough of the rest of the pristine apartment.
He moved with the quiet, imposing stride of a man accustomed to securing his perimeter.
He paused in the living room, checking the thermostat on the wall.
The digital display read seventy-two degrees.
Satisfied that the bitter winter air outside wouldn't touch her, he took a quiet step into the kitchen.
He opened the refrigerator, checking the stocking one last time.
Vic had done a thorough job with the grocery run he’d tasked him with ahead of time, filling the shelves with all the healthy, baseline necessities.
Looking over the neat rows, Wyatt made a mental note to personally grab some sweets and extra things he knew she liked, making sure she'd have plenty of treats around just for her.
Everything was in order. The apartment was a sanctuary, tailored specifically to protect her from the world and, more importantly, from her own reckless independence.
Wyatt pulled the front door closed and waited for the electronic lock to beep before turning toward the elevator down the hall.
Sliding his keycard into the slot, the ride up to his penthouse was fast and dead silent.
When the doors opened directly into his personal foyer, the usual quiet of the place felt different.
The massive apartment didn’t feel completely empty for once.
Just knowing Bitsy was asleep a few floors below him changed the whole mood of the night, giving him a rare, genuine sense of relief.
He was damn glad to finally have her under the same roof, even if it wasn’t in the same bed.
He shed his heavy wool overcoat, hanging it in the closet before walking into the expansive kitchen.
The sharp glare of the refrigerator light cut through the shadows as he opened the door, reaching past the wine selections to grab a bottle of water.
He twisted the cap off, taking a long, slow swallow.
He walked down the dark hallway toward his office, sitting down in the heavy leather chair and setting his water bottle on the desk.
His fingers hit the keys as he brought the monitors to life, instantly bypassing his personal security feeds to log directly into the core architecture of Enigma.
As the head of security and logistics, his final task of the night was always the same: a meticulous sweep of the club’s servers.
His dark eyes scanned the scrolling diagnostic logs, verifying the encryption protocols, checking the firewall integrity, and ensuring the digital anonymity of their high-profile clientele.
Everything was running flawlessly. The digital fortress was just as secure as the physical one.
Satisfied, he locked the terminal, the screens going dark.
He finished the rest of his water in three long gulps, tossed the empty bottle into the trash can under his desk, and headed into his master suite.
Within fifteen minutes, he was under his own heavy blankets, his mind playing back the image of Bitsy curled up in that massive bed, clutching her tattered bear and her new octopus.
With that comforting visual burned into his mind, Wyatt closed his eyes and let a deep, dreamless sleep take him.
Wyatt got moving the second his alarm went off at six. He reached over, cut the noise, and swung his legs out of bed into the cold room. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city was still dark, and a thick layer of morning frost was frozen to the glass.
He pulled on a pair of grey athletic shorts, a lightweight black shirt, and laced up his sneakers before heading down the hall to his private gym.
He didn't need a grueling, multi-hour session this morning, just a quick, intense circuit to get his blood moving and clear the lingering sleep from his brain.
Wyatt moved through his early morning workout with a silent, calculated intensity, his focus sharpened by the shift in his life.
Today was not just another Tuesday; it was the first official day of having Bitsy entirely under his care, and he knew he needed to establish the rhythm early.
He needed her to understand that his boundaries were not suggestions and that the protection he provided was absolute.
By six-forty-five, his muscles were warm and slick with sweat.
Wyatt walked into the master bathroom, turning the shower valve until the space filled with thick, rolling clouds of steam.
He stepped under the spray, letting the hot water pelt his broad shoulders and chest. As he washed away the workout, he found himself analyzing his approach with her.
She was incredibly fragile, damaged by a life of forced self-reliance, but beneath that defensive shell was a little girl desperately craving structure.
He had seen it in the way she melted when he took the choices out of her hands at the restaurant, and the way she had submitted to his warning in the parking lot.
Spanking her bottom yesterday afternoon had been a necessity to break through her adult stubbornness, but moving forward, he wanted to focus on building her trust. He would spoil her, yes, but the discipline would remain unyielding.
She needed to know he was an immovable wall she could safely lean against.
Wyatt dried off, threw a towel around his waist, and walked into his closet.
He bypassed the more formal suits and pulled down a charcoal-grey jacket and matching trousers, paired with a clean white shirt and a dark silver tie.
He got dressed quickly, buttoning his cuffs and adjusting his collar before fastening his watch around his wrist. Looking in the mirror, he made sure everything was exactly as it should be.
After checking his appearance, he headed down to the kitchen. He glanced at the oven clock. It read exactly eight o'clock.
He had thirty minutes until he was scheduled to be at Bitsy’s door.
A subtle wave of protectiveness hit him, making him wonder if she was struggling to pull herself out of the deep sleep he knew she desperately needed.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over her contact before typing out a text.
Wyatt: Good morning, little girl. I hope you slept well. Just verifying that you are awake and getting ready. I will be at your door at 8:30 sharp.
He set the phone on the marble island, turning his attention to breakfast. He didn't have time for an elaborate meal, but he refused to let her go to the office without something substantial in her stomach.
He pulled a bag of pre-made southern-style biscuits from the freezer, popping two of them into the toaster oven.
He heated a cast-iron skillet on the stove, dropping in two seasoned sausage patties.
The savory sizzle immediately filled the kitchen.
Next, he cracked two eggs into a small bowl, whisking them quickly with a fork before pouring them into a separate non-stick pan, shaping them into perfect folded squares that would fit the biscuits.
His phone buzzed against the marble. He picked it up, a faint smile touching his lips as he read her response.
Bitsy: Good morning, sir. Yes, I'm awake! Just finishing up my hair. I slept really well, thank you. See you at 8:30.
The exclamation point and the promptness of her reply reassured him. He typed back a quick command.
Wyatt: Good girl. See you soon.
Turning back to the stove, Wyatt assembled the breakfast sandwiches.
He sliced the hot, golden biscuits in half, layering each one with a sausage patty, a folded egg, and a thick slice of sharp cheddar cheese that melted instantly against the heat of the meat.
He grabbed a plate, sitting down to eat his own sandwich with efficient, hungry bites, washing it down with a glass of juice.
The second sandwich—the one meant for Bitsy—was carefully wrapped in a thick sheet of aluminum foil to trap the steam and keep it perfectly hot.
He did a fast cleanup of the kitchen, rinsing the pans, wiping down the counter, and tossing his plate into the dishwasher.
He grabbed his wallet, his heavy ring of keys, and took the aluminum-wrapped bundle in his hand before heading out the door.
At exactly eight-thirty, Wyatt stood outside her apartment door. He lifted his large hand and knocked firmly on the wood. Within seconds, the faint, muffled sound of quick, shuffling feet echoed from inside.
The lock turned, and the heavy door swung open.
Wyatt’s breath hitched slightly, his protective instincts flaring hot at the sight of her.
Bitsy stood there, looking incredibly professional but undeniably delicate.
She was dressed in a pair of form-fitting black slacks that accentuated her petite frame, and an emerald-green blouse that made her eyes look exceptionally bright.
Her dark hair was pulled up halfway, held securely by a clip, leaving the soft, pale skin of her neck completely exposed.
It was a visual that screamed vulnerability to a man of his size, and it took everything in him not to just reach out and pull her into his chest.
"Good morning, sir," she said softly, a small, tentative smile on her lips. "Come on in. I just need to put my shoes on."