Page 140 of Hunt Me, Daddy

The smack cracked sharply through the quiet room. Kit jolted, her hands grabbing at the front of my shirt, eyes wide with surprise and heat.

I gave her another, just as firm, over the other cheek.

Then a third.

It wasn’t a punishment like the night before. This was a reminder. A short, clear correction delivered to an already sore girl who knew exactly what she was inviting. Her bottom flushed brighter under my palm, the pink deepening beautifully against her pale skin, and she made a small sound that went straightthrough me. I gave her a few more, each one hard enough to settle the question.

She pressed her forehead against my chest. “Okay, okay, Daddy. I’ll be a good girl.”

The words went through me with more force than they should have after so little sleep.

I let the shirt fall back into place and smoothed my palm over the fabric once, soothing where I had stung her. “Yes,” I said quietly. “You will.”

She muttered something against my chest that sounded very much like ‘tyrant.’

I kissed the top of her head. “Bed.”

“I’m going.”

“No. You are being carried.”

She lifted her head to glare at me. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I am enjoying it exactly the correct amount.”

“That is a lie.”

“Yes.”

Her glare softened and I lifted her before she could decide whether to keep arguing. She made a token sound of objection, but her arms went around my neck, and by the time I carried her into the bedroom, her cheek had come to rest against my shoulder.

The bed still smelled faintly of her from the night before. I laid her down on her side, mindful of her sore bottom, and pulled the blanket over her. She tried to sit up once. I put two fingers gently to the center of her forehead and guided her back to the pillow.

Her eyes narrowed. “That was incredibly patronizing.”

“That was incredibly effective.”

“Don’t sit there and watch me sleep.”

“I’m going to sit here until you fall asleep.”

“That is what I said.”

“No, you told me not to.”

“I implied it.”

“You are too tired to imply things accurately.”

She huffed, but she did not try to rise again. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my hand through her hair, slow strokes from her temple back over the crown of her head. The fight in her lasted another minute, maybe two. Then her eyes began to close despite her efforts to keep them wide open. A few breaths later, she was asleep.

I sat there longer than necessary, my hand still resting lightly near her hair, and looked at her in the morning quiet. She wore my shirt. Her bare legs were tucked beneath my blanket. Her bottom, hidden now, would still be pink from my hand. My cock twitched at the thought.

At 11:40, I left her sleeping and returned to the desk.

Noon came without drama.

The release went out through the channels we had chosen together. Daniel Calloway’s evidence, the Seaport financial chain, the warehouse records, the witness conflict, the authorization line tying Mikhail to the disappearance. The first article broke at 12:18. The second feed picked it up six minutes later with enough independent language to show they had already begun verifying.