Chapter 10: Aftercare
The shower block was a symphony of echoes and wet noise. Water hammered against tile, steam rose in thick, greasy clouds that swirled under the flickering fluorescent lights, and the sounds of men—coughs, gruff laughter, the slap of soap on skin—bounced off the walls until they blurred into a single, oppressive hum. The air was a dense cocktail of cheap institutional soap, mildew, alpha pheromones, and the underlying metallic tang of rust from the pipes.
In one corner, under a showerhead that dripped more than it sprayed, was their territory.
Dominic stood behind Angel, his massive, tattooed hands working with a surprising gentleness through the boy’s long, white curls. Angel had his head tilted back, eyes closed, his slender body gleaming under the weak stream of water. The new tattoo, fresh and still tender, stood out starkly against his pale skin just below the gentle curve of his stomach. The cursive script—Daddy’s property—with its delicate arrow pointing downward, was red and slightly puffy.
“Hold still,” Dominic murmured, his voice a low rumble that cut through the surrounding noise. He cupped water in his hands, letting it run carefully over the inflamed skin.
Angel flinched. “It stings, Daddy.”
“It’s supposed to. It’s an open wound. Means it’s healing.”
“No, the shampoo stings. It’s in my eyes.” Angel whined, a high, petulant sound. He tried to turn, but Dominic’s hands on his shoulders held him firmly in place.
“You tipped your head back too fast. My fault?” Dominic asked, his tone dry.
“Yes. Your fault.” Angel sniffed, playing it up, pushing against the solid wall of his father’s chest. It was a game. A familiar dance.
Dominic’s response was immediate and instinctive. He dipped his head and sank his teeth into the meaty curve of Angel’s shoulder, not a claiming bite, but a sharp, corrective pinch. It was just enough pressure to sting, to remind.
Angel yelped, a real sound of surprise that melted instantly into a theatrical, bratty whine. “Ow! Daddy! That’s mean!”
Smack.
The sound was sharp, clear, and echoed slightly—a solid, open-handed spank on Angel’s wet ass cheek. It wasn’t punitive, it was punctuation. A full stop to the complaint.
“Eyes don’t sting anymore, do they?” Dominic asked, resuming his gentle washing of Angel’s hair, his fingers massaging the scalp.
Angel squirmed, but the fight was gone, replaced by a pout. “No.”
“Good boy.”
Around them, the other men went about their business, but the space was theirs. Silas was a monument under the next shower, letting the water pound on his broad back, his eyes half-closed. Victor, a lean alpha with a scar through his lip, was shaving his head with a contraband razor, watching the scene in the reflection of a polished piece of metal he’d hung on the wall. Hector and Ivan, two bruisers who’d done a double homicide over a disputed poker debt, were soaping themselves with the methodical boredom of men who’d done this ten thousand times. Chris, the oldest of them, with a face like a wrinkled map of bad decisions, was sitting on a makeshift stool, letting the water run over his bowed shoulders.
“Kid’s got a mouth on him today, Dom,” Victor said, not turning around, dragging the razor over his scalp. “That new ink go to his head?”
“The only thing going to his head is shampoo,” Dominic said, carefully rinsing the suds from Angel’s hair. He smoothed a protective palm over the fresh tattoo again. “And this needs to stay clean. No infections.”
“Looks good though,” Ivan grunted, his voice like gravel. “Clean lines. Reads nice.” There was no leer in his voice, just a craftsman’s appraisal. In here, a tattoo wasn’t just art; it was a statement, armor, a label. This one was the most important label of all.
“It’s sore,” Angel repeated, almost to himself, looking down at it. He traced a finger along the edge of the letters, wincing.
“Told you it would be,” Chris croaked from his stool. “Down there? Sensitive skin. Burns like a bitch for a few days. Worth it, though. Now everyone knows the menu’s closed.”
A round of low chuckles moved through the group. It was a dark, comfortable humor.
“Speaking of menus,” Hector said, wringing out a washcloth. “Remember that omega who came through here, what, six years back? Worked in the library? Skinny thing, blonde. Smelled like peaches and panic.”
“Vaguely,” Dominic said, his attention mostly on gently patting Angel’s tattoo dry with a clean corner of a towel.
“I had him in the storage closet behind the law books,” Hector continued, a fond, nostalgic smile on his face. “Terrified. Tasted like salt. Cried the whole time. It was… alright.”
Ivan snorted. “You have low standards. Criers are boring. Like fucking a wet sponge that makes noise.”
“I like the noise,” Hector shrugged. “Proof you’re in there.”
Victor turned, wiping his freshly-shaved head. “The best one was that beta from the kitchen. The big one. What was his name? Gary. He didn’t cry. He just… lay there. Like a dead fish. A challenge. Took me and Chris an hour to get a reaction out of him.”
Chris nodded, a grim smile on his wrinkled face. “Finally got him to scream when I bit his flank. Hard. Remember the bruise? Looked like a fucking plum.”
They talked like this. It was the casual currency of their past, of their natures. There was no boastfulness, just a frank exchange of experience, like golfers discussing difficult holes.
Angel listened, his head resting back against Dominic’s chest, his eyes on the steam rising toward the ceiling. He wasn’t disturbed. This was the landscape of his world. The language was as normal to him as talk of the weather.
“Angel here,” Silas rumbled, speaking for the first time, his voice cutting through the water’s din. “He’s different.”
All eyes, in their subtle way, shifted to the boy. Not with threat, but with a kind of collective, predatory appreciation.
“He is,” Dominic agreed, his arms wrapping around Angel from behind, possessive and secure. He kissed the damp skin where his bite had reddened Angel’s shoulder. “Not a crier. Not a dead fish.”
“A brat,” Victor supplied, grinning.
“A perfect brat,” Dominic corrected, his voice softening just for the boy in his arms. “Fights just enough to make it fun. Then melts. Like warm honey.”
Angel preened under the description, a small smile on his lips. He liked being discussed. It made him feel seen, even in this context.
“Must be something,” Ivan mused, his eyes raking over Angel’s form with a clinical heat. “Having that all the time. At your beck and call. Bet he’s tight as a fist. Sweet, too, I’d imagine. All that sugar.”
“He’s perfect,” Dominic said, and the finality in his tone ended that particular line of speculation. It was a reminder: look, appreciate, but do not touch. Ever.
“The hair is a nice touch,” Chris said, changing the subject slightly. “During, I mean. Wrapping it around your hand. Gives you leverage. Pretty leash.”
“Or just something to hold onto,” Hector added. “When he’s being a brat and needs his mouth occupied.”
Another round of laughs. Angel’s cheeks pinked, but he wasn’t embarrassed. He felt a strange, warm pride. He was theirs to discuss, Dominic’s to own, a prized possession in this barren place.
“He scared of gettin’ scalped, though,” Silas said, and the memory of the cafeteria brought a fresh wave of grim amusement to the group.
Victor barked a laugh. “Right! The fuckin’ scalping. Kid’s mind is a beautiful mystery.”
“It’s a valid fear!” Angel piped up, twisting in Dominic’s grasp to look at the others, his blue eyes wide and earnest. “It’s permanent! You can’t glue a scalp back on!”
The sheer, absurd conviction with which he said it broke the tension completely. Even Silas’s face cracked into something resembling a smile.
“He’s got you there, Vic,” Chris chuckled. “Can’t glue it. Medical fact.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Victor said, playing along. “Next time I’m fixin’ to violate someone, I’ll be sure to avoid the scalping. For Angel’s sensibilities.”
Dominic was smiling into Angel’s hair. The conversation ebbed and flowed around them, crude, dark, and strangely domestic. It was their version of a backyard barbecue chat. The steam thickened.
“Time’s nearly up,” Ivan grunted, glancing toward the entrance where a guard’s shadow occasionally passed.
Dominic nodded. He finished drying Angel, his hands efficient and thorough. He wrapped a towel around the boy’s waist and another around his shoulders. “Arms up.”
Angel raised his arms, and Dominic helped him into a clean, grey undershirt, careful not to let the fabric scrape the tattoo. Then the pants, buttoning them for him. The ritual was practiced, intimate. A parent dressing a child.
The other men were finishing up, too, the easy camaraderie of the shower hardening back into the alert, reserved poses of the general population.
As Dominic guided Angel toward the exit, a hand on the small of his back, Victor spoke again, quieter now. “He really is the best thing in this shithole, Dom. You know that, right?”
Dominic paused, looking back at the group of hardened, broken alphas. Their faces were sincere. In their own twisted way, Angel was a light. A symbol of something they protected, a remnant of a purity they themselves had annihilated long ago. He was their mascot, their pet, their collective son.
“I know,” Dominic said simply.
He led Angel out of the steam and into the cooler, stale air of the corridor. The institutional lights were harsh after the fog of the showers. The scent of disinfectant was overwhelming.
Angel walked close, his hip bumping against Dominic’s thigh. “Did you mean it, Daddy?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Mean what, baby?”
“That I’m perfect.”
Dominic stopped, turning to face him. He placed a hand on Angel’s cheek, his thumb stroking the apple of it. He looked into the dark blue eyes, so clear and trusting amidst all this filth.
“You are perfect for me,” he said, his voice a solemn vow in the empty corridor. “My perfect boy. My beautiful, violent, sweet, scalping-fearing boy. Now let’s get you back. That ink needs ointment.”
He slung an arm around Angel’s shoulders, and they walked back toward their cell, the echoes of the dark, fond shower talk fading behind them, replaced by the simple, solid sound of their footsteps and the constant, distant hum of the prison alive around them. It was just another evening. Another ritual of care and possession in a world built to strip both away. For now, the family was clean, sated, and intact. It was enough.