Chapter 17: Innocent Baby
The lockdown had lifted, but the tension in the common room remained, a low-grade hum beneath the flicker of the fluorescents. The space smelled of stale coffee, unwashed bodies, and the ghost of ammonia from the earlier cleaning. Men milled about, but a wide berth was unconsciously given to one corner.
Dominic sat in a plastic chair that groaned under his weight, a king on a rickety throne. Angel was nestled in his lap, a boneless, purring weight. He’d been clingy since the bite in the cell block, a needy, pliant thing that followed Dominic’s every movement with sleepy, half-lidded eyes.
“My babyboy,” Dominic murmured, his voice a low, private rumble that vibrated through Angel’s chest. One massive hand splayed across Angel’s stomach, holding him secure. The other was resting high on his thigh, the heel of his palm applying a firm, rhythmic pressure against the denim covering Angel’s pussy. It wasn’t overtly sexual; it was possessive, calming, a steady pulse of ownership. His thumb occasionally swiped in a slow, deliberate arc over the fabric, just over the clothed nub of his clit. Angel’s breath hitched each time, a soft, pleased little sound.
Dominic dropped a soft kiss to Angel’s temple, then another to the flushed apple of his cheek. He nuzzled the fresh bite mark on his neck, his stubble scraping gently over the sensitive punctures. Angel shivered, pushing back into the contact, a soft purr rumbling in his throat.
“Such a perfect boy for Daddy,” Dom breathed against his skin, his tone dipping into the honeyed cadence of baby-talk. It was a jarring sound coming from the Reaper—sugary and doting. “Yes you are. The best baby. My sweet, innocent little thing. You need your Daddy, don’t you? Need me to hold you just right.”
Angel hummed, turning his face to bury it in Dom’s neck, inhaling his Alpha’s scent—oakmoss, iron, and something indefinably safe. “Mhm. Always, Daddy. Your baby.”
Rafael and Matteo were playing chess at a nearby table, their movements silent and precise. Silas, freshly out of solitary and looking like a storm cloud given human form, was methodically cleaning his nails with a toothpick shaped from a plastic spoon. Jax was attempting to wire a broken radio to a battery he’d smuggled from the workshop. Doc was reading a medical journal, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.
Fletcher, across from them on a bench, was watching the display with the focused curiosity of a anthropologist studying a bizarre ritual. His crossword was forgotten on his knee.
Angel mewled softly as Dominic’s thumb pressed a particularly insistent circle. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. Dominic chuckled, a dark, warm sound, and kissed his hairline.
“So perfect. My innocent angel,” Dom cooed, his hand cupping Angel fully now, a steady, warm weight.
Fletcher cleared his throat. It was a dry, cracking sound.
Everyone ignored it.
He tried again, louder.
Silas looked up, his eyes promising a slow death. “You got a frog in it, Fletch? Want me to dislodge it?”
Fletcher raised a bushy gray eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Dominic and Angel. He gestured with his chin, a small, jerky motion. “Look, not to interrupt the… whatever this is. The cradle-robbing, but with extra steps. But, Reap.” He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man defusing a bomb. “Angel’s a lot of things. Adorable. Sure. A real charmer. Murderous little cherub. But innocent?” He let the word hang in the stale air. “The boy killed his parents. For fun. Dragged it out over a three-day weekend because he was bored and they told him he couldn’t get a pony.”
A beat of silence.
Then Jax snorted. A guffaw burst from Leo, who quickly disguised it as a cough. Even Rafael’s lips twitched. Doc peered over his glasses, a faint, resigned smile on his face. Silas grunted, a sound that could have been agreement or indigestion.
The only one who didn’t react was Dominic. He didn’t tense. His hand didn’t stop its gentle, cupping motion over Angel’s denim-clad crotch. He simply turned his head, very slowly, and looked at Fletcher. His black eyes were calm, fathomless pools.
Angel had lifted his head from Dom’s neck, his dark blue eyes wide and blinking slowly, like a cat disturbed from a sunbeam. He didn’t look offended. He looked curious, as if Fletcher had pointed out an interesting bug.
Dominic’s voice, when it came, was still soft, still dripping with that paternal syrup, but it carried a new, razor-edged weight. “He was fifteen, Fletcher.”
“Fifteen with a bone saw and a remarkably detailed knowledge of septic systems,” Jax muttered, fiddling with a wire.
“He was a baby,” Dominic continued, as if Jax hadn’t spoken. He looked down at Angel, his expression softening into something terrifyingly genuine. He brushed a white curl from Angel’s forehead. “Just a little baby. What was he supposed to do?” He raised his eyes back to Fletcher, his head tilting. A cold, mirthless smile touched his lips. “Didn’t have his Daddy yet to kill them for him.”
The common room erupted.
It wasn’t loud laughter. It was the choked, wheezing sound of men who found humor in the abyss. Leo doubled over, slapping his thigh. Birdie squeaked behind his hands. Jax dropped his screwdriver, shaking his head with a wide grin. Even Matteo let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his stone face cracking.
Fletcher stared, his mouth slightly agape. Then, slowly, he began to nod, a grin spreading across his weathered face. “Okay. Okay, Reap. You got me there. That’s a hell of a point. Pre-emptive neglect. I can respect that.”
Angel preened under the attention, the laughter. He nuzzled back into Dominic’s chest, his purr kicking up a notch. “Daddy would’ve done it better,” he mumbled into Dom’s shirt.
“Damn right I would have,” Dominic said, dropping a firm kiss on the top of his head. “No mess. No tracing. A lesson in professionalism.” His hand patted Angel’s clothed mound twice, a final, possessive punctuation. “But my boy is smart. He figured out his own way. That’s my clever baby.”
Silas leaned back, crossing his massive arms. “Kid had initiative. Gotta give him that. Most brats his age would’ve just set the house on fire.”
“I thought about that,” Angel chirped, lifting his head again. His voice was soft, sweet. “But then the fire department would have come, and they’re always so loud. And the smoke would have ruined Mother’s silk curtains. She loved those curtains.”
Doc closed his medical journal with a sigh. “The prioritization of interior décor over efficient disposal is a common hallmark of the youthful offender. Impulse control issues mixed with a burgeoning aesthetic sense.”
“See?” Dominic said, gesturing toward Doc with his free hand. “Educational.”
The laughter died down, settling into a comfortable, shared silence of understanding. They were all monsters here. They knew it. The pretense was paper-thin and everyone preferred it that way. Dominic’s particular brand of monstrous fatherhood was just another flavor in the asylum.
Angel squirmed in Dominic’s lap, turning to face him fully, his knees bracketing Dom’s thighs. He looped his arms around Dominic’s neck. “Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m glad you’re my Daddy now.” His blue eyes were enormous, sincere.
Dominic’s face did something complex. The harsh lines carved by decades of violence and prison light softened. His hand came up to cradle the back of Angel’s head, his fingers sliding into the Dutch braids he’d woven hours before. “Me too, tesoro. Me too.”
He leaned in and kissed Angel. It wasn’t a chaste peck. It was a soft, full press of lips against lips, lingering and tender. A claiming of a different sort. When he pulled back, Angel’s lips were slightly parted, his breath coming a little faster.
“Eyes on your own game, Ghost,” Silas growled, not looking up from his nails.
Rafael, whose gaze had flicked to the kiss for a half-second too long, smoothly moved his bishop. “Just appreciating the strategy. It’s a bold opening.”
The moment fractured back into the mundane rhythms of prison life. Jax resumed his tinkering. Doc reopened his journal. Fletcher retrieved his crossword.
But Angel stayed curled in Dominic’s lap, a contented weight. Dominic’s large hands resumed their idle exploration—one stroking up and down his spine, the other resting on his hip, a thumb stroking the sharp bone there. The room was a study in contradictions: the soft sigh of an Omega, the clink of chess pieces, the scratch of a pencil, the distant echo of a guard’s bootsteps on the tier above. A family, built on a foundation of blood and bad choices, functioning in its own perfectly broken way.
Later, when the overhead lights buzzed to signal the return to cells, Angel unfolded himself from Dominic. He stretched, his back arching, the worn fabric of his t-shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of his toned stomach. He picked up his drawing of Mr. Snuffles, the prison’s irritable tabby cat, now rendered with surprising detail and oddly large, demonic eyes.
“I’m gonna give this to Jerry before lockup,” he announced.
Dominic stood, his joints popping. “Walk with Brick.”
Angel trotted over to Matteo, who placed a heavy, paternal hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the cell block. Angel looked back over his shoulder, a flash of white hair and dark eyes. “Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Goodnight, baby. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Dominic watched them go, the massive, silent figure and the small, skipping one. The room emptied around him.
Fletcher shuffled past, folding his newspaper. He paused, clapping Dominic lightly on the arm. “For what it’s worth, Reap… you’re a scarier bastard with that kid than you ever were without him.”
Dominic didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on the empty doorway where his son had vanished. A slow smile, devoid of any warmth but full of a dark, profound truth, spread across his face.
“I know,” he said, the words barely a whisper. He finally turned, his chair scraping on concrete, and walked toward his cell, where his waiting, perfect, innocent baby boy would be curling up in the bottom bunk, already dreaming of who-knows-what.