Chapter 32: Innocent Baby
The common room was a cathedral of controlled chaos. The air thrummed with low conversation, the slap of dog-eared playing cards on metal tables, the intermittent bark of laughter that held no real joy. Fluorescent lights bleached everything a sickly yellow, casting deep shadows under eyes and in the corners where men nursed private hatreds.
In the far corner, on a stained vinyl couch that had probably been old when the prison opened, sat the room’s singular anomaly. Angel Emberly was curled into Dominic’s side like a kitten seeking warmth, his long platinum curls spilling over Dominic’s arm. Dominic’s large hand, knuckles scarred and fingers thick, rested possessively on Angel’s thigh, a stark contrast to the softness of the gray sweatpants.
Angel was purring. It was a soft, contented rumble that vibrated through his small frame and into Dominic’s. His eyes were half-lidded, dark blue and unfocused with a simple, drowsy pleasure. He nuzzled his cheek against Dominic’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of old leather, clean sweat, and dominant Alpha—safety, packaged in intimidation.
“That’s my good boy,” Dominic murmured, his voice a low, private rumble that didn’t carry beyond their bubble. His other hand came up to cup Angel’s cheek, thumb stroking over the apple of it. “So sweet for Daddy. Just a perfect, quiet little thing.”
Angel hummed in agreement, pushing his face into the touch. “M’your baby,” he mumbled, the words slurred with contentment.
“My only baby,” Dominic affirmed. His hand on Angel’s thigh slid inward, a slow, claiming movement. He patted the clothed mound between Angel’s legs through the soft fabric, a gesture so casually intimate it would have been indecent anywhere else. Here, it was just Dom and his boy. His fingers rubbed in a slow, circular motion, a rhythmic pressure over Angel’s clit. It wasn’t sexual, not in any way the outside world would understand. It was grounding. A constant, physical reaffirmation of possession, of care, of a bizarre form of soothing. Angel’s purr deepened, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary shift into the touch.
Dominic leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to Angel’s forehead, then another to the tip of his nose. He nuzzled into the crook of Angel’s neck, his lips brushing the raised, jagged scar of his claiming bite. “Daddy’s perfect boy. So innocent. Just needs his Daddy to look after him, doesn’t he? To keep him safe and happy.”
Angel melted further, a boneless sigh escaping him. “Needs you, Daddy. Always.”
The bubble was warm, almost saccharine, a pocket of bizarre domesticity in the steel and concrete cage. It was a familiar sight to the men in the room. Matteo “Brick” Santori stood with his back to the wall a few feet away, his massive arms crossed over his barrel chest, his shaved head and stone-carved face doing their usual job of discouraging approach. His expression was neutral, but his eyes, when they flicked to the pair on the couch, held a faint, unchanging softness. Silas “Crusher” Wooledge sat at a nearby table, ostensibly playing solitaire with a deck of cards so grimy the suits were guesses. His mountainous frame was still, his battered face placid. He didn’t look over, but the line of his shoulders had relaxed a fraction.
Jaxon “Spark” Halloway was draped over a chair backwards, chin on his arms, watching the scene with a fond, exasperated grin. He’d already regaled the immediate group with the story of the bullfinch and Johnson’s spectacular digestive revolt, complete with sound effects. Conrad “Doc” Wexler, clean and reserved, listened with his usual clinical detachment, occasionally polishing his smuggled reading glasses on his shirt. Rafael “Ghost” Villareal leaned against the wall by the door, a shadow with sharp eyes, monitoring the room’s other entrances and exits, his strategic mind always mapping.
It was Fletcher who broke the spell.
Fletcher was a wiry man with a face like a hungry ferret and a talent for sewing contraband into mattress seams. He was passing by their corner, a rolled-up magazine in his hand, when Dominic’s cooing words finally penetrated his focus.
He stopped. He blinked. He looked from Dominic’s besotted face to Angel’s blissful, blood-drunk expression—the pinkish stain was still faintly visible around his mouth if you knew to look—and back to Dominic.
A single, ginger eyebrow climbed high on Fletcher’s forehead. He couldn’t help himself. The irony was too thick, too delicious. He cleared his throat.
“Look, Reaper,” Fletcher said, his voice nasal and dry. “Angel’s a lot of things. I’ll give you adorable. I’ll give you… unique. Hell, after this morning, I’ll give you a goddamn ornithologist.” He nodded toward Angel. “But innocent?” He let out a short, disbelieving puff of air. “Come on, Dom. The boy eats people. He likes it. He critiques the vintage.”
A beat of silence.
Then, from the table, Silas “Crusher” let out a sound. It started as a low rumble deep in his chest, like gravel shifting, and evolved into a full, wheezing laugh that made his massive shoulders shake. It was a rare, unsettling sound, like hearing a bear chuckle.
Spark barked out a loud, startled laugh, nearly falling off his chair. “He’s got you there, Dom! ‘Curious, hungry baby’ my ass! Your baby’s a fucking gourmand!”
Even Matteo’s stone jaw twitched. Doc Wexler sighed, a small smile playing on his lips as he shook his head. Rafael, by the door, just let a faint smirk touch his lips, his eyes never leaving the corridor.
The laughter wasn’t cruel. It was the laughter of men who lived shoulder-deep in the absurd and the horrific. It was acknowledgment. In this room, a cannibal Omega being coddled was Tuesday. Calling him ‘innocent’ was the punchline.
Angel, stirred from his daze by the noise, blinked his blue eyes open. He looked around at the laughing men, confusion clouding his features. He didn’t understand the joke, but the sound of laughter was often a good thing. A small, hesitant smile touched his lips.
Dominic didn’t join the laughter. He didn’t get angry. He simply looked at Fletcher, his black eyes calm and fathomless. The amusement around them dampened, not out of fear, but out of respect for the moment. The Reaper was speaking.
Dominic looked down at Angel, who was now peering up at him with trusting curiosity. He brushed a curl from Angel’s forehead. His voice, when it came, was still that soft, private rumble, but it carried now. It was a statement.
“He was just a baby,” Dominic said, each word deliberate. “A curious, hungry baby. They put a feast in front of a starving child and then blamed him for tasting it.” He kissed Angel’s head again, a firm, smacking sound. “Weren’t you, angelo? Just a baby who didn’t know any better.”
Angel’s smile turned sweet and sure. He nodded, nestling back against Dominic. “Didn’t know,” he echoed, his voice a soft murmur. “It just… smelled so good, Daddy. Like… like warm copper and salt. And he was so mean to me. He called me awful names.” His brow furrowed slightly, a dim memory of a pain that wasn’t physical. “He said I was a freak. So I… showed him what a freak could do.”
The room had gone quiet again. The casual, horrific confession, delivered in that gentle, storytelling tone, hung in the air.
Spark’s grin was now a grimace of morbid fascination. “See? Not innocent. That’s premeditated, buddy. That’s ‘demonstration of capability’.”
“He was teaching him a lesson,” Matteo rumbled from his post, his first words in an hour. His voice was like two rocks grinding together. “A final one. Not his fault the lesson was digestible.”
This prompted another round of low chuckles, darker this time.
Dominic’s hand resumed its slow, circular patting over Angel’s clothed pussy. A calming rhythm. “He doesn’t have the wiring for malice. Not real malice. It’s all… cause and effect. Hunger and satisfaction. He’s simple.” He said it like it was the highest compliment. “My simple, perfect boy.”
Fletcher, having made his point and still in one piece, shrugged, the magazine tapping against his leg. “Simple. Yeah. Okay, Reaper. You keep telling yourself that.” He wandered off, shaking his head, muttering about culinary preferences.
The focus returned to their corner. The family unit.
Doc Wexler leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Speaking of hunger. Johnson’s on sick leave. ‘Stress-induced gastroenteritis.’” His tone was professionally flat. “O’Leary is pissed. Thinks we orchestrated it to haze the new fish.”
Spark snorted. “We didn’t orchestrate the goddamn bird. It was a collaborative performance between nature and our little Songbird here.” He jerked a thumb at Angel.
“The bird was a tragedy,” Angel said solemnly, then added, “but tasty.”
Rafael spoke from the doorway, his voice cool and quiet, forcing them all to listen closely. “O’Leary’s anger is a distraction. The new warden’s review is in three weeks. They’re auditing incident reports. A guard vomiting in the yard over an inmate eating a songbird isn’t the ‘reformed, controlled environment’ they want to show off.”
Dominic listened, his fingers still moving in that absent, soothing pattern on Angel. “So we be models of civility. No incidents. No surprises.” His eyes lifted, sweeping over his men—Brick, Crusher, Ghost, Spark, Doc. The order was implicit. Keep the boat steady.
“What about his surprises?” Spark asked, nodding at Angel, who was now playing with the strings of Dominic’s sweatshirt, twisting them around his delicate fingers.
“Angel will be on his best behavior,” Dominic said, tipping Angel’s chin up so their eyes met. “Won’t you, cuore mio? No more yard snacks. No giving the guards new phobias.”
Angel’s lower lip pushed out in an instant, breathtaking pout. “But Daddy… what if I get hungry? Really, really hungry? It aches.” He placed a hand over his own lower belly, his expression genuinely pained.
Dominic’s face softened further. He understood the craving, the physiological pull that went beyond psychology. “Then you come to me. You tell Daddy. We’ll find you something. Something… appropriate. From the kitchen. Maybe some rare beef from Doc’s contacts. But nothing wild. Nothing that draws eyes. For the next three weeks, you’re a vegetarian in public. Understand?”
The promise of rare meat, of blood, even second-hand, brightened Angel’s eyes. He nodded eagerly. “A vegetarian. Like the rabbits! But… with better snacks sometimes.”
“Exactly like the rabbits,” Dominic agreed, a faint smile touching his own lips.
Silas shifted in his chair, the metal creaking in protest. “Kid’s gonna have a hell of a time in the chow line. All those greens.” His deep voice held a thread of genuine sympathy.
“I’ll eat my greens if Daddy says,” Angel declared with sudden, heroic determination. “For Daddy. And for… for no incidents.” He parroted the phrase he’d just heard, not fully understanding it, but understanding it was important to Dominic.
The loyalty, so absolute and uncomplicated, landed heavily in the space between them. These men, killers and schemers all, felt it. It was the core of Angel’s strange power. He reflected back the devotion they showed him, purified of all their complexities.
“Good boy,” Dominic breathed, and this time the praise was layered with a profound, aching gratitude. He wrapped both arms around Angel, pulling him fully onto his lap, enveloping him. Angel went willingly, arranging himself like a child, his head tucked under Dominic’s chin, his legs draped over Dominic’s thighs. He was humming again, the purr restarting.
Spark watched, his earlier humor softening into something quieter. “You’ve got him trained pretty good, Dom.”
“He’s not trained,” Dominic corrected, his chin resting on Angel’s hair. His voice was barely audible. “He’s loved. There’s a difference.”
For a long while, there was just the sound of the common room—the distant games, the murmurs, the buzz of the lights—and the soft, rhythmic sound of Dominic’s large hand patting Angel’s hip, a steady, metronomic beat of belonging.
It was Angel who broke the quiet, his voice muffled against Dominic’s chest. “Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“My… my drawing stuff. For Mr. Snuffles’s butterfly friend. Can we get it now?”
Dominic sighed, a contented, pressurized release. He made no move to get up. “In a minute, baby. Daddy’s comfortable. You’re comfortable.”
“But the butterfly…”
“The butterfly can wait.” Dominic’s arms tightened. “This can’t.”
Angel seemed to understand, or perhaps he just liked the firm hold. He settled, his purr returning full force. He was safe. He was full. He was held. The world outside the circle of his Daddy’s arms—the warden’s review, the guards, the memories of what he’d done, the chilling simplicity of what he was—meant nothing. Here, he was just a baby. A curious, hungry baby who was loved.
And in the quiet, stained corner of the common room, surrounded by monsters who had become his uncles and his brother, that was the only truth that mattered.