Chapter 34: Aftercare
Steam hung in ragged sheets in the shower block, a warm, wet lung that smelled of harsh industrial soap and damp concrete. The hiss of ten showerheads was a constant, whispering static, drowning out most conversation, yet amplifying the raw acoustics of cleared throats and splashing footsteps. It was a place of business, scrubbing away the grime of a dead day.
Dominic’s arm was a bar across Angel’s chest, not harshly, but like a seatbelt. He held him steady under the spray from their assigned nozzle. Angel, small and pale against Dominic’s tattooed darkness, stood with his chin tucked, platinum curls plastered to his neck and shoulders like wet silk. He was mumbling.
“It wasn’t a project, Daddy.It was research. I was mapping.”
“You were digging in the corner of the yard by the compost heap like a feral cat, Angelo,” Dominic corrected, his voice a low rumble under the spray. He took a bar of gray, unscented soap and began working it into a lather in his palms. “You’re covered in filth. Lift your arm.”
Angel, with the profound resignation of a toddler, raised his left arm. The skin of his armpit and the soft swell of his side was streaked with brown dirt. “I was mapping the worm highways. They have a whole city down there. There was a king. I saw his crown.” His voice was utterly sincere.
“The ‘king’ was a root, baby. And his ‘crown’ was a beetle.” Dominic’s large hands, surprisingly gentle, scrubbed the soap into the delicate skin, his thumbs working in small circles. “You’re lucky it wasn’t something with pincers.”
“He was nice,” Angel insisted, wincing as soap found a fresh scrape on his elbow. “He waved at me.”
From the next shower over, where Silas “Crusher” Wooledge was methodically soaping his tree-trunk arms, a puff of steam might have concealed a smile. He said nothing, just let the water cascade over the brutal landscape of his scarred back.
“Your ‘research’,” Dominic continued, undeterred, moving to the other arm, “means I have to scrub clay out of every crease you have. Again. You are a magnet for dirt. How does it even get there?” He tilted Angel’s chin up and started on his neck, just below the claiming bite—a raised, permanent crescent of teeth marks that stood out stark and pale on Angel’s skin. Dominic’s touch there was always different; a pass of his thumb over the scar before he moved on, a tactile reaffirmation.
Angel leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “It just likes me. The dirt. We’re friends.”
A chuckle echoed from across the aisle. Martinez, a compact man with a sailor’s knot of tattoos on his chest, was rinsing shampoo from his hair. “Kid’s gotta be part earthworm himself, Dom. You sure you didn’t adopt him from a garden?”
“Found him under a mushroom, maybe,” called Fletcher, a lanky man with a physicist’s posture and a bank robber’s eyes. He was wringing water from a washcloth. “Sprouted right up.”
Angel beamed, taking the teasing as affection, which it was. In this brutal ecosystem, his oddness was a neutral, even charming, curiosity. His crimes were a distant, almost mythological fact, secondary to his immediate reality as the Reaper’s bizarre, beloved son.
“Hush, you lot,” Dominic growled, but there was no real heat in it. This was a ritual. He soaped Angel’s chest, washing over the soft swell of his breasts, his touch clinical and parental. Angel didn’t flinch; this was just Daddy cleaning him.It was safety. Dominic’s size, his sheer physical dominance, created a private space in the crowded, open room. No one stared. Not for long, anyway. To stare was to invite a problem with the Reaper, and by extension, the silent, watchful wall of men like Crusher and the others who orbited them.
“Now the hair,” Dominic ordered, reaching for the small, precious bottle of real shampoo Doc Wexler had procured through some obscure trade. It smelled of generic apple. It was Angel’s treasure.
Angel groaned. “It’s gonna tangle.”
“It’s already tangled with soil, little bird. Head back.”
He tilted Angel’s head under the spray to wet the mass thoroughly, then poured a dollop of shampoo into his palm. His fingers worked it into the roots, scalp to ends, with a firm, massaging motion. Angel stood pliant, a soft sigh escaping him. He loved having his hair washed. It was the closest thing to pampering this world allowed.
“Close your eyes tight,” Dominic instructed.
Angel screwed his eyes shut. Dominic began to rinse, using his hand as a shield against the direct spray, carefully flushing the suds from the long curls. A stray rivulet of soapy water found its way past Angel’s defenses.
A sharp, pained whine cut through the shower noise. “Ah! Daddy! It stings! My eye, it stings!”
Angel jerked his head, hands flying up to rub at his face, which only made it worse. He began to hop on the spot, a small, naked, distressed creature. “It burns! It burns!”
“I told you to keep them closed,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a low, warning register. He caught Angel’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.“Stop rubbing. You’ll make it worse.” He angled the showerhead away and used his clean hand to gently tip Angel’s face up. A red, soap-smeared eye wept pitifully. “Open the other one. Let me see.”
“It hurts,” Angel whimpered, his breath hitching. It was a world-ending injury in his mind.
From a shower a few down, Hawks, an older inmate with a face like weathered oak and kind eyes, called out. “Got some clear water here, Dom.Cool water. Fix him right up.”
“Hold still,” Dominic commanded. He guided Angel, stumbling and whining, over to Hawks’ spray, ignoring the muffled snickers from Fletcher. “Eyes closed again. Don’t be a baby.”
“I am a baby,” Angel cried, logically.
Hawks chuckled, moving aside to let the clean water cascade over Angel’s face. Dominic held him there for a long moment, letting the cool stream flush the soap out. Angel’s whimpers subsided into hiccuping sighs.
“Better?” Dominic asked, his thumb stroking Angel’s cheekbone.
Angel blinked his newly cleansed, red-rimmed eyes open. “A little. It still tickles.”
“Good. Now the rest of you. And no more theatrics.” Dominic marched him back to their own shower. The mood had shifted. The playfulness was gone, replaced by the brisk efficiency of a necessary, messy task. Angel was clean on top, but the evidence of his “worm mapping” expedition remained on the lower half of his body—a ring of dirt around his ankles, grime in the gentle curve of his lower back, and, as Dominic knew from experience, a stubborn coating in the cleft of his backside.
“Turn around,” Dominic said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Angel’s eyes went wide. A different kind of whine, one of protest, started in his throat. “But…”
“Now, Angel.”
Angel turned, presenting his back. The dimples at the base of his spine were caked with fine, dark soil. Dominic soaped up the washcloth this time. He started on the narrow waist, scrubbing down over the hourglass curve of his hips, the swell of his backside. Angel fidgeted.
“Stand still.”
“It’s cold.”
Dominic ignored him, rinsing the cloth and reapplying soap. This was the part they both knew was coming. He washed the globes thoroughly, the cloth moving in firm, circular motions. Angel squirmed, his shoulders tightening.
Then Dominic’s hand, broad and soap-slick, moved to the crease.
Angel yelped. “Daddy!”
“You have dirt back here. From sitting in your dirt city, I assume.” His fingers, using the cloth as a barrier but still assertive, washed along the seam. It was not a sexual touch; it was parental, thorough, and deeply embarrassing for Angel in this public, albeit protected, space. It was a stark reminder of his childish position within this hierarchy of hardened men. He was the one who got bathed.
“I can do it!” Angel protested, trying to twist away.
A low growl vibrated in Dominic’s chest, an Alpha sound of pure warning that cut through the water’s hiss. Angel froze instantly, his breath catching. That sound promised a different kind of attention—a scolding bite, a stinging spank in their cell later. It promised Daddy’s displeasure.
Dominic’s hand stopped moving, resting firmly where it was. The message was clear. Angel went completely limp, surrender in every line of his body. His head hung, wet curls shielding his face.
“You will stand still,” Dominic said, each word precise and hard. “I will finish cleaning my son. Do you understand?”
A tiny, shaky nod.
Dominic resumed, his movements efficient and uncompromising. He cleaned the area thoroughly, rinsing with the spray until the water ran clear. Angel endured it, trembling slightly, a faint, humiliated flush spreading from his neck down his back.
When it was done, Dominic gave his hip a light, solid pat. “All clean. Rinse off.”
Angel scurried forward into the full spray, almost slipping in his haste, turning his back to Dominic and the rest of the room as he let the water sluice over him. The playful banter from the others had died. The atmosphere was now one of quiet observance. They’d seen the dynamic play out—the affectionate care, the bratty resistance, the immediate snap of dominance, and the swift return to compliance. It was the pack order in its purest form.
Fletcher broke the silence, his voice casual. “Scalping and soap in the eye. Kid’s got a real theme going for primal fears, huh?” It was a callback, a lifeline back to normalcy.
Angel, still facing the wall, gave a small, watery laugh. “Soap is worse.”
This got a genuine round of chuckles from the group. The tension bled away.
Crusher finally spoke, his voice like gravel rolling in a drum. “You’re clean now, kid. Shiny.” He turned off his shower, water sheeting off his colossal form.
Dominic guided Angel out of the spray and handed him a thin, scratchy prison-issue towel. “Dry off. Thoroughly. I don’t want you catching a chill.” He began drying himself with brisk, forceful motions.
Rafael “Ghost” Villareal materialized from the steam near the entrance, already dressed in his gray trousers, a towel slung around his neck. He had showered quickly and silently, as always, a phantom in the routine. His dark eyes swept the room, noting the positions of everyone, the mood, before landing on Dominic. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. All was clear.
“Daddy,” Angel chirped, oblivious to the quiet exchange. He’d managed to turban the towel around his hair, the rest of his body pink and clean and wrapped in another. He looked absurd and sweet. “I’m hungry. Can we have a fruit cup from commissary? The one with the cherries?”
Dominic’s attention returned to him fully, the terrifying Alpha receding, leaving only the father. He reached out and tucked a stray, damp curl behind Angel’s ear. “If you can get dressed without getting dirt on you between here and the cell, yes. One fruit cup.”
Angel’s smile was brilliant, the shower ordeal forgotten, the soap-in-eye trauma a memory. He skipped a little on the wet tiles, his bare feet slapping. “Promise!”
Crusher, pulling on his shirt, watched the kid go, a faint, gruff tenderness in his lake-calm eyes. “He’s gonna find a way to get dust on him. It’s a gift.”
“He will,” Dominic agreed, a weary fondness in his voice. He followed his son, a looming shadow once more, his clean skin smelling of soap and protection. The shower room’s steam began to dissipate, the whispers returning to other topics, but the echo of the boy’s whimpering protest and the Alpha’s correcting growl lingered in the damp air, a signature tune of their strange, domestic life behind bars.