Chapter 38: Tender Mercies
The humidity was an animal in the showers. It clotted the air, thick with a cheap, pine-scented soap aroma that did little to mask the underlying odors of mold, mildew, and a hundred different brands of man. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly greenish glow on the cracked, beige tiles. Water fell in heavy, percussive sheets from dozens of showerheads, steam rising in great clouds that pooled near the ceiling and clung to the skin.
It was a cacophony of noise—the roar of the water, the slap of wet feet on slick concrete, the low murmur of conversations echoing off the walls. Showers were a necessary, public vulnerability. Guards watched from the raised platform at the entrance, bored eyes scanning the steamy chaos.
Angel stood under the spray, the water almost too hot, turning his pale skin a blotchy pink. He was facing the wall, his platinum curls plastered darkly to his neck and back. The large, clear bandage over his new tattoo was fogged with condensation but holding. He was unusually still, almost pensive, letting the water sluice over him.
Dominic stood beside him, under his own showerhead, methodically working a bar of soap into a lather over his chest and shoulders. The water traced the valleys and ridges of old scars and the dense, intricate ink that covered him. His black eyes weren’t on himself. They were a constant, slow-moving sweep of the room, a radar ping of potential threats. They always were in here, but the vigilance was sharper today. His boy was marked, vulnerable, and humming with a low-grade ache from the needlework. The fresh claim on his lower back was a beacon in a place where every new mark was read like a headline.
Angel finally turned, water streaming down his face. “Daddy? It’s itchy. Under the plastic.”
“That means it’s healing, little bird,” Dominic said, rinsing soap from his forearms. “Don’t you touch it. Not a finger.”
“But I can feel it.” Angel’s voice took on that familiar, petulant tone. A bratty edge poking through the pain. He started to reach back, his fingers curling towards the bandage.
Dominic’s hand shot out, not hard, but fast and decisive, capturing Angel’s wrist. “I said no.” His voice dropped, a low rumble that cut through the shower’s roar. It wasn’t anger; it was absolute authority. “You scratch it, you’ll ruin Luca’s work. You’ll ruin my mark. You want a blurry, infected mess back there?”
Angel’s lower lip jutted out. “No.”
“Then keep your hands still. Turn around. Time to clean it proper.”
Angel obeyed, turning to face the wall again. Dominic moved behind him, his large frame blocking most of the direct view from the rest of the shower room. He peeled the edge of the adhesive bandage up carefully, the sound a sticky whisper against the hiss of water. The revealed tattoo was angry. The skin was raised, red, and shiny, the black lines standing out in stark, painful relief. A few tiny droplets of blood and clear plasma had beaded up along the outline of the wings. It was a raw, open wound, beautiful and brutal.
Dominic took the bar of soap—the harsh, state-issued stuff that smelled like industrial cleaner—and worked it between his palms under the spray until he had a gentle lather. “Deep breath,” he murmured, his voice closer to Angel’s ear now.
His touch, when it came, was a shock of contrast. The hands that could break a man’s neck with a practiced twist were now impossibly, meticulously tender. He didn’t scrub. He didn’t rub. He used the very tips of his fingers, tracing the lather over the tattooed skin in the lightest, most careful circles, avoiding direct pressure on the inflamed lines. He cleaned the wings, feather by feather, then the cursive script below. His breath was a steady warmth on the back of Angel’s wet neck.
Angel shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. The pain was there, a bright, sharp singing under the gentle touch, but it was subsumed by something else: the profound, almost unbearable safety of being cared for like this, in this place, by this man. A soft, unconscious purr started in his chest, a low, rumbling vibrato that Omegas made when they felt utterly secure and content. It was a private sound, usually reserved for their Alpha alone.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Dominic whispered, rinsing his hands and using a cupped palm to sluice clean water over the tattoo, washing the soap away with the same exquisite care. “Just cleaning my property. Making sure it stays perfect.”
From a few showerheads down, a man named Coates—a wiry, twitchy Beta in for arson—let out a low whistle he probably thought was quiet. His eyes were fixed a bit too intently on the curve of Angel’s waist, the exposed, freshly washed tattoo, the water running down the dip of his spine.
Dominic’s head lifted. He didn’t turn fully. Just a shift of his shoulders, a slow pivot of his gaze over his own shoulder. His eyes, black and flat, locked onto Coates. The purring behind him stopped instantly, Angel tensing, sensing the change in the air.
“You find something interesting to look at, Coates?” Dominic’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It carried the weight of a closing vault door.
Coates flinched, the color draining from his face under the spray. “N-no, Reaper. Just… nice ink. That’s all.”
“My son’s ink,” Dominic corrected, the words like chips of ice. “You admire it from a distance. You understand the distance?”
“Yes. Yes, sir.” Coates fumbled with his soap, nearly dropping it, turning his back quickly, pointedly staring at the tile in front of him.
The interaction lasted less than ten seconds. No guards noticed, or pretended not to. The rhythm of the showers stuttered, then resumed. Dominic turned his attention back to Angel, his posture relaxing minutely. The threat had been issued, received, and accepted.Order restored.
“Okay, baby,” he said, his voice softening back into that private, rumbling tone. He reached for the shampoo bottle they’d bought from commissary—a cheap, coconut-scented thing Angel liked. “Head back.”
Angel complied, tilting his head back, his eyes closed. Dominic worked the shampoo into the long, wet tangle of curls, his fingers massaging his scalp with a firm, thorough pressure. Angel’s purr started up again, louder this time, mixed with a sigh of pure bliss. “That feels good, Daddy.”
“I know it does.” He rinsed, the white suds swirling around their feet and disappearing into the drain. “Now, careful. We need to wash the front. No soap on the tattoo. Lean on me.”
He guided Angel to turn, his back now safely away from the majority of the room, shielded by Dominic’s body. Angel leaned his forehead against Dominic’s chest, his hands coming up to rest on Dominic’s hips. It was an intimate, trusting pose. Dominic pumped body wash into his hand and began to wash Angel’s shoulders, his arms, the smooth planes of his chest. His hands moved over Angel’s breasts with the same practical, thorough care he gave to every part of him—washing, rinsing, ensuring cleanliness. There was no leer, no groping. It was clinical, yet deeply possessive. This was his child to care for, his Omega to protect.
Angel nuzzled against him, his purr vibrating against Dominic’s skin. “You smell good, Daddy. Even with the bad soap.”
“Don’t talk, you’ll get soap in your mouth.”
Dominic moved lower, kneeling slightly to wash Angel’s stomach, his hips. He was meticulous, making sure every fold of skin was clean. Then his hand, slick with soap, moved between Angel’s thighs.
Angel squealed.
It wasn’t a sound of pain. It was a high-pitched, startled, deeply embarrassed yelp. He squirmed violently, trying to clamp his legs together. “Daddy! Not here! Everyone’s…!”
The whole shower room erupted. A roar of laughter bounced off the tiles. Guys who had been ignoring them, or pretending to, now turned, grinning. It wasn’t malicious. It was the pure, undiluted comedy of Angel’s sheer, scandalized horror.
“Sounds like Reaper’s found the trouble spot!” someone yelled from the far end.
“Wash behind the ears, Reap! And everywhere else, apparently!”
“He’s gonna be cleaner than a preacher’s conscience!”
Dominic didn’t laugh, but a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. His arm became an iron bar across Angel’s hips, holding him still. “Stop squirming. You’ll slip and crack your head open. You want to be clean or not?”
“But they’re looking!” Angel whined, his face buried in Dominic’s chest, burning with humiliation.
“Let them look,” Dominic said, his voice low but carrying. “Let them see how a cared-for Omega is kept. Now hold still.” His soapy fingers continued their work, washing with an unflinching, paternal efficiency that was somehow more shocking than any leer could have been. He cleaned him thoroughly, inside and out, his motions quick and practiced. Angel squirmed and whined through it all, a litany of “Daddy, stop…” and “It’s cold…” and “I’m clean, I swear!”
Finally, Dominic rinsed him, the water washing away the suds and the last of Angel’s dignity. As he straightened up, Angel was a panting, flushed, pouting mess, leaning heavily against him.
“You’re a brute,” Angel muttered, but his arms were tight around Dominic’s waist, his body still pressed close.
“I’m thorough,” Dominic corrected. He reached for the soap again to finish his own cleaning. “Now, my turn. And no biting. You’re too wound up.”
He turned, presenting his back to Angel, trusting him implicitly in a way he would trust no other soul in this place. He began washing his own chest.
Angel watched the water run in streams through the gray in Dominic’s chest hair, over the faded tattoo of a grim reaper on his shoulder blade—the namesake he’d earned long before Angel was born. The agitation from the washing faded, replaced by a familiar, creeping want. His teeth ached with it. The scent of Dominic’s skin, clean now but always underscored with that unique, Alpha musk that was safety and power and home, filled his senses. The sight of the water sluicing over his Daddy’s powerful forearms, over the thick veins that stood out under the hot spray… it was a magnet.
Dominic felt him shift, felt the focused intensity of the gaze on his back. “Angel,” he warned, without turning.
“I’m just looking.”
“You’re not ‘just looking’. I can hear your teeth grinding from here.”
“My mouth hurts,” Angel said, which was a lie, but one he’d used before.
“Your mouth is fine.” Dominic rinsed off and turned. He saw Angel’s expression—the wide, dark blue eyes, the parted lips, the desperate, hungry need for that specific comfort. The craving for the taste that calmed the storms in his head better than any pill.
He sighed, a long, slow exhalation. He held out his left arm, turning it so the inner forearm was offered. It was crisscrossed with fine, white scars—old cuts, burns, the history of a violent life. And over the wrist, a fresher set of faint, silvery toothmarks. Angel’s marks.
“Here,” Dominic said, his voice a resigned grumble. “Not hard. No blood. Just… settle your teeth.”
Angel’s face lit up with pure, unadulterated joy. He didn’t hesitate. He took the offered arm with both hands, as if receiving a sacred offering. He didn’t go for the wrist. He brought Dominic’s forearm to his mouth, nuzzling against the skin for a moment, inhaling deeply. Then he opened his mouth and set his teeth gently over the muscle of the forearm, between two old tattoos. He didn’t bite down to break skin. He just pressed. He gnawed gently, like a puppy with a chew toy, his eyes sliding shut, a new, deeper purr erupting from his chest.
Dominic stood there, continuing to rinse under the shower spray with his free hand. He watched the top of Angel’s head, the damp curls, the utter peace that settled over his boy’s features. This was their circuit. A violent claim, a tender cleaning, a gentle chastisement, and finally, this—a grounding, oral fixation that soothed the Omega’s most primal nerves. It was unorthodox. It was, to any outside eye, deranged. But in the economy of their shared damage, it was balance.
The other inmates had stopped laughing. Now they just observed, with a kind of casual acceptance. They’d seen this before. The Reaper and his cannibal kid, and their weird, quiet rituals. It was just part of the landscape.
After a few minutes, Angel’s jaw relaxed. He released the arm, leaving a reddened, saliva-slick imprint of his teeth, but no broken skin. He leaned forward and licked the spot once, a quick, apologetic swipe of his tongue.
“Better?” Dominic asked, flicking water off his arm.
“Mmmhmm.” Angel’s voice was drowsy, sated. He was pliant now, all the fight and embarrassment washed out of him along with the soap.
Dominic shut off the water. The sudden absence of sound was abrupt, leaving only the drip from their bodies and the continued roar from the other showers. He grabbed their towels—thin, rough, state-issued beige rags—and wrapped one around Angel’s shoulders, briskly rubbing him dry, paying careful attention to pat, not rub, the area around the fresh tattoo. He wrapped his own towel around his waist.
“Alright, let’s go. Before you catch a chill.”
They walked out of the steam and into the slightly cooler air of the change area. Angel walked close, his side pressed to Dominic’s, his fingers hooked lightly into the towel at Dominic’s hip. He was quiet, contemplative.
As they dressed in the clean, scratchy gray uniforms, Angel finally spoke, his voice small. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, little bird?”
“When the bandage comes off… will everyone see it all the time?”
Dominic pulled his shirt on, then helped Angel into his, again guiding his arms through carefully to avoid the tattoo. “In the yard, maybe. In the cell, no. It’s for you.For me. For when you need to remember.”
“Remember what?”
Dominic crouched in front of him, fastening the buttons on Angel’s shirt. He looked him in the eye. “That you belong. That you’re not alone in here. That you’re mine. No matter what anyone else thinks of what you did, or what you are. This,” he said, his thumb brushing over the shirt, right where the tattoo lay underneath, “is the truth. Everything else is just noise.”
Angel stared at him, absorbing the words. The childish confusion cleared from his eyes, replaced by a glimmer of understanding that was rare and profound. He nodded slowly. Then he leaned forward and butted his head gently against Dominic’s chest, a soft, affectionate gesture.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Dominic’s hand came up, cradling the back of his head. He pressed a kiss to his damp hair. “I know, baby. I know.”
They walked back to their cell, Angel’s steps light, the clinginess returned but now tinged with a new, quiet pride. The tattoo throbbed on his back, a persistent, warm reminder.
Behind them, the showers continued to roar, and the prison breathed on, indifferent. But in this small, cold corridor, for these two, there was a world built on bite marks, brutal tenderness, and a fresh, permanent claim. It was enough.