Chapter 40: Ownership Dispute
The industrial soap left Angel’s skin feeling tight and dry, smelling faintly of chemical lemon. Doc had produced a small, greasy jar of moisturizer from his kit, working it into Angel’s hands and wrists with a methodical gentleness. The blood was gone, vanished down the drain with the pink-tinged water, but the afternoon’s events hung in the concrete air of the wash-down room like a ghost.
Dominic leaned against the chipped tile wall, one ankle crossed over the other, watching. His stillness was a physical weight. Doc finished, wiped his own hands on a rag, and gave a short nod. “He’s clean. No physical injuries beyond the bruise. Dentally… fine.”
“Thank you, Conrad,” Dominic said. His voice was a low rumble in the quiet space.
Doc packed his kit, his movements precise. He paused at the door. “He’ll be hungry later. The… the atypical protein can cause cramping if his system isn’t used to it. I’ll have some electrolytes ready for lockdown.”
“Appreciate it.”
Doc left, the heavy metal door swinging shut with a soft clang that echoed. They were alone.
Angel stood by the sink, twisting his fingers together. He looked small, swamped in the standard-issue grays, his damp curls clinging to his neck. The visible bite mark on the left side of his throat, Dominic’s permanent claim, stood out against his pale skin. He peeked up at Dominic through his lashes. “My tummy feels funny,” he murmured.
“That’s the adrenaline leaving, little bird,” Dominic said, pushing off the wall. He crossed the short distance and cupped Angel’s face again, his thumbs stroking over the high cheekbones. “And maybe the six ounces of raw long pig you just ate.”
Angel’s nose scrunched. “It wasn’t pig. It was Tommy.”
“A figure of speech.” Dominic’s black eyes searched Angel’s face, looking for something—fear, remorse, hysteria. He found only a placid, slightly anxious curiosity. “Are you upset? About what you did?”
Angel thought about it, his head tilted. “He was mean. And he grabbed me. I didn’t like it.” He paused. “I’m sorry I made a scene in the yard, Daddy. I know you don’t like scenes.”
A short, surprised huff of air escaped Dominic—the closest he ever came to a laugh here. He pulled Angel into his chest, wrapping his arms around the boy’s slender frame. Angel melted into the hold immediately, tucking his head under Dominic’s chin, his own arms winding around Dominic’s waist. He was clingy by nature, and moments like this turned him into a limpet, seeking safety and scent.
“The scene is handled,” Dominic murmured into his hair, which still smelled of coconut. “Silas and the others are taking care of it. You protected what’s yours. Your space. Your body. I’m not angry about that.”
Angel nuzzled against his neck, breathing deep. “You smell worried.”
“I’m always worried about you. That’s my job.” He kissed the top of Angel’s head. “Come on. We need to get back before lockdown count. Walk with me.”
He kept an arm around Angel’s shoulders as they left the wash-down room, emerging into the corridor that led back to the main yard. The shift was almost over; the tension in the prison had a different texture now, a weary pull towards the inevitable confinement of evening. Inmates milled, heading towards the cell blocks. Guards’ voices took on a perfunctory, tired edge.
They entered the yard from the north gate. The area by the basketball hoop was empty. A single inmate was hosing down the concrete, the water washing the last dark streaks towards a drain. No body. No evidence. Jaxon’s “leak” by the greenhouse had been patched, a maintenance officer rolling up a wet hose. The yard was performing its evening amnesia.
Silas materialized beside them as they walked, falling into step without a word. He had a fresh knuckle scrape on his right hand, the skin split and swollen. He saw Dominic looking at it and gave a slight shrug. “Had to encourage some discretion. Went fine.”
“The package?” Dominic asked, his voice low.
“Cold storage. Kitchen crew owes me. It’s in the back of the walk-in, labeled ‘offal for rendering.’” Silas’s voice was a gravelly monotone. “Kid did a clean job on the initial cut. Wasted less than I would’ve.”
Angel preened a little at the praise, his steps becoming a light skip between the two larger men. “Uncle Jaxon showed me the pictures in the book!”
“Anatomy charts are not ‘picture books,’ Angel,” Dominic corrected gently, but his hand gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze.
They reached their usual pre-lockdown gathering spot, a relatively quiet corner of the yard shielded by a recess in the wall. Doc was there, as was Rafael “Ghost” Villareal, who had been absent from the earlier spectacle. Rafael was leaning against the wall, seemingly doing nothing, but his dark, sharp eyes were cataloguing every movement in the yard, every shift in the guard rotation. He nodded once as they approached, a minute dip of his chin. Information had been gathered. Situational awareness was complete.
“All quiet on the eastern front,” Rafael said, his voice as cool and smooth as slate. “The story is holding. Tommy Hanks picked a fight with a couple of the Skinner brothers over by B Block. Got his throat ripped out for his trouble. Tragic.”
“The Skinners are in solitary,” Doc pointed out dryly.
“They are now,” Rafael replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “O’Leary facilitated. It’s a neat package.”
Dominic grunted, satisfied. He sat on a low bench, pulling Angel down to sit on the concrete at his feet, between his knees. It was a habitual position—Angel resting against Dominic’s legs, Dominic’s hand automatically coming up to stroke through the soft platinum curls. Angel sighed contentedly, leaning into the touch, his earlier nervous energy dissipating under the familiar ritual.
“New transfer came in on the midday bus,” Rafael continued, his eyes scanning a cluster of unfamiliar faces near the south wall. “Got processed during the yard time. Name’s Cooper. Vance Cooper. Armed robbery, aggravated assault. Thinks his chest hair makes him an Alpha.”
Dominic’s hand didn’t stop moving through Angel’s hair. “And?”
“And he’s asking questions. Trying to map the terrain. Standard new fish behavior. He’s been eyeing this corner for ten minutes.”
Angel, blissed out under Dominic’s petting, mumbled, “Is he nice?”
“Nobody here is nice, baby,” Dominic said, his voice a soft rumble above him. “Remember that.”
“You’re nice,” Angel argued sleepily.
“I’m your daddy. That’s different.”
A few minutes passed in quiet companionship. The loudspeaker crackled, announcing five minutes to lockdown. The yard began to empty in earnest. It was then that Cooper, the new transfer, decided to make his move. He was a big man, not as tall as Silas but thick with muscle that strained his shirt. He had a cocky walk, a swagger that hadn’t yet been beaten out of him by the concrete and the routine. He swaggered right towards their corner, accompanied by two other inmates who looked like they’d drawn the short straw on showing him around.
His eyes swept over their group, dismissive of Doc and Rafael, lingering warily on Silas, and finally landing on Dominic. Then they dropped to Angel, curled at Dominic’s feet like a large, contented cat. A slow, greasy smile spread across Cooper’s face.
“Well, hell,” Cooper said, his voice too loud, meant to carry. “Heard the Reaper had a pet. Didn’t realize it was a pretty little thing like this.” He let out a low whistle. “What’s your going rate, sweetheart? Or does the old man there rent you out by the hour?”
The air in the corner didn’t just get cold; it froze, solid and brittle.
Angel blinked up, confused. He didn’t understand the implication, but he understood the tone. It was mean. He pressed back harder against Dominic’s legs.
Rafael went preternaturally still. Doc closed his eyes for a brief second, as if in pain. Silas didn’t move a muscle, but his flat, lake-calm eyes fixed on Cooper like a targeting system.
Dominic’s hand stilled in Angel’s hair. He looked up at Cooper. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t stand up. He simply looked. “What did you say?”
Cooper, mistaking the quiet for weakness, puffed out his chest. He’d established dominance in county lockups by picking on the weakest-looking. The blonde kid draped over the older guy’s legs looked like the weakest link in a hundred-mile chain. “You heard me. I’m just admiring the prison wife. Gotta say, you’ve got good taste. Probably makes the time pass quicker, huh?”
The word wife hung in the air, poisonous and stupid.
Angel frowned. “I’m not a wife,” he said, his soft voice cutting through the tension with childish clarity. “I’m his son.”
Cooper barked a laugh. “Yeah, right. And I’m the warden’s nephew. Cute game, kid.”
Dominic moved. It wasn’t a flinch or a startle. It was a deliberate, slow unfolding as he stood up. He placed a hand on Angel’s head, a silent command to stay put. Angel looked up at him, his blue eyes wide.
“Silas,” Dominic said. Just the name. No inflection.
It was all the order that was needed.
Cooper finally saw it—the utter lack of fear in the eyes around him, the way the two men with him had taken two steps back, faces pale. He saw the mountain of a man with the battered face turn his head towards him, cracking his neck with a sound like popping wood.
“Now, hold on—” Cooper began, his bravado cracking.
Silas was on him. There was no theatrical roar, no wind-up punch. It was pure, horrifying efficiency. One massive hand shot out and clamped around Cooper’s throat, cutting off his air and his words. The other hand seized Cooper’s right wrist. Silas turned, using his own body as a lever, and slammed Cooper face-first into the concrete wall with a wet, crunching thud.
Cooper screamed, a muffled, wet sound. Silas dragged him back and slammed him again. Nose and cheekbones shattered.
Angel watched, fascinated, from his spot on the ground. He didn’t look away. He dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a slightly dusty cherry lollipop he’d lifted from Doc’s supply cupboard days ago. He peeled the wrapper off with deliberate care and popped it into his mouth, his eyes fixed on the violence.
Silas dropped the now-sagging Cooper to the ground. Cooper tried to curl into a ball, moaning through a mouthful of broken teeth and blood. Silas put a work-boot on his chest, pinning him. He reached down, took Cooper’s right hand in his own, and examined it, almost curiously.
“You used this hand to point,” Silas stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Rude.”
He bent the index finger back until the bone snapped with an audible pop. Cooper shrieked. Silas moved to the middle finger. Pop.
Angel sucked on his lollipop, his own small hands moving in the air, mimicking Silas’s motions. He bent his own tiny index finger back gently, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Uncle Silas is very strong,” Angel whispered around the candy.
Dominic, still standing, watched Silas work. He didn’t interfere. This was the consequence. This was the language everyone here understood.
Pop. The ring finger.
Cooper’s screams had dissolved into whimpers. The two inmates who’d been with him had vanished. Guards were noticeably absent; O’Leary, from his post, had likely seen the start and decided a timeout was in everyone’s best interest.
Silas moved to the pinky. Pop. He then took the thumb, twisting it with a brutal jerk until the ligament tore with a sickening gristly sound. The hand was now a ruined, swollen claw.
Cooper was sobbing, begging, snot and blood mixing on his face.
Silas looked up at Dominic. Dominic gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
That was the end of it. Silas removed his boot from Cooper’s chest. He didn’t deliver a final, killing blow. The message was in the meticulous dismantling. He stepped back, wiping his bloody hand on his own pant leg.
The lockdown siren blared, a deafening wail.
Dominic finally moved. He bent down and scooped Angel up into his arms as if he weighed nothing. Angel, surprised, let out a little “oof” but immediately wrapped his arms around Dominic’s neck, his lollipop stick poking out of his mouth.
“That was a lot louder than Tommy,” Angel observed, his head resting on Dominic’s shoulder as they walked away from the moaning heap that was Vance Cooper. Doc was already moving forward, not to help Cooper, but to ensure he wouldn’t choke on his own blood before the guards collected him—a pragmatic kindness.
“Silas is an artist,” Dominic said, carrying his boy towards the cell block entrance. The stream of inmates parted for them, eyes averted.
“Is he gonna die?”
“No. But he’ll wish he had. And he’ll never say that word to anyone, ever again.”
“What word?” Angel asked, innocent.
“‘Wife,’” Dominic said, the word foul on his tongue. “You are my son. My boy. My heart. Not that. Never that.”
Angel nuzzled into his neck, right over the scar of his claiming bite. The sweet, artificial cherry scent of his lollipop mingled with the coconut of his hair. “I know, Daddy. He was just confused. And mean.”
Back in their cell, after the clanging doors and the rattling locks, the world shrank to a concrete box. Dominic sat on the edge of the lower bunk, and Angel climbed into his lap, straddling him, facing him. It was their evening ritual, a re-establishment of peace after the chaos of the day.
Angel had discarded the lollipop stick. He rested his forehead against Dominic’s, their breath mingling. “Did I do bad today?” he asked, his voice a tiny whisper in the dim light.
“You defended yourself. That’s never bad. The… the eating part.” Dominic sighed, his hands coming up to cradle Angel’s waist. “That’s just you, little bird. It’s how you’re built. We manage it. We keep it quiet.”
“It tastes better fresh,” Angel confided, as if sharing a secret. “It’s… warmer. The life is still in it.”
Dominic closed his eyes for a moment, accepting this terrible, honest truth about the creature in his care. “I know.”
“Are you gonna scold me?” Angel asked, a hint of a bratty whine entering his voice. He pushed his hips forward a little, a subtle, needy gesture.
Dominic’s eyes opened. He read the signals—the slight anxiety, the seek for grounding, the childish push for boundaries. “Do you think you need it?”
“Maybe,” Angel said, looking down at his own hands where they played with the collar of Dominic’s shirt. “My tummy still feels funny. And my head is buzzy.”
“Alright then.” Dominic’s voice shifted, taking on a firmer, unquestionable tone. He turned them, laying Angel face-down across his thighs. The position was practiced, familiar. He pushed the loose prison pants down just enough, exposing the pale, round curve of Angel’s backside.
The first slap was sharp, a crisp crack in the quiet cell. Angel gasped, his fingers digging into the thin mattress. The second, third, and fourth fell in a steady, rhythmic pattern, not meant to injure, but to chastise, to reclaim, to settle. Angel’s breaths became little hitched sobs, but he didn’t cry out. He pushed back into each spank, accepting it, needing the sharp clarity of the punishment.
After a dozen,
He pushed back into each spank, accepting it, needing the sharp clarity of the punishment.
After a dozen, Dominic stopped. The air hung still, charged with the shared intimacy of the act. His palm stung. Angel’s skin glowed a warm, blotchy pink. A muffled sniffle escaped from the mattress. Dominic rubbed a slow, soothing circle over the heated skin with his thumb, the contact shifting from punitive to comforting in a single gesture. “Enough,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in the quiet.
He carefully pulled Angel’s pants back up and gathered the boy into his arms, turning him so they were chest-to-chest. Angel’s face was damp, his dark lashes spiky with tears, but his expression was serene. He buried his face into the crook of Dominic’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of tobacco, old ink, and him. His small body shuddered once, a final release of the day’s coiled tension.
Dominic held him, swaying slightly on the edge of the bunk. He nuzzled into the soft platinum curls, his lips brushing the crown of Angel’s head. The brutal calculus of the yard—the blood, the bones, the quiet disposal—faded into a distant hum. Here, in this concrete cube, there was only this. The weight in his arms. The hitched, slowing breaths against his throat. The sheer, terrifying simplicity of his love for this broken, beautiful thing.
“Better?” Dominic asked after a long while, his voice a gentle scrape.
Angel nodded, his nose rubbing against Dominic’s collarbone. “Mmm-hmm. Head’s quieter.” He tilted his face up. In the dim security light bleeding through the cell door window, his eyes were vast and dark. “Did Uncle Silas finish with the mean man?”
“He finished enough.”
“Good.” Angel’s fingers traced the intricate lines of a tattoo on Dominic’s forearm, a familiar, idle pattern. “His fingers sounded like the twigs we break for the garden compost.”
Dominic didn’t flinch at the comparison. “They did.”
“My lollipop tasted like cherries and a little bit like dust.” Angel’s thought process was a meandering stream, calming as it flowed. “Can I have another one tomorrow? A green one?”
“If Doc has a green one, you can have it after lunch.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Angel smiled, a small, contented curve of his lips. He yawned, jaw cracking, and slumped more heavily against Dominic’s chest. The adrenaline crash, the emotional purge, the physical correction—it had all finally drained him. Dominic stood, lifting him effortlessly, and laid them both down on the narrow bunk. He maneuvered them onto their sides, Angel’s back pressed to his front, his body curling around the smaller form like a shield against the world.
He drew the thin, scratchy blanket up over them. His arm anchored around Angel’s waist, his hand splayed possessively over the boy’s stomach. He rested his chin on top of Angel’s head. Then, consciously, he let his guard down. The rigid control he wore like a second skin eased. A deep, warm scent began to emanate from him, subtle but enveloping—aged oak, dark spice, and an undeniable, soothing warmth. Parental pheromones, Alpha calm, a silent signal of utter safety.Angel responded instantly. A low, thrumming purr started in his chest, a soft, mechanical vibration of pure contentment. He wriggled backward, tucking himself even more perfectly into the contours of Dominic’s body, a puzzle piece clicking home. His breathing deepened, synchronizing with the slow, steady rise and fall of Dominic’s chest behind him.
The prison was never silent. The night was a tapestry of distant shouts, clanging metal, the snores and mutters of desperate men. But in their bunk, a pocket of profound silence existed. Dominic held onto it, willed it to hold. He thought of the raw meat stored in the kitchen walk-in, of Tommy Hanks’s vacant eyes, of Cooper’s shattered fingers. He thought of the way Angel had mimicked Silas’s violence with his tiny, blood-stained hands.
His arm tightened, just slightly. Angel’s purr hitched, then deepened.
“Angel,” Dominic whispered into his hair, the name itself a caress.
“Mmm, Daddy?”
“Remember something for me.” Dominic’s voice was so low it was almost lost in the hum of the ventilation. “Remember to never doubt yourself. Or be insecure about what you are.”
Angel was quiet, listening. His purr softened to a faint, steady rumble.
“The world out there,” Dominic continued, the words coming slowly, chosen with more care than any business deal or hit, “it will try to tell you that you’re wrong. That you’re broken. A monster.” He pressed a kiss to the nape of Angel’s neck, right below his claiming scar. “They don’t know. They don’t see what I see.”
He took a breath, filling his lungs with the scent of coconut and cherry and his boy. “You are perfect just as you are. Every part. The sweet and the sharp. The light and the hunger. It’s all you. And it’s all mine to protect. You believe that. You believe me.”
Angel stirred in his arms. He turned his head, twisting within the secure circle of Dominic’s embrace until he was facing him in the dark. Their noses were almost touching. Dominic could see the faint star-glow of his eyes, could feel the soft puff of his breath.
Angel looked at him, truly looked, with an understanding that went deeper than his often-clueless demeanor. He saw the aging Alpha, the former Reaper, the man who had built a fortress of loyalty and violence in this hellhole just to keep one delicate, deadly thing safe.
A soft, final sigh escaped him, carrying all the trust in the world.
“Yes, Alpha,” Angel whispered, his voice hushed with sleep and devotion. He leaned forward the last inch and nuzzled their noses together, an Eskimo kiss in the dark. “Love you, Daddy.”
He turned back, snuggling his head back under Dominic’s chin. The purr resumed, a steady, peaceful engine. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into the slow, untroubled rhythm of deep sleep.
Dominic lay awake, holding him. He listened to the sounds of the prison, and he listened to the sound of Angel’s heart. He matched his own breath to it, a silent vow echoing in the space between each beat. The yard, the transfer, the butchery, the lollipop—it was all just weather. This, the weight in his arms, the purr against his ribs, was the only constant. The only truth. He kept his pheromones flowing, a steady, invisible river of safety, and finally allowed his own eyes to close.