Chapter 45: Dirt Incident
The klaxon for shower rotation blared through the cell block, a harsh, electronic scream that shredded the post-count quiet. Angel, who had been sitting cross-legged on his bunk trying to weave threads from a frayed blanket into a tiny bracelet, flinched violently, the makeshift craft falling from his hands. His eyes darted to Dominic, wide and seeking anchor.
“It’s just the noise, baby,” Dominic said, already standing. He held out a hand. “Come on. Shower time. You’re filthy.”
Angel looked down at himself. His standard-issue orange jumper was smeared with grime, his hands were blackened, and a streak of something rusty-brown—likely from a wet patch on the yard’s chain-link fence—ran across his cheek. He’d been “helping” Jaxon dig for worms near the fence line during afternoon yard, an activity that had involved more enthusiastic digging with his bare hands than actual assistance.
“I’m not dirty,” he mumbled, a pre-emptive whine coloring his tone. He hated the showers. The noise, the steam, the echoing space, the way the water was never right.
“You look like you crawled through an engine block.” Dominic’s voice left no room for negotiation. He snapped his fingers once, a sharp, commanding sound. “Up. Now.”
With a resigned sigh, Angel unfolded himself and took Dominic’s hand. His small fingers were almost swallowed by the Alpha’s grip.
The shower hall was a cathedral of concrete and misery. Steam, thick and smelling of cheap industrial soap and mildew, hung in the air, condensing on the rust-pitted steel of the stall dividers. The floor was a slick, perpetually damp gray, drains gurgling feebly. Water temperature was a lottery; today, it was a wall of near-scalding spray from the working heads, the rest dripping ice-cold. The sound was a deafening roar, echoing off the walls, punctuated by the shouts and coarse laughter of other inmates.
Dominic steered Angel towards a stall at the far end, one slightly more private where the partition walls were still intact. Their group had claimed this territory long ago. Silas was already under a roaring jet of water, his massive back and shoulders a tapestry of faded ink and scar tissue, looking like a mountain being weathered by a waterfall. Rafael leaned against the wall just outside the stall, a silent sentry in the steam, a towel wrapped around his waist. Doc was methodically soaping his hair at the next stall over.
“In,” Dominic ordered, guiding Angel into the stall.
The spray hit Angel’s clothed shoulder and he yelped, jumping back. “It’s hot, daddy!”
“It’s water. It cleans.” Dominic stepped in, pulling Angel with him. He was fully clothed in his jumpsuit, letting the water soak instantly into the fabric. It was a statement. He wasn’t here to bathe himself; he was here to bathe his son. The sacrifice of enduring the soaked, heavy cloth was just another part of the ritual.
He unzipped Angel’s jumpsuit with practiced efficiency. “Arms up.”
Angel lifted his arms, his face a picture of miserable protest. Dominic peeled the dirty fabric down and off, letting it fall with a wet slap to the floor. He did the same with the undershirt and boxers. Naked, Angel seemed even smaller, his pale skin gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light that flickered overhead. The marks on him stood in stark contrast: the old, silvery claiming bite on the side of his neck, a testament to Dominic’s permanent ownership; a smattering of faint freckles across his shoulders; the gentle swell of his breasts, the nipples puckered from the sudden heat; the curve of his waist flaring to his hips. He hugged himself, shivering despite the steam.
Dominic took the coarse state-issued soap bar from the recess in the wall. It smelled strongly of synthetic pine and lye. He lathered it between his hands, the suds white and scant.
“Turn around.”
Angel turned, facing the wall. Dominic started at the nape of his neck, his big, rough hands working the soap into the platinum curls. His touch was firm, thorough, scrubbing at the scalp without being cruel. Angel stood still, his head bowed under the water and the ministrations.
“You played hard today,” Dominic stated, his voice a low rumble under the water’s roar.
“Spark had a map. For worms. We were digging for treasure.” Angel’s voice was muffled by the spray.
“Worms are not treasure. They’re bait. And you’re not a bird.” He rinsed the soap from Angel’s hair, the blonde turning dark and heavy with water. “Now, the front.”
Angel turned, his eyes squeezed shut against the spray. Dominic soaped his hands again and began washing Angel’s face, swiping the grime from his cheek, wiping over his closed eyelids, behind his ears. He washed his neck, his fingers tracing over the familiar ridges of his own bite mark. Angel leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping him.
The thoroughness continued. Down his arms, over his shoulders, across his collarbones. Dominic’s hands, which had ended lives with efficient brutality, were now methodically, carefully cleaning a living canvas. He soaped Angel’s chest, the suds sliding over the soft mounds, his touch clinical and purposeful. Angel giggled, squirming a little. “Tickles.”
“Hold still.” The command was gentle but absolute. Dominic rinsed him, the water cascading in clean rivulets.
Then he knelt on the wet floor.
The sight was jarring. Dominic “Reaper” Ricciardi, on his knees in soaked prison denim, in a filthy prison shower. He soaped his hands once more. “Legs apart, Angel.”
Oblivious to any other context, Angel shifted his feet apart on the slick concrete. Dominic washed his inner thighs, the backs of his knees, his calves. He took one small foot at a time, scrubbing between the toes. Angel wobbled, placing a hand on Dominic’s wet head for balance. Dominic allowed it.
Then came the most intimate part. Dominic’s soapy hand moved with the same dutiful care between Angel’s legs, washing the thatch of blonde curls, the delicate folds beneath. It was a hygiene task, nothing more. Necessary, given the day’s activities. Angel fidgeted, the sensation unusual.
“Daddy, I’m clean,” he complained, trying to close his legs.
Dominic’s other hand, a firm bar on his hip, held him in place. “You are not. You were sitting in dirt. This needs to be clean. Stop squirming.”
From the next stall, Silas let out a gruff chuckle, barely audible over the water. He was watching, his flat eyes taking in the scene: the most feared man in three cell blocks playing nursemaid. Rafael, leaning against the wall, offered a rare, faint smile, shaking his head slowly.
Doc, rinsing the soap from his own hair, called over, “He get into the compost pile again, Dom?”
“Worse. Worm expedition with Spark,” Dominic grunted, his focus entirely on his task. He rinsed meticulously, using his hand to cup and direct the flow of water.
Angel, now growing bored and restless, began to fuss in earnest. “I’m pruny, daddy. And it’s too hot. I wanna go. Can we go play cards? Can I see Spark?”
“No.” Dominic stood up, his knees cracking. He was towering over Angel again. “We are not done. You need to be rinsed properly. And your hair needs conditioner or it’ll be a nest.”
“I don’t want conditioner! It smells like flowers! It’s for girls!” Angel crossed his arms over his chest, a genuine pout forming on his lips. The shower’s heat and the lengthy process had eroded his patience.
Dominic’s expression darkened, not with anger, but with a stern, immovable resolve. He leaned down, bringing his face close to Angel’s. The growl that emanated from his chest was a low, visceral vibration that cut through the water’s noise. It was pure Alpha command, stripped of all gentleness. “You will stand still. You will let me finish. Or you will spend the rest of the week in this cell, with no yard, no library, no Spark, no candy, and nothing to do but stare at the wall. Do you understand me, little boy?”
Angel’s bravado crumpled. His lower lip trembled. The threat of withdrawal—of Dominic’s presence, of his care, of the small freedoms he enjoyed—was the only punishment that truly resonated. Tears welled in his dark blue eyes, mixing with the shower spray. “You’re mean,” he whispered, but the fight had left him. He stood listlessly, his shoulders slumping.
“I’m keeping you clean,” Dominic corrected, his voice dropping back to its normal register, though still firm. He took the small, precious bottle of conditioner they traded for from the kitchen—a luxury item—and worked a dollop through Angel’s tangled curls. The sweet, floral scent immediately clashed with the sterile pine of the soap.
As Dominic’s fingers detangled the long strands, Angel, seeking comfort or perhaps expressing his surrender, leaned forward. He pressed his forehead against Dominic’s wet shoulder. Then, almost instinctively, he opened his mouth and placed it over the fabric, biting down gently. Not hard enough to break skin, not even hard enough to bruise, but with a steady, gnawing pressure. It was a pacifying gesture, like a teething puppy with a toy. His small teeth worked at the soaked cotton, leaving tiny, damp indentations.
Dominic didn’t stop him. He continued massaging the conditioner into Angel’s scalp, his other arm coming around to hold the boy steady against him. He bore the mild, persistent bite without comment, as if it were simply another part of the process.
Silas, watching from under his own stream of water, snorted. “Kid’s teething on you, Reap.”
“He’s settling,” Dominic replied, his eyes closed for a moment, feeling the small, persistent pressure on his shoulder. It was a grounding, oddly comforting weight.
Rafael pushed off the wall and grabbed a clean towel from a stack on a dry bench. “He’s gonna wear a hole in that jumper. You’ll have to explain to laundry how you got a chew mark on your shoulder.”
“Let them wonder,” Dominic said. He gave Angel’s hair a final rinse, the floral scent blooming in the steam. “Alright. Enough. Spit it out.”
With a soft, wet sound, Angel released the fabric. He looked up, his face now clean, his hair slicked back and gleaming. The tears were gone, replaced by a look of drowsy compliance. The fight had been washed away with the dirt.
Dominic turned off the water. The sudden silence was abrupt, leaving only the drip from other stalls and the distant echoes from down the line. He stepped out first, took the towel from Rafael, and wrapped Angel in it tightly, rubbing him down briskly.
“Arms up.” He dressed Angel in a clean, dry jumpsuit, pulling it up over his still-damp body, zipping it swiftly. He used a second, smaller towel to turban Angel’s hair.
The process was efficient, almost militaristic in its precision. Within minutes, Angel was standing clean and dry, swaddled in the oversized jumper, his hair tucked up, looking even younger and more fragile. Dominic, meanwhile, was soaked from chest to knee, his own jumpsuit clinging heavily to him.
“Spark said he has something for you,” Dominic said, steering Angel out of the shower area. “A present.”
Angel’s eyes, which had been downcast, lit up instantly. “A present? For me? What is it?”
“You’ll have to wait and see. But you only get it if you behave the rest of the day. No more arguing. No more getting filthy. Understood?”
“Yes, daddy.” The promise of a shiny trinket from Jaxon had restored his good humor completely.
They walked back towards their cell, Angel’s clean sneakers squeaking on the damp floor. Doc fell into step beside them, drying his hair with a towel. “Temperature’s dropping. They’re saying snow by morning. The infirmary will be busy with idiots who slipped on ice.”
Dominic nodded. “Keep Angel inside if it’s iced over tomorrow.”
“I wanna play in the snow,” Angel chirped, looking up at Doc with hopeful eyes.
“You’ll play with pneumonia,” Doc countered gently. “We’ll find you something to do inside.”
Back in their cell, Dominic peeled off his own wet clothes, hanging them carefully to dry. He changed into a dry jumpsuit, his movements economical. Angel sat on his bunk, unwrapping the towel from his head, letting his damp curls spill around his shoulders. He looked small and pristine amidst the gray concrete and steel.
Silas appeared at the cell door, his bulk filling the space. He held out a small, folded object. “Spark sent this over. Said it’s for the prince.”
It was the crown. Jaxon had been busy. Fashioned from dozens of twisted foil gum wrappers and the silvery inner lining of chip bags, it was a delicate, absurdly intricate circlet. It caught the dull light from the cell’s single bulb, glittering with a cheap, mad royalty.
Dominic took it and turned to Angel. “Hold still.”
With a solemnity befitting a coronation, he placed the foil crown on Angel’s damp head. It sat slightly askew amidst the platinum curls.
Angel’s hands flew up to touch it. He felt the crinkly, sharp edges, the careful twists. His eyes went impossibly wide, reflecting the foil’s shine. He looked up at Dominic, his expression one of pure, unadulterated wonder.
“For me?” he breathed.
“For you,” Dominic confirmed, his own stern features softening into something that, on any other face, might have been a smile. “King of the worm-diggers.”
Angel scrambled off the bunk and ran to the small, polished steel rectangle that served as a mirror. He stared at his reflection, tilting his head this way and that, watching the foil catch the light. A slow, delighted smile spread across his face.
He turned and launched himself at Dominic, wrapping his arms around the Alpha’s waist, burying his face against his chest. The foil crown slid perilously. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, daddy!”
Dominic’s hands came to rest on his back, holding him close. Over Angel’s head, he exchanged a look with Silas, who was still leaning in the doorway. Silas’s face, with its history of violence, was now arranged in an expression of gruff satisfaction. In the background, Doc leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the scene with the quiet approval of a grandfather.
“You’re welcome, baby,” Dominic murmured into Angel’s clean, floral-scented hair. Outside, the prison lights began to flicker for evening lock-in, casting long, shifting shadows across the cell. Inside, for a moment, the gray world held a tiny, sparkling crown, and a boy who, against all odds and reason, was safe, clean, and loved.