Chapter 6

Phayu's POV

I almost lost him tonight.

That thought won't leave me.

Even now—with him trembling in my arms, skin fevered, slick with sweat, lips parted around broken whimpers—it's all I can see. That moment. That fucking moment when the bullet sliced too close, when I thought the universe might take him from me. I would've burned the world down.

And he—my beautiful boy—he didn't even flinch.

Didn't cry. Didn't scream.

His voice was shaking. But not from fear.

From need.

Now his body's wrecked beneath mine. His hole stretched wide, swallowing every brutal thrust I give him. Just spit and sweat and his own arousal. His cock's soft now, spent and leaking, but his body still clenches around me like it doesn't want to let me go.

He's whispering, "Too much... too much..." between gasps, but I know my baby. I know his edges. I know how to push him right past them.

And fuck, he's perfect like this.

Whimpering.

Delirious.

Cock-drunk and pliant in my hands.

I wrap an arm around his waist and hold him still, rutting into his hole with deep, punishing thrusts, using the way he pulses around me to chase my own high. His head lolls forward, cheek pressed into the sheets, moaning without sound now too fucked out to form words.

His body gives me everything. All of him.

And I take it.

With a final thrust, I bury myself to the hilt, grinding into that sweet spot so deep he twitches violently. The heat coils tight in my spine, and then I'm roaring, loud and raw, as I come inside him—deep, hard, claiming him.

My cum floods him, thick and hot, and his body clenches around it like it belongs there.

He's mine. And no one's ever taking him from me.

I collapse on top of him, chest pressed to his back, still buried so deep it feels like our bodies are fused. My cock twitches inside him, still leaking, still hard—his hole milking me greedily like it doesn't know how to let go. He's shaking beneath me, limp and whimpering from the aftershocks, but I'm not done.

I told him.

I warned him.

All night.

He said he wanted it to hurt. Said he wanted to be used.

So I slide out slowly, savoring the slick drag of his walls clinging to me, cum dripping in thick ropes from his gaping hole. My breath's heavy as I stand and walk to the bedside drawer, cock bobbing between my thighs, still wet with his body.

He's still sprawled where I left him. Boneless. Spent. Face turned to the side, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his cheek.

When he hears the drawer open, his lashes flutter. And when his eyes land on the small black vibrator in my hand—his whole body stiffens.

"Phi..." he whispers, voice cracked and hoarse. "Phi, wait—"

I chuckle low, dark, stalking back to the bed like a predator. "Tapping out on me now, baby?" I croon as I kneel behind him. "I thought you wanted it to hurt?"

He whimpers, legs twitching.

I spread him open again. He's leaking so much of me I don't need lube. His hole is flushed and open, still twitching like it's begging for more.

The vibrator slides in with no resistance.

He gasps, arching weakly.

I push my cock in after it, driving the toy deeper with a brutal thrust. The sensation is obscene—his tight, hot body stretched around both, clenching and spasming like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

I fuck into him once.

Twice.

He groans, high and wrecked, nails scraping uselessly at the sheets.

Then I pull out and leave the vibrator buried inside him.

I flick the switch.

Low.

His body jerks like he's been shocked, whole form seizing with the intensity. His thighs tremble. His back arches. His mouth opens in a silent cry.

Then I switch it off.

He slumps.

Good.

I flip him over gently, like he's fragile even when I'm breaking him.

His face is a masterpiece—tear-streaked, spit-slick, dazed and flushed. I lean in and lick the salt from his cheeks, desperate for every taste. Then his lips—bruised, swollen—I suck them into my mouth, licking into him, fucking his mouth with my tongue just as filthy as I fuck his body.

He moans, soft and pliant, letting me devour him.

When I break the kiss, I trail down his chest, licking every inch of skin, every twitching muscle, down to his spent, aching cock. Still twitching. Still leaking.

I give it one long, slow lick from base to tip.

His whole body convulses.

And we're just getting started.

God, I love his pretty cock so much.

Even soft, even spent, it's beautiful—pink and flushed and leaking. My mouth waters just looking at it. He twitches, useless and wrecked, but I don't need him hard.

I just need him.

I suck him into my mouth, cheeks hollowing, savoring the taste of him, the way he squirms helplessly beneath me. His hips try to jerk but he can't hold the rhythm—he's too far gone. He whimpers more than he moans now, every sound cracked open, full of pleading. Overstimulated, trembling, legs weak. And still, I want more.

I suck his balls into my mouth, warm and heavy on my tongue, and reach down to press two fingers gently against his taint, massaging it until he's arching again, wrung out and needy. I feel him hardening in my mouth, slow but steady. He doesn't even know it—his body just responds to me. To my mouth, to my hands, to the way I worship him.

I give his cock one last kiss.

He sighs, ragged. He thinks it's over. That I'm done.

Even as his hips rock up, helpless, chasing my mouth again like he doesn't realize he's doing it.

I smile.

I go around to his head. His eyes follow me, glassy and wide, pupils blown so dark they swallow all the light. I lean down and kiss him again, deep and open, tongue curling with his. He tastes like me. Like sweat. Like us.

Then I kneel just behind his head, spreading my knees around his face.

He looks up at me. Eyes shining.

Like I'm his god.

I smile down at him, slow and indulgent, and tap my cock on his cheek—slick and hard, still flushed from fucking him raw.

"Open up, baby."

And he does. Weakly. Beautifully. Lips falling open like a prayer.

I slot my cock between them and groan as the heat of his mouth wraps around me, and then—I lean down, body folding over his, and take his cock into my throat again. Suck him deep while he sucks me from below.

His soft sounds vibrate around me. His body trembles.

And just like that—we're locked in this filthy, desperate loop of love and worship.

Using each other.

Feeding each other.

Belonging.

He moans around my cock—raw and fragile, like even breathing takes effort—and that's when I do it.

Still bent over him, his cock deep in my throat and mine buried in his mouth, I reach back between his legs and flick the switch on the vibrator buried inside him.

Click.

It hums to life.

Low.

Steady.

And he screams—the sound muffled by my cock stuffed down his throat, his whole body jolting so violently I nearly lose rhythm. His hips buck. His thighs quake. His cock throbs between my lips, jerking hard against my tongue as the vibrations ripple through his overstretched, soaked hole.

I groan around him, the taste of his arousal blooming hot and heavy on my tongue. His body is so fucking responsive. So mine.

He whimpers—half choke, half sob—trying to pull off my cock, but I hold him tightening my knees around him.

"No, baby," I growl, voice strained with hunger and heat. "You wanted it to hurt. So take it."

He makes a desperate noise in his throat.

And I swallow around his cock again, just as the vibrator pulses deep inside him.

His legs shake like they can't hold him together anymore. His hands claw weakly at the sheets, the back of my thighs, whatever he can reach. His body's stretched between us, used on both ends—his mouth stuffed, his hole buzzing and open and leaking with every twitch.

I pull back from his cock just long enough to hiss, "Come for me again."

And then I thrust back into his mouth, gentle now, feeding him the length of me while the toy inside him hums mercilessly.

His throat spasms around me.

And I feel it—his whole body clenching, shuddering, and then the heat of his orgasm spills onto my tongue again. No warning. Just pure surrender.

Even now—he gives it to me.

Every last drop.

I swallow him down, every last drop of his release, tongue dragging slow and reverent along his softening cock until he twitches and gasps, too wrecked to flinch. I clean him gently, licking up the mess from his thighs, from his base, from his trembling belly.

Then I crawl over him, my body casting a shadow over his limp, flushed frame. I slide my cock out of his mouth—slick, aching, hard again from how sweet and hot he felt around me—and he just stares up at me, eyes wide and pitiful. Ruined. Beautiful.

My perfect boy.

He can't speak. His lips are red and swollen. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, and his whole body twitches from lingering aftershocks. Still shaking from everything I've done to him. Everything he's taken for me.

I kneel by his head, and run my cock all over his face—his lips, his cheeks, his nose. I groan at the feel of his heat, the slide of skin, the wetness of his breath and tears and sweat.

"Fuck," I whisper, breath ragged. "You're so fucking pretty like this."

And then I push my cock back into his mouth.

Not deep. Just against the inside of his cheeks, stroking in and out, half thrusting.

His mouth is so hot. So soft. So willing.

He moans weakly, trying to breathe, his eyes fluttering, and then—he opens wider for me.

I groan deep in my chest and adjust his head, tilting it just right, and then I thrust—into his throat this time.

He gags once. Then relaxes. His throat opens for me like a promise, like home.

I grip his hair gently, thumb brushing against his damp forehead. My other hand runs down his chest, stroking over his collarbones, his ribs, the flutter of his stomach. Anywhere I can reach. I need to touch him. I'm obsessed. Madly, wholly, stupidly in love with him.

I want to be inside every hole he has.

His eyes flutter shut. He just takes it. Breathing around me. Letting me own him, fill him, use him like he was made for it.

I thrust slow at first. Then faster. Deeper. The drag of his throat around me, the soft click of saliva, the little moans he makes—they drive me to the edge.

I feel it building. The tension curling deep in my spine. The twitch in my cock. The heat in my gut.

I thrust harder, chasing it.

He moans again. And that's it. That's fucking it.

I yank out of his mouth, stroking fast, and I come hard—hot, thick ropes painting his face, his lips, his cheeks, his hair. Marking him.

My husband.

Mine.

He goes completely limp beneath me.

Eyes closed. Mouth open. Passed out from pleasure and exhaustion.

I stare at him.

Marked. Ruined. Glowing with sweat and come and love.

And I know—no matter how many times I fuck him, ruin him, worship him—I'll never get enough.

Phayu's POV:

After last night—after I ruined him, wrecked him—I carried his boneless body to the bathroom and bathed him myself. He couldn't even keep his eyes open, murmuring soft, fucked-out nonsense against my shoulder.

I cleaned his wound—the graze on his forearm—and stuck one of Kaia's animal band-aids over it. A ridiculous little panda sticker, but it made him smile in that dazed way I love. Didn't need stitches, obviously. Fucking amateurs couldn't aim.

The sheets were a mess, so I changed them. Carried him back to bed and tucked him in beside me. Watched him fall a sleep while I laid there wide awake, just watching his chest rise and fall.

Now it's past eleven and he's still dead to the world, lips red, flushed in places I shouldn't be thinking about if I want to let him rest. I know he's going to be sore when he wakes. I made sure of that.

I hear them, voices downstairs. The telltale crash of a dropped spoon. A muffled laugh. And then the pattering of little feet climbing the stairs fast.

Shit.

I shoot out of bed, grabbing the nearest sweatpants and sweatshirt, yanking them on as fast as I can without waking my husband. He's curled into the pillows, hair messy, arms still reaching for me in his sleep. I lean down, press a kiss to his temple, then slip out the door just as it opens

"Dada!"

Kaia. Full speed. Curls flying. Her tiny feet slap the top step and she's already reaching for me.

I crouch low, catch her before she can shout again or fling open the door.

"Shhh," I whisper, scooping her up. "Papa's still sleeping."

Her eyes go wide and she covers her mouth like it's a secret. "Oops. Did I wake him?"

"Almost," I murmur, brushing her curls away from her face. "But Dada's fast, remember?"

She grins, hooks her arms around my neck. "I missed you."

"Missed you too, baby." I hold her a little tighter. "Did you have fun with Papa Arm?"

She nods fiercely and presses her cheek to mine. "I had fun with Grandpa and Papa Arm. We made cupcakes and watched Cinderella. and Grandpa let me wear his glasses. I told them I had to come home today because you and Papa will miss me too much."

I chuckle softly "You're right. We were both crying every night, you know. Could barely sleep."

"Dada," she giggles. "You're so dramatic."

She learned that from her other parent.

I head downstairs with her still in my arms, her curls against my jaw. "Wanna help me make breakfast for Papa?"

"Yes, please! Can we make heart pancakes?"

"Anything you want, princess."

And just like that, my arms are full of my favorite little girl. The house is warm again. And upstairs, behind a closed door, my husband sleeps like he's safe. I'll always make sure of it.

I carry Kaia down the stairs, her arms still looped around my neck, warm and soft and humming some song under her breath.

Down in the kitchen, I spot P'Arm standing by the marble counter, his usual calm elegance in full display even this early. White shirt, tucked. Slacks, pressed. Hair perfect. He's sipping something—tea, probably—and chatting with P'Cherry, who has her arms crossed and is nodding with that knowing look she always gets when she's lowkey scolding me without saying a word.

P'Cherry—Kaia's nanny, and also the head of the house staff. She volunteered to double as a nanny when we first brought Kaia home, said she'd raised enough children in her lifetime to know what she was doing.

We thought it might be too much—balancing her usual role and now Kaia too—but she waved us off with a smirk, said she had an army of maids to handle the house, and besides, Rain's the one who's always two steps ahead when it comes to Kaia anyway.

"Papa" I nod, shifting Kaia to my other side. "We should've picked her up, I know. I meant to."

He turns with a smile, eyes immediately softening when they land on the little girl in my arms. "No need to explain. You sent a message."

He holds out his arms and Kaia wiggles, so I let her down, and she rushes to him, wrapping around his leg.

I exhale and glance toward P'Cherry, who shrugs like she already knew what kind of night we had. I texted papa last night. Sent him a vague "Kaia okay to come with you tomorrow?" at 3 a.m. and he didn't even ask questions. Papa's too used to us.

"I appreciate you bringing her," I say, facing Arm again.

"She was missing you both," he says, setting his cup down gently. "But she understood. She told me not to worry, that her papa and dada needed couple time."

I huff out a laugh. "She's too smart."

"She gets it from Rain," P'Cherry mutters, folding her arms, but she's smiling too.

I set Kaia down on the stool by the counter, brushing a kiss to her forehead as she reaches for the fruit bowl. "She sleep okay?"

"Out like a light," Arm answers. "Woke up this morning demanding to do my skincare routine. Put glitter on my brows."

I snort. "Sounds about right."

"She's happy to be home," he says, softer now.

"Yeah," I murmur, watching Kaia. "So am I."

Kaia's back by my side now, reaching up for my hand like she didn't just run off. I lift her onto the stool and grab a banana to peel for her.

"I can take her again tonight if you need," P'Arm offers lightly. "Though I suspect you two might want your daughter right where she is today."

I nod, firm. "She's staying with us. I just... didn't want her walking in on anything. Rain's still out."

He smirks into his cup. "I imagine he is."

I shake my head, already moving to crack eggs into a bowl. "Breakfast?"

Kaia cheers. "Heart pancakes!"

"Heart pancakes it is."

Just then, I hear soft steps behind me—slow, measured, and familiar.

Rain.

I turn and see him gingerly making his way down the stairs in one of his long robes, the white silk brushing his legs, his hair still tousled from sleep. His eyes are puffy, lips red, skin flushed faintly. He looks ruined and regal. And so fucking beautiful.

But before I can warn her, Kaia sees him and launches off the stool.

"Papa!"

"Kaia—" I start, but she's too fast. Too excited.

Rain doesn't even hesitate. He doesn't try to stop her or brace himself. He just drops to his knees halfway down the stairs and opens his arms wide, catching her in a soft, tight hug.

I see the wince he tries to hide, the brief clench of his jaw, and I know he's hurting, still sore from everything I did to him last night. But he buries his face into her curls anyway and holds her like nothing else matters.

She pulls back, grinning, and then her eyes catch something.

His robe has slipped off one shoulder, baring the pale skin of his arm—and the cartoon-patterned band-aid stuck just below it. One of Kaia's, because I thought it would make him smile last night after I cleaned the graze.

"Papa got a booboo?" she gasps.

Rain blinks, caught off guard.

I watch as he plasters on a soft smile and says, "Just a little one."

Her little hands reach for it immediately. "Does it hurt? Did dada kiss it better?"

Rain laughs, quiet and breathy. "He cleaned it and gave me your sticker. That's why it feels all better now."

She beams like she just healed him with her magic. And maybe she did, in a way.

"Next time you get a booboo," she says seriously, patting his cheek, "you have to tell me first. I'll do it better than dada."

Rain raises his brows, grinning at me over her head. "Oh really?"

"Yes," she declares with all the authority of a five-year-old who rules our hearts. "Because I'm your boss."

I cross my arms and smirk. "I thought I was your boss."

Kaia turns, still in Rain's arms. "You're papa's boyfriend. You just help."

Rain nearly chokes on a laugh, and I can't even argue.

Touché, princess.

P'Cherry swoops in, sensing the tension in Rain's joints and the way I hover too close. She distracts Kaia with promises of waffles and her sketchpad, pulling her toward the kitchen with practiced ease.

Kaia gives us both kisses before she goes, whispering something about "rest well" that makes Rain smile faintly, eyes still tired but soft.

As soon as they're out of earshot, I circle Rain's waist and guide him to the nearest chair. He doesn't protest, just lets me lower him gently. I crouch beside him, making sure he's comfortable, brushing the robe back over his shoulder so he's not exposed.

P'Arm watches us, arms crossed, looking every bit the unbothered angel he pretends to be, except for the glint in his eye that says he's already put two and two together.

Rain clears his throat. "Hi, Papa," he says, trying for casual. "We got shot at yesterday."

Arm lifts a single, perfectly plucked brow. "They shoot your legs?"

Rain flushes so fast it creeps down to his chest. I choke violently on my coffee and have to cover my mouth to keep from sputtering it all over the floor.

"No!" Rain blurts. "That's—no! I—Phi just—he was just—"

"I was just making sure he was okay," I cut in smoothly, setting my mug down and glaring at Arm who looks far too amused now.

"Mm," Arm hums, clearly unconvinced, clearly entertained. "I'm sure he's very okay now. And sore."

Rain groans and hides behind his hands.

I press a kiss to his temple, chuckling. "He's fine. I took very good care of him."

"You always do," Arm mutters, shaking his head. "Try not to kill each other next time. I'm too pretty to raise a child full time."

Rain wheezes.

I laugh.

And somehow, with all the madness behind us and sarcasm in the air, everything feels... exactly right.

...

Sunday flows like warm syrup, slow and easy.

Rain and Kaia are curled up on the couch, a blanket over their legs, sharing popcorn and watching some animated princess movie Kaia's probably seen a hundred times. Rain's got his head tilted against hers, one arm around her, his face soft with that private kind of joy he only gets around her.

Every few minutes she squeals and narrates the plot to him even though he's sitting right there.

I'm nearby, seated at the dining table with my laptop open, answering reports and reviewing blueprints from the resort project in Krabi. Half of my brain is focused on a security document, the other half tuned to their soft voices.

Then the door opens.

The second it does, Kaia's head snaps up. She knows those footsteps. I barely register the call of "Yu?" from the foyer before Kaia shrieks.

"Fah-fah! Uncle Win!"

She launches off the couch like a missile.

I look up just in time to see Saifah catch her mid-air with a laugh, spinning her around.

Win's right behind him, already grinning, arms wide for his turn at a hug. Rain's standing now, barefoot and smiling, adjusting the sleeves of his oversized white shirt. I can see the relief on his face too—he likes when the people we love are close.

I close the laptop.

"Didn't even text first," I say, standing. "What if we were busy?"

Saifah smirks, still holding Kaia who is now chattering at lightning speed about the movie, the waffles she had this morning, and the sparkly nail polish on her toes. "Busy? On a Sunday?"

Rain crosses to me, brushing a hand down my back, amused. "You mean like yesterday?" he murmurs, voice low. Only I can hear the tease. I glare at him, half-smiling.

Win snorts. "Looks like we came just in time to save your poor daughter from hearing too much."

"Too late!" Kaia yells. "Papa and Dada always kiss a lot!"

Saifah groans and covers her ears. "We're gonna need to debrief her."

Rain laughs.

I shake my head and pull them all in. "Come on"

Kaia's clinging to Saifah's leg, looking up at him with her big, unblinking eyes. "Where did you go, Fah-fah? You didn't tell me. You promised."

He scratches the back of his neck, giving me a look like help, but I just raise a brow and sip my coffee.

"I had to work," he says, crouching to meet her gaze.

"What kind of work?" she presses, clearly not buying it. "Papa says work is boring, but you look like you did something fun."

Saifah chuckles nervously. "It wasn't fun, promise."

"And you didn't even bring me a new knife," she accuses, folding her arms.

Win chokes on his water.

Rain swoops in quickly, brushing his hands down her back. "Baby, you already have too many knives."

"But I want one with a pink handle," she insists, turning to Win now with a serious face. "Uncle Win, I've been very good. You owe me. And I want one for Rocky too"

Saifah freezes. "Who's Rocky?"

Kaia grins, innocent and lethal. "My boyfriend."

Win groans immediately. "Not this again."

I shoot him a look, but it's too late—Saifah's already turning toward me, then to Rain, like he's looking for confirmation that this isn't real life.

Rain raises his brows and shrugs like don't look at me.

Saifah's entire body goes still.

"Your what?" he says, voice clipped, turning slowly like he's making sure he heard right.

Kaia doesn't flinch, just tilts her head proudly. "My boyfriend. He gave me one of his dinosaur stickers and said I'm pretty, so now we're in love."

I bite back a laugh. Win doesn't bother. He's wheezing into his sleeve.

Saifah stares at her like she just declared war. "How old is this Rocky?"

"Five Fah-Fah," she chirps, sweetly, "but he acts six."

"That's it," Saifah mutters, already pulling out his phone. "I'm doing a background check."

"On a five-year-old?" Rain asks.

Saifah snaps. "I'm not losing her to a dino-sticker-wielding casanova named Rocky."

Saifah narrows his eyes. "I leave town for two weeks and come back to find my niece dating?"

"He's five," Win says, like that explains the whole absurdity of the situation.

"And he gave me his favorite sticker," Kaia adds proudly. "It was a brontosaurus. That means we're in love now."

"No, it doesn't," I say flatly.

"Absolutely not," Win agrees. "You're not allowed to have a boyfriend."

"But Rocky said—"

"I don't care what Rocky said," I cut in.

Kaia crosses her arms. "He said he wants to come over and meet my family."

Saifah looks horrified. "He what?"

Win sighs. "I need to have a talk with this Rocky"

Rain, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You guys—they're five. Five."

Win doesn't blink. "She's not allowed a boyfriend until she's fifty."

"I agree," I say, already unlocking my phone. "And we're changing her school."

Kaia gasps. "You can't! Rocky will miss me!"

"That's the point," Win mutters.

Rain pats Kaia's head. "Let's focus on being five for a while, yeah? No boyfriends. Just stickers."

Kaia pouts. "I don't get to do anything fun."

"Fun is enough in this family," I say.

She scowls and mutters, "That's why I'm marrying Rocky."

And all three of us say, in unison: "No, you're not."

Kaia scowls nd moves on like a whiplash, hopping from one foot to another. "Can I have my presents now, Fah-fah?"

"I'll give them to you later, okay?" Saifah says gently, smoothing her curls. "You go with Papa for now."

Rain picks her up with a soft hum, eyes on me. I nod. He knows the tone of the room's changed.

"I'll put something on for her upstairs," he says, and disappears down the hall with Kaia's arms looped around his neck.

I don't say anything until I shut the office door behind us.

Then I face them both. "Tell me everything."

Win nods grimly. Saifah rolls up his sleeves.

Time to get to work.

...

Saifah takes the chair across from me, lounging. My twin in every way but temperament. Win stands, arms crossed, always ready, always alert.

"Update," I say, low and sharp.

Saifah shrugs off the travel fatigue like it's nothing. "The northern faction heads are holding for now. No movements against us. But they're watching. Always are."

"Let them watch," I mutter. "They'll blink first."

Then I turn to Win. "And the bastards from last night?"

Win's jaw tightens. "Colluded effort. Sector 14 and 7. Retaliation for the meeting."

"For killing their leaders," I correct.

He nods once. "They weren't happy about the replacements you announced either. Some lieutenants from the old regime wanted to stake their own claims."

Saifah leans forward, humor gone from his face. "Idiots."

"Desperate," I say. "And stupid. Because now they've declared war."

"They declared something," Win says grimly. "But war with you? That's just suicide."

I nod once—sharp, final. "Clean shop. Every rat that backed them, every one of their men who so much as hesitated when we walked into that meeting—I want them gone. Quiet or loud, I don't care. Loop Rain in. Double-check Kaia's routes and drivers, change them if we need to. I want her untouchable."

Win's already texting. Saifah cracks his neck like he's just been gifted a holiday.

Then he leans back, smirking. "Right. All that handled. Now, what the fuck are we doing about Rocky?"

I blink.

Win groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Saifah continues, deadpan. "I mean, I don't want to be the one to say it, but the enemy may have infiltrated the family already. And his name is Rocky."

"They're five," I mutter.

"They're bold," Win counters. "He called her cupcake and tried to kiss her hand. At school. In front of people."

Saifah mutters, "Little shit's got more game than I ever did."

I glare at both of them. "If we murder a toddler, Rain's going to kill all of us."

"I didn't say murder," Saifah says, grinning. "But maybe some psychological warfare. You know. Subtle."

Win nods solemnly. "We show up at school. Full suits. Let him see where she comes from."

I sigh, because I'm seriously considering it. "Let's just keep an eye on the situation."

Saifah chuckles. "Oh, we are. Operation Break-Up is already in motion."

Their faces change the second the words leave my mouth.

I don't even need to say much—just, "Kaia. Thursday. After school." That's all it takes for Win and Saifah to straighten up like trained hounds sensing blood.

"She told me some boys at school were mean to her," I say, voice steady, though the memory still twists something in my gut. "Told her that having two dads is weird. That their dads said so."

Win stiffens first, the vein in his temple pulsing. Saifah's grin fades, jaw tightening, gold ring glinting as he clenches his fist.

"You're serious?" Saifah asks, low and sharp.

I go on, "She was quiet about it at first. Said she didn't care. But she's five. Of course she cares."

"Who are they?" Win asks. No preamble.

I give them the names. The boys'. The fathers'. What little info we've scraped up.

Saifah's voice drops an octave. "And you're sure it came from their fathers?"

"Yes. Kaia said it exactly like that—'their dads said it's weird I have two dads.'"

Win's already pulling his phone out. "They're getting ruined."

"I want them to hurt," I say, looking each of them dead in the eye. "Not physically. Yet. I want them paranoid. Broke. Alone. I want them to beg their kids to apologize to mine."

"You want humiliation," Saifah murmurs, nodding. "Public. Professional. Private."

"Yes."

Win pockets his phone. "We'll dig into every crack they have. We'll make them regret the breath they used to poison their children."

"She's five," I say quietly. "And they made her feel wrong for something that's everything right in her life"

I lean back in my chair, just a little. "Kaia didn't cry. But she clung to us. That's all I needed to see."

"She won't ever hear those words again," Saifah promises. "Not without consequences that echo for a decade."

I knew they'd react like this. That's why I told them.

Because they're not just her godfathers. They're her avengers.

RAIN'S POV

The rest of the week goes by fine... until Wednesday.

Kaia told me on Monday the mean boys apologized to her and transferred schools. I'd hoped that would be the end of it. She'd been herself for a while—bright, affectionate, talking my ear off about nothing and everything. But by Tuesday, she'd started acting... off.

And today?

Today I know something is wrong.

I show up at her school like always, right before the final bell, and she walks toward me slowly. No bounce in her step. No excited wave. Just dragging her little feet, her backpack too big on her tiny frame.

She doesn't say anything when she reaches me. Just hugs my waist and leans her head against me.

I kneel. "Kaia? Baby? What's wrong?"

She shrugs. "I'm tired, Papa."

She's been saying that all week, but today it cuts deeper. There's no spark in her eyes. She's not asking about snacks or if Dada is home or if we can stop by the park. She doesn't even ask to play her music in the car. She just climbs into her seat and stares out the window like she's underwater.

I watch her in the rearview mirror the whole ride.

Silent.

Too silent.

I reach back at a red light and squeeze her knee gently. "Baby, are you sure you're okay?"

"Mmhm," she hums, thumb pressed to her bottom lip. A habit I thought she'd outgrown years ago. "Just sleepy."

But I can tell she's lying.

It's the same answer every day since Monday. I'd brushed it off at first. Thought maybe school was just intense this week. Maybe she wasn't sleeping well. But she hasn't come into our room once. No morning snuggles. No bouncing on our bed. No dragging her blanket in like a sleepy kitten to wedge herself between us and steal Phi's body heat.

Just... quiet.

And that's not like her.

Not our daughter who runs on pure sunshine and chaos.

I glance at her again. Her eyes are fluttering closed. It's barely 4PM.

Something's wrong.

At home, I unbuckle her and carry her inside even though she protests weakly that she can walk. She's heavier than usual—not physically, just the weight of whatever she's carrying. I settle her on the couch and she curls into a throw pillow, silent still.

I check her forehead. No fever. Skin warm but not worrying. I brush her curls from her face and whisper, "Baby, did anything else happen today?"

She shakes her head, barely awake. "No, Papa. I promise. I'm just tired."

But her voice trembles at the end. And I know my daughter.

She's not telling me everything.

Because this isn't normal tired. This is soul-deep.

I call Phi. No matter how busy he is, he always picks up for us.

"She's not herself," I tell him, not bothering with a hello. "I think something's going on."

His voice hardens instantly. "I'll be home in twenty."

And I don't even tell him not to speed.

He already knows.

Because the last time she acted like this, it was after someone hurt her. And I swear to every star in the sky, if someone laid a finger on her—emotionally, physically, anything—I will ruin them.

My phone buzzes again Hold her till I get home. We'll fix this.

I already am. I've got her wrapped in a blanket, curled into my chest, breathing soft and steady.

But even with her here, warm and safe in my arms—I've never felt more helpless.