Handler!Simon with bunny!hybrid reader who no matter how much sex he gave you: whether it was his thick fingers knuckle deep inside your soaked cunt, pounding you into the mattress until you because a mess of incoherent words, or holding you down while he lapped at your pussy until you sobbed from overstimulation.
it was never enough. Not for a bunny like you.
Because without fail, you always ended up back in his lap, paws tugging at his shirt, giving him the same glassy eye stare that said: my problem is now your problem
The saying “fucking like rabbits” proving to be true. And Simon was starting to believe his cock might actually break at the rate you were going.
So, who else was he supposed to call? Other Johnny. A Wolf hybrid himself.
He didn’t even need convincing. Simon could practically hear the grin in his voice as he spoke: “Aye, mate, I’ll be there in ten”
And when Johnny finally showed up, he didn’t waste a single second. The moment his eyes landed on you, he pounced. You were just as eager, meeting his hunger with your own, and Simon sat back on the couch with an ice cold beer in hand, long legs kicked out as he prepared to watch.
If Kyle had been there, Simon was sure they’d both already be betting on who’d tire out first. Not a bad idea, maybe he’d call him next time.
For now, it was just you and Johnny.
And Christ, the wolf had stamina.
You went at it for hours, three, at least before you finally tried to curl up in Simon’s lap, body limp and spent, ears drooping. But Johnny wasn’t finished. With a wicked smirk, he pulled you back for round whatever you lost count, and then another after that.
By the time he was finally done, you were babbling nonsense, words spilling out in some made up language only you seemed to understand. Your body trembling with overstimulation, and Simon finally stepped in, scooping you up gently. He cleaned you up before tucking you into bed with a kiss to the forehead.
“Good lad” he muttered to Johnny on his way out. The wolf just smirked, looking like he could’ve gone for several more hours without breaking a sweat
And Simon got peaceful sleep that night, your body finally slack and nestled against his chest.
At least until next week.
Because when the hunger came back, it always did, Simon didn’t hesitate to call up Johnny.
IN WHICH… you needed a way to lessen your prison sentence and TF 141 needed an efficient hacker… as well as someone to spoil.
Notes: hacker! Reader, reader has a criminal background, reader has piercings, tattoos + tooth gems
A/N: first cod series finally lol… please like this post guys, I finished it right after I slipped while practising a taekwondo kick and body slammed into the tiled floor 😭.
—
The air inside your prison cell was muggy and overall unpleasant, causing beads of sweat to form on your forehead as you fanned your face.
The pathetic excuse for a window was not helping, letting only a small amount of oxygen enter the tiny room.
In all honesty, you weren’t treated as badly as other prisoners. A coworker of yours had pulled some strings the moment you were arrested, which meant you got better food and some perks.
But as always, life in jail still sucked.
You were too busy staring at the blank wall in front of you to notice the metal door keeping you locked up was now creaking open.
“Get up.” The warden harshly nudged your shoulder, barely giving you a moment to compose yourself. Your hands were yanked behind your back, the cool metal handcuffs digging painfully into your soft skin.
Your jaw clenched as you were dragged down the dimly lit hallway. You knew better than to ask questions as they would not be answered. All you could do was walk in the direction the warden shoved you in.
The breeze from the well-ventilated interrogation room was the first thing to hit you as you entered. You arched an eyebrow at the woman sitting at the table, her hands gracefully clasped together.
“And you are?” You didn’t recognise her as you slumped into the seat across from her, purposely sending the warden a biting glare.
“I’m Kate Laswell, a CIA operative.” She didn’t waste time before she spoke, leaning forward to catch your attention.
Your lip peeled back into a sneer, “The worst kind of people.”
She ignored your jab. “I’ve come here to give you an offer. You see, SAS is in need of a hacker and I’m told you’re the best fit for the job.” You watch as she opens a slim folder, spreading out the images for your careful gaze to study. They’re printouts of your exploits, files nobody was supposed to obtain. You had deleted your digital footprint after hacking databases, you were sure of it.
“You’re good. Too good to waste in a cell." You hear her softly sigh.
“I did what I did. The justice system isn’t so flattered by my ability to retrieve their sensitive information. Plus, I did murder someone… a few people, actually. So in all honesty, this isn’t an unfair punishment.” You leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, crossing one leg over the other.
“We are well aware of your long record.” Laswell sends you a pointed look. You merely grin, your canine teeth glinting in the light.
“Did you see my arson report?” Your lips spread into a grin, “Because that’s the best one. Set an ex-boyfriend’s car on fire and it just lit up. It was great. You should read it sometime.”
Laswell cleared her throat, reminding you of the situation at hand. “As I was saying, I can lift your jail sentence with a click of my fingers but only if you agree to work for me.”
“Thought I was working for SAS.” You interrupted.
“You’ll work for an elite team called Task Force 141… but you’ll answer to me. I give you the orders.”
“And the catch of this job?”
Laswell’s lips curve into a faint smile. “This is not a job offer, Miss L/N, it is a uniquely presented opportunity. You will get no pay for your services. The reward it reaps, however, is greater.”
You paused for a second. What could possibly be better than money?
“Freedom.” As if reading your mind, Laswell spoke again. “If you do this, you’ll be free before next year. This is possibly your only shot at freedom, do not throw it away. If you stay locked up here, you’ll only rot while the world keeps spinning.”
Now she had your attention. “You must be desperate if you wanna hire me.” A chuckle slipped past your lips but it was mainly to ease the awkward tension that had settled. “What would the job include?” You tilted your head, subtly shifting forward to hint your interest.
“You’ll be working alongside Task Force 141, giving them intel on possible threats and making their jobs easier by gaining access to classified information. I hear you don’t work well with other people but really, what choice do you have?”
Her words prodded at you and the teasing smile on her face aggravated you but she was right. You had no other choice.
The room was silent as you weighed out your choices. The walls seemed to close in on you, a stark difference to the freedom you were promised mere moments ago.
“So I risk my life for this so-called elite team… and in return I get some vague promises of freedom? Smells like bullshit. You lot will probably stab me in the back.” You scoffed.
“You’ve already painted a bright red target on your back. It’s only a matter of time before people realise you’re worth more dead than alive. With us, you’ll have protection. And a purpose.”
Laswell stood up, pushing her chair back with deliberate calmness. The legs scraped against the concrete floor as she did so. “Make no mistake, L/N, people like you don’t simply disappear. Someone will come for you… someone who wants your head on a stick.” Her words hung heavily in the air.
There was a flicker of fear in your eyes and like a feral predator, she ate it up.
“Okay.” You slowly murmured. She had convinced her with her carefully concealed threats. “I’ll do it.”
Laswell smirks. "Good. Pack your things. Your new team will be picking you up in an hour.”
—
The loud roar of the helicopter blades filled the air as you stepped onto the tarmac, shielding your eyes against the bright sun. You rubbed your aching wrists, clicking your tongue at the bruises the tight handcuffs had left.
A few soldiers are waiting for you into the chopper, their silhouettes barely visible through the dark tinted windows.
“Couldn’t just send a car?” You grumbled as you climbed into the helicopter. Laswell followed close behind, unbothered and seemingly used to such a commotion.
“Always for the theatrics, John.” She jokes with the man sitting across from her, eyes crinkling as she grins.
You glance at the man’s name tag, reading Captain John Price. He’s handsome… for a man his age. In a ruggish and rough sort of way. A cloud of smoke slips past his lips as he calmly puffs on a cigar, not at all caring how the chopper unsteadily tilts to the side.
“This the hacker? That pretty ‘lil lass over there?” A voice, thick with a Scottish accent, cuts through the silence. Your eyes dart to stare at the burly man with a Mohawk as he looks you up and down. “Thought the hacker was a bloke. Ain’t complainin’ though.”
You stiffen at the comment, running your tongue over your top row of teeth. It unintentionally gives him a view of your shiny tooth gems. “Thought you lot were an elite crew. Y’all don’t fact check?” You lean back into the cushioned seat. It’s surprisingly comfortable, much better than the stone-hard mattress back in your cell.
The Scot laughs, unbothered. “She’s got bite. I like ‘er. Name’s John McTavish but most call me Jonny. You can call me Soap if ya want.”
You sarcastically laugh. “Soap? What kind of muppet name is that? You had a reputation for eating soap as a kid?”
Soap’s eyes light up, not what you were expecting with your insult. “Ay! The cap’n said the same thing! Called me a muppet too!”
“You still are.” Someone chimes in from the front. You didn’t even realize there were two more people squeezed in to the seats in front of the controls.
The one in the passenger seat turns around, smiling. With his soft brown eyes and gentle features, you can’t help but find him pretty.
“Y/N L/N, right? Nice to meet you. I’m Kyle Garrick.” His voice has a slight British accent to it. “This is Ghost next to me.” He jabs a thumb at the man wearing a skull mask who’s doing a poor job at steering the helicopter.
“Ghost?” You question, “What sort of name is that?”
“Simon Riley.” Ghost grunts out. His British accent is somewhat aggressive, evident in every syllable he barks out.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. For some reason, he annoys you. It’s more like the way he’s looking at you through the eye-level mirror.
The chopper shakes again. You watch as Kyle grasps his seat, his grip so tight it almost cracks the delicate leather. “Sorry.” Simon gruffly replies.
You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. “What’s up with him?” You nod your head in Kyle’s direction.
“Fell out the bloody helicopter when Ghost was last flying.” Kyle replies. You almost laugh. It’s not something that should be amusing but your lips quirk into a small grin.
“So… does this whole arrangement cover my food and accommodation?” You question, suddenly aware of how hungry you are. Laswell slips out a small folder, handing it to you.
“Your accomodation will be one of our safe houses twenty minutes away from base. We considered having you live on the base itself but socialising isn’t part of your job. You’ll be living with the Task Force to ensure you don’t run. And all your costs will be covered. You will be given an allowance for your own expenses such as impulsive purchases.”
“Thought you said I got no money.”
“Once you have completed what is necessary, you will no longer have access to the allowance.” Laswell clarifies.
“And I walk free.”
Laswell nods, “Then you are free to go. If needed, CIA will pay to transfer you to another country so you can start anew. Most do not get second chances, L/N, so be careful.”
You lick your cracked lips, aimlessly playing with the hem of your oversized shirt. Maybe you could go to Europe; it had been a little dream of yours as a kid.
“Should go to Scotland, lass.” Jonny pipes up above the loud helicopter blades.
“London’s better.” Simon retorts, “Can actually understand what they’re saying.”
“What about Korea?” Kyle butts in.
“You aren’t even Korean.” Jonny argues back, lightly scoffing.
“Yeah, but I wanna go. Is that a crime, Soap?”
Their pointless bickering was comforting in a way. You had spent the last few years of your life locked away, isolated most of the time and alone. It was nice listening to people talk again.
Simon landed the helicopter with surprising grace, being the first to unbuckle his seatbelt and jump out. Kyle was next. Laswell unlocked the sliding door, stepping aside to allow you to slip past first.
You merely stared at her before muttering a tense thanks.
“Watch your step.” Kyle warned you as he held out a hand to steady you.
“It’s literally three feet. I can manage.” You snap back, effortlessly stepping out of the chopper. Jonny lightly chuckled while Kyle slowly withdrew.
“Feisty.” Kyle muttered.
You stared up at the safe house, tilting your head. “It’s… cute.” You hummed. It was a cottage, not the first thing you expected as a safe house.
“Were the pink roses your idea, Riley?” You joked, pointing at the pretty flowers.
He grunts, a sound you’ve suddenly become familiar with. “I prefer Ghost.” He corrects you.
You shrug. “Used to call inmates by their last name. Helped me ignore them when they tried hitting on me in the early years of prison.” You stepped forward onto the stone cobble path, admiring it.
“A small cottage… bet this is a military dream, huh?” You kicked a pebble.
“It is, actually.” Jonny pipes up, “It’s every man’s dream to retire in a cute little house with a pretty lass.”
You lightly scoffed, “I ain’t here to play work wife, McTavish. Can’t even cook.”
“Thank goodness we have Gaz then.” Jonny retorts, “Bloke should be a chef if this career doesn’t work out.”
You take a moment to study the house and its surroundings while the others file through the door. There’s a small white Pickett fence wrapped around the land, bright green blades of grass wrapping around the neatly painted wood.
The cottage is clearly old but well renovated. Rows of vines adorn the side, a surprisingly aesthetic sight. There’s a garden filled with sweetly smelling flowers and the same pink roses sitting at your feet are also perched on top of the porch.
The windows are the favourite aspect of yours. They decorate the stone walls, a sharp gothic detail to them.
It’s almost too pretty for a criminal like you.
“You comin’ in?” It’s Kyle who notices your absence, peeking his head past the doorway. For a moment, he thought you had made a run for it but he was relieved to find you standing among the garden.
You clear your throat, pulling at the bottom of your shirt. “Yeah.” You step onto the rickety porch, the wood creaking under your weight.
The interior of the house is so different from your tiny cell. Walking past the door almost feels like walking into an entirely new life.
Jonny is scavenging through the fridge, pulling out a tall bottle of beer. “Want some?” He offers it to you.
“I can’t drink, warden’s orders.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them.
“It’s just a beer, can’t hurt ya. ‘Sides, you ain’t in jail no more.” Jonny insists, shaking the bottle. It’s tempting but on instinct, you glance at Laswell.
She’s sitting beside Price, talking to him in a hushed tone and going over a file, presumably one containing details about you.
“I ain’t stopping you from drinking, kid.” Laswell says, feeling your stare on her face.
Hesitantly, you snatch the bottle from Jonny, popping the lid open with practised precision. You haven’t tasted beer, or any other alcohol for that matter, in a long time. You’ve never liked beer… but the first burning sip feels heavenly.
“You got any vodka?” You ask, glancing into the top cupboards.
“Do we look Russian? Nah, can barely drink that shit straight.” Jonny’s face scrunches up at the thought.
“Bourbon then.” Your words catch Simon’s attention.
Jonny grins as he reaches up, grasping a fancy-looking bottle. “Only other person here who likes bourbon is the LT. Guess he isn’t alone anymore.” He pours you a glass, handing it to you in exchange for your bottle of beer.
“Don’t understand how you lot can stand beer. Too bitter for my liking.” You mutter, pacing around the room.
You hear Simon quietly hum in agreement. “Finally someone smart.”
COD TAGLIST (comment to be added/removed): @jenepleurepasbaby @rm25711 @talia-the-gemini @margaaaa30 @mixplara @alex—awesome—22
John, Kyle, Simon and Johnny are absolutely obsessed with your belly bulge (especially when Simon fucks you).
Just imagine Simon fucking you like there's no tomorrow. He has you on your knees with your back glued to his chest, giving the other three men a nice view of the way his cock moves in and out of you. Johnny quickly moves onto his knees in front of you, latching his mouth onto your pelvis, sucking hickeys while feeling Simon move inside of you.
Butcher Simon who owns a meat store in the same building as your bakery store. (Literally a door over).
Butcher Simon who slowly starts to fall smitten over you whenever you come by and ask help pulling freight or those 50 pound flour bags.
Butcher Simon who comes to you with the idea of collaborating making lunch and dinner sandwiches, using your bread and his meats.
Cashier Johnny who constantly flirts with you whoever you pop in the morning.
Cashier Johnny who argues when Simon says he only hired him for his looks.
Cashier Johnny who gives you his employee discount, just don't tell Simon about there being an employee discount.
Cashier Johnny who plays the radio extra loud for Simon to hear the football game while he is in the cooler.
Farmer John who sells his meats to Simon.
Farmer John who also sells his eggs, dairy and other produce to you.
Farmer John who started growing squash, peppers and berries for your bakery and gets to try new items with his ingredients.
Farmer John who has a really bad sweet tooth and shyly buys the last lemon bar every morning.
Sheriff Kyle who comes every morning for your danishes
Sheriff Kyle who comes in every day before closing to buy a dinner sandwich
Sheriff Kyle who gives you his own personal phone number "just in case".
Sheriff Kyle who can be heard arguing with Johnny about meat prices every couple of months.
Sheriff Kyle who can be seen always on John's farm.
Small Town 141! Would be so protective over you.
Small Town 141! Always inviting you to the pub after work, even when they know you'll say no.
Small Town 141! Who always invites you to go hunting or hiking with them.
Small Town 141! Where they are always taking it upon themselves to fix something around your store. Glass needs repainting? Johnny is on it. Lights are out on the sign? Simon has replacements. Door doesn't lock? Kyle knows a guy who owes him a favor. Car broke? John can fix it.
Small Town 141! Who desperately want your affection.
It's Christmas and the feast is over. The kitchen is cleaned, the guests have left, everyone has gathered around the fireplace.
Simon is stretched out on the sofa, spreading over the whole length. It's still not his favourite holiday, but the memories of joy and peace replaced the feeling of dread he used to get around this time of the year.
Nestled to his side is Kyle, who somehow managed to fit just right into the gap. Head resting on Simon's broad chest, one hand curled into the ugly sweater. Not even moving when Simon moves his hand to his ass, pulling him a bit closer.
Simon's other hand lazily cards through Johnny's hair, who sits on the floor, eyes closed and almost purring from the scratches Simon gives him. so relaxed, he even stopped playing with his new fidget toy, not paying attention to the Christmas movie on the telly.
John just sits in his armchair, legs up, whisky and cigar on a small table next to him, reading a novel. When you climb onto his lap, his arms curl around you, arranging your position until he is satisfied. Then he goes back to his book, content to just have you there, slowly falling asleep.
i’ve been thinking of the nastiest shit that simon riley could do to relieve you from all that stress you’d be feeling. he needs to get some of his own tension out anyways, the past few weeks have left his balls heavy and aching from how badly he needs you.
trust him when he says he’s going to leave every part of you sore and aching for days because simon’s pierced tongue is all up in your tight ass with a wand pressed up to your cunt.
simon riley who leaves every fucking hole stuffed with his cum, your ass drooling from his latest orgasm and dripping into the slit of your puffy pussy. he’s fucking ruined at the sight of you, spit covered and tear streaked. his messy fucking girl.
oh, but he doesn’t stop there. he plans on leaving you wrecked by the end of the night.
so if simon is texting the 141 group chat a picture of you, ass up with cum dripping out of your cunt and a reddened ass, don’t worry about it!
he’s just asking for some help, ruining you for anyone else but him and his men.
Hiiii, I have a request! Can you do task force 141 and boot riding? Can be as mean Abe degrading as you want (((: thanks if you decide too, no worries if it ain’t your thing!!!
“go on then,” ghost murmurs, voice low beneath the rasp of his mask. he’s seated back in the armchair, legs spread, one thick boot planted firm between your legs.
“show them how you beg, sweetheart.”
you’re already grinding slow against the leather, soaked through your panties, hips trembling as you rut against the toe of his boot. the room smells like sweat and smoke—gaz’s lighter flicks on and off, soap’s fingers drum the table, and price is sipping a drink like you’re the only entertainment for the night.
you’d be more embarrassed if you weren’t so turned on. it was soap’s idea—said he saw some girl who looks just like you riding her boyfriend’s leather boot on twitter—said she was crying by the end of it. said he wanted to see you like that. you rolled your eyes, told him he was a perv—but here you are.
knees sore on the hardwood, panties shoved to the side, making a mess on simon’s boot while the others look on like it’s their favorite show.
“she’s takin’ it so well,” soap groans, voice thick with arousal. he’s palming himself through his jeans, eyes locked on where your cunt grinds against simon’s toe.
“must be fuckin’ ruined,” gaz mutters, flicking his lighter one more time before shoving it into his pocket. “look at the stain, mate. she’s soaking through.”
price hums lowly, glass tipping to his lips. “she gonna come like that?”
you whimper—because you might. because it’s so much—too much. their eyes, ghost’s firm boot, the weight of it all pressing down on you like sin.
“you gonna come for us, lovie?” price asks, voice calm and casual like he’s asking what’s for dinner. “gonna show us how pretty you look when you fall apart on a man’s fuckin’ boot?”
ghost leans in then, gloved hand gripping your hair tight enough to sting.
“c’mon then, pet,” he rasps. “be a good girl. let them see what you sound like when you come beggin’.”
The first night is quiet, warm, and weirdly domestic.
You’ve barely been there three hours and the place already smells like cedar, mugwort, and a hint of your lavender-chamomile oil mix. You put salt in the corners before your bags were even unpacked, drew little protection sigils in charcoal on the bottom of the soap dish, saged the living room like it was second nature. There's a diffuser humming with lavender and chamomile, and the record player’s already spinning something dark and dreamy. It's homey in a way that shouldn't make sense, not on base, not here. You move with the calm of someone who knows how to take up space without asking—and the house adjusts to you like it’s been waiting.
And Price—he’s just standing there. Watching. Arms crossed, back against the kitchen doorway. That same half-smirk he wears during debriefs, when the mission’s going sideways and he knows exactly how to fix it. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask. Just studies you like a blueprint he already committed to memory.
He knew you'd do this. You were the one he picked.
It wasn’t even a hard choice.
Kate had smacked the file down on the table, still warm from the printer. “This one’s new. Little witchy. Soft, smart. Total sweetheart. Like if Morticia Addams was Gen Z with nipple piercings.”
Price raised a brow, flipping it open.
“Combat support, certified in psych ops, trauma-informed, high praise from every commanding officer, no notes.”
Price had stared at your photo for a long minute. Braids, piercings, that tiny tilt of your smile like you knew something the camera didn’t.
He thought about his team—lethal, loyal, touch-starved.
He didn’t even blink. Just tapped the photo once and said, “That one.”
He didn’t say why. But he knew.
The team had been running cold. Burned out and stretched thin. They didn’t need another soldier.
They needed something else. Something warm. Gentle hands. Velvet rope. Sass and safety in equal measure.
They needed a hearth.
So now here you are. In the oversized TF141 base quarters, you’re in soft black shorts and an old band tee knotted at your waist, legs bare and golden under the overhead lights. Your pick-and-drop braids fall down your back, shifting with every step like they’ve got their own opinions. You’ve got a quiet little smile, but there’s confidence behind it—like you already clocked every exit and decided to stay anyway. Your piercings glint when you talk. And you’ve been talking, sweet and easy, filling up the rooms with sound.
Soap is the first to break.
Of course he is.
You’re bent over near the coffee table, putting down your little lavender-chamomile mix in the oil diffuser, with a calm little hum on your lips, and he’s watching like it’s the only thing on Earth that matters. He’s been good. Price made sure of that—laid down the rules in that tone no one argues with. “Let ‘em settle in. No jumping ‘em like dogs in heat.”
But Soap has never had patience. His thigh’s been bouncing all night. His mouth presses into a tight line every time you pass him in those damn shorts.
Finally, he leans one arm on the kitchen counter, trying to play it cool like he isn't hard under those cargo pants even though you can feel the tension roll off him.
"Y’know…” he starts, voice rough like gravel, “we’ve been real well-behaved. Considering how good you look in that lil top, Bunny.”
You don't even look up.
"You think that earns you a reward?"
The way he chokes?
Please.
Gaz is second. Less obvious than Soap, but sneakier.
He brings you tea before you ask for it, knows how you like it by day three. Touches your shoulder gently when he passes behind you. Sits so close on the couch you could tuck into his side without even moving.
When you talk music, he listens like you’re reading scriptures. He offers you his headphones. Notices the way your lip liner fades into gloss. Asks about your tattoos with soft curiosity, not hungry lust—but his eyes always drop to your mouth before he looks back up.
He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t try to lead.
Just…makes space. Opens doors. Let’s you step through.
He’s smoother, quieter, but he’s just as caught
Ghost is last.
Not because he doesn’t want you.
Because he does.
At first, he barely speaks. He watches you in the kitchen, watching the way you move while you sing under your breath, stirring a pot of soup like you’ve done it a hundred times. Siouxsie plays low on your phone. Your hips sway in rhythm with the music, your voice soft.
He leans in the doorway. Silent. A shadow with sharp edges and tired eyes.
Eventually, he kisses you. Soft. Quick. A little clumsy. Hesitant like he’s scared it’ll break something inside him. You blink, stunned, and he mutters, "Just…shut up. Don’t make it a thing." Then walks off like his heart wasn’t pounding loud enough to hear across the room.
But what really breaks him?
It's the couch.
You’re curled up in long flared leggings, scrolling through your playlist while Soap’s head rests lazily in your lap. Your fingers rake through his hair without even thinking. Ghost is nearby. Tense. Silent. Watching. Like he’s fighting something tooth and nail.
You meet his eyes.
Then pat your thigh.
No words. Just an offer.
He stares. Long enough you think maybe he’ll just walk away again.
But he moves and obeys.
Kneels. Slow. Controlled. He lays his head in your lap, mask still on and you start to rub his scalp through the fabric. Your nails drag just right and he exhales like you just freed him from gravity. Like all the tension in his body decided to leave at once.
Price watches from the doorway, and—for the first time in a long time—he smiles.
Because this?
This was his idea.
He knew what his boys needed.
Not just someone to warm their beds.
They needed softness. Sweetness. A bit of witchcraft and a whole lot of care.
