Chapter twelve
Holly
Morning came soft and quiet. I was warm. Wrapped in strong arms and heavy blankets, pressed against a heartbeat that didn’t scare me. For a long time I just lay there, breathing him in all soap, pine, a faint trace of sawdust. It smelled like safety.
Blake shifted behind me, his chest rising against my back. “You awake, sweetheart?”
His voice was low and rough from sleep.
“Mmhmm,” I whispered.
“Good.” His arm tightened once, like a quiet reassurance, before he let go. “You hungry?”
I nodded against the pillow.
He sat up, raking a hand through his hair. The morning light caught the scars on his knuckles and the hint of stubble on his jaw. He looked tired, but steady as if nothing could touch him.
“Pancakes or eggs?” he asked.
I blinked. “You cook?”
He smiled faintly. “Badly. But I’ve got coffee and fruit until I ruin the rest.”
I laughed and followed him to the kitchen. I could cook, but something in me wanted to watch. Biscuit trotted at my heels, nails tapping on the tile.
Breakfast was messy but perfect. Blake poured batter too thick, burned the first pancake, and swore under his breath. Then he made a new batch, one eye on me the whole time like I might vanish if he looked away too long.
He brought me a plate before he even made his own, with syrup poured just the way I liked it. He didn’t ask so I assumed he’d just guessed.
“You don’t have to do all this,” I said, my voice small even to my own ears.
He looked up from the skillet. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I do.”
It was said with such quiet certainty that I didn’t know what to do with it.
We ate together at the counter, sunlight creeping across the table. He asked if I’d slept okay. If the room was warm enough. If Biscuit snored too loud. Every question was gentle, practical, but none of them were the ones that mattered.
Not the ones I was too scared to ask.
He hadn’t kissed me. He’d held me, and sure he told me he didn’t want anyone else doing it, but no kiss. No touch that said want. Only care. Only safety.
Maybe that was all he wanted me to be. Someone to protect. Someone to fix. Not a woman. Not someone he could want.
When the doorbell rang, Biscuit jumped up barking, and Blake went to answer it. The cold air came in with him and a delivery man carrying two boxes marked Fragile.
“Guess that’s the order I forgot about,” Blake said, signing for them.
I tilted my head. “What order?”
He carried them inside, set them on the floor, and opened the first one. Inside were lots of toys. A dollhouse. A stuffed bear. Building blocks.
My breath caught. “Blake, what is all this?”
He smiled, that same gentle, practical smile. “You liked the old ones you found in the closet. I thought you should have your own. New ones.”
My chest squeezed tight. I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh.
“They’re for you,” he said, crouching beside the box. “Thought they might help you feel settled.”
I stared at the toys, at the neat plastic packages, the tiny pastel furniture. They looked just like the ones I’d lost years ago, the ones my mother had thrown out with Banjo.
It was like he knew when it was impossible. And somehow, that made it worse. He didn’t want me, not all of me. Yes he wanted the part I’d always struggled to keep hidden, but that was because he wanted to heal me. Protect me. Keep me soft and small and safe in the way someone cares for a child who’s been hurt.
He didn’t see all of me, or if he did he didn’t want that part.
I forced a smile, hoping it looked real. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
He searched my face for a moment, like he was trying to read something there, then nodded. “We’ll set them up later, if you want.”
“Sure.” My voice was too thin.
He went back to cleaning up breakfast, humming low under his breath. I sat perfectly still, hands folded in my lap, trying not to let the tears fall.
I should’ve been grateful. And I was. He’d saved me. Fed me. Kept me safe.
But some small, foolish part of me wanted more. I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at the world when he was building something, not fixing something broken. Wanted to be something he reached for, not someone he had to take care of.
When he turned around, smiling faintly like he didn’t know I was breaking inside, I smiled back. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Just another version of being brave.
By late morning the smell of coffee and syrup had faded, and the house had gone still again. Blake had gone out to the workshop out the back. Biscuit had fallen asleep by the fire.
I sat cross-legged on the rug surrounded by the toys he’d bought, trying to decide if I should open the dollhouse box or just hide it back in the closet. The tiny windows and pastel shutters were perfect, but every time I looked at them, I couldn’t tell if I felt loved or simply placated.
The knock on the door startled me so hard I dropped a little wooden chair. Biscuit barked once, sharp, before trotting toward the entryway.
Blake’s boots thudded against the floorboards as he came in from outside. He opened the door only halfway at first. Two people stood on the porch, a man and a woman in plain clothes but with the quiet, professional look that said law enforcement.
“Mr. Weston?” the man asked, flipping open a badge. “Detective Samuels, Bar Harbor. This is Detective Alvarez. We need to speak with Miss Holly Turner.”
The sound of my last name hit like cold water. My throat closed.
Blake shifted instantly, his body half in front of me. “About what?”
Alvarez’s tone was gentle. “It’s all right, ma’am. You’re not in any trouble. We just thought you deserved to hear what’s happened.”
I took a small step forward, clutching Banjo against my chest. “What’s happened?”
Samuels cleared his throat. “Can we come in?”
Blake opened the door and closed it behind them. Samuels didn’t waste any time. “Early this morning, the state financial crimes unit executed a warrant on Clearwater Insurance. Your parents, George and Marianne Turner, and Vincent Hale were arrested.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Arrested?” I repeated, the word foreign on my tongue.
“For wire fraud, money laundering, and insurance manipulation on a large scale,” Alvarez said. “There’s also evidence of identity misuse and forged documents. Including several where your name was used when you couldn’t give consent as a minor. Mr. Gerald O’Keefe, a lawyer, has confirmed those signatures were used illegally.”
My knees felt weak. Blake’s hand brushed my back—just enough to steady me without drawing attention.
“They used my name,” I whispered.
Alvarez nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The signatures were digital copies. Our forensics team matched the original samples and confirmed they were falsified, and that with Mr. O’Keefe’s statement confirms it.”
Samuels added, “Mr. Hale was picked up at Bangor International, trying to board a private jet. Your parents were still at their residence packing documents when the warrant team arrived.”
Blake let out a quiet, rough breath beside me. I could feel the tension rolling off him — relief and anger twisted together.
“They’re going to prison?” I asked softly.
Alvarez gave me a look that was equal parts sympathy and honesty. “They’ll be arraigned within forty-eight hours. It’s a complex case, but with the evidence we have, yes they’ll face serious time.”
For a long moment I couldn’t speak. The fire crackled. Biscuit whined softly and nudged my leg.
“I thought they’d get away with it,” I finally said.
Blake’s voice came from beside me, steady and low. “Not this time.”
Samuels nodded toward him. “You did the right thing getting her clear of that house, Mr. Weston. I can’t comment on how you got the intel, but it helped ensure her safety.”
Blake only said, “She didn’t belong in that mess.”
The detectives exchanged a brief look. Alvarez handed me a card. “If you need updates or a victims’ advocate, call this number. You need to get your own lawyer as I have no idea what assets or finance will be left. There’ll probably be a court statement at some point, but you’ll be protected. And, Miss Turner, you’re free to stay wherever you feel safe.”
Free.
The word didn’t fit at first. It just hovered there, too big, too bright. I nodded and took the card with shaking fingers. “Thank you.”
“She’ll be here,” Blake rumbled with decision. When the door closed behind them, I just stood there staring at the toys still open on the rug, the pastel house, the tiny figures, unable to comprehend everything.
Blake turned toward me, his expression unreadable, jaw tight. “Are you okay?”
I nodded automatically, but my throat burned. “I don’t know. I should feel happy, right?”
He stepped closer, brushed a piece of hair from my face. “You will. When it sinks in.”
“They’re really gone?”
“They’re gone,” he said. “They can’t hurt you again.”
The detectives had barely driven away when the house went too quiet. I could tell by the way Blake watched me that he thought I was going to break.
And maybe I was.
My parents. Arrested. Vincent. Caught. My name, forged. My whole life a fraud I hadn’t even known I was living in. It should’ve been a relief. Instead, it felt like being hollowed out from the inside.
“They really did it,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” Blake said softly. “It’s over now.”
I took a step back, then another. “All I ever wanted was for them to love me,” I said. “Just once. Just enough to make it real.”
“Holly—”
“They never did,” I snapped, my voice cracking. “And I was so stupid, thinking maybe if I tried hard enough, they’d see me. But they didn’t. I wasn’t a daughter, I was a signature. A tool.”
My breath hitched. I swiped angrily at my cheeks. “And now? Now they’re gone, and I’m supposed to feel free, but I just feel—” I gestured wildly at the dollhouse and the stuffed animals still in their boxes. “Pathetic. Like some broken little girl who doesn’t know how to be normal.”
Blake took a careful step forward, but I kept talking, words spilling too fast. “You keep buying me things like these, and it just makes me feel worse! Like I’m some project for you to fix. Like I’m not even a woman to you, just someone you pity.”
The silence that followed was awful. My heart thudded in my ears.
Blake didn’t yell. He didn’t even look angry. He just exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to find the right words. Finally, he said quietly, “You think I pity you?”
I looked away. “Don’t you?”
He crossed the space between us in two slow steps, stopping just close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him. “No, Holly,” he said, voice low and steady. “I don’t pity you. I see you.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to so badly it hurt. But my voice came out small and bitter. “Then why the toys? Why treat me like a kid?”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Because I want you to have things that make you happy. That doesn’t make you a child. Allowing yourself that is going to take a lot of courage.”
I blinked up at him, confused.
Blake took a breath, bracing himself like a man about to reveal a secret. “I should’ve told you sooner. I think I’m what they call a Daddy or a Daddy Dom, but I’ve never been to a club.”
I froze. “A… what?”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but softer than I’d ever seen him. “It’s not what you think. It’s not about age. It’s about taking care of someone who needs gentleness, structure, safety. Some people call the other side of that a Little, someone who feels small sometimes, who finds peace in being looked after.”
My face went hot. “You think I’m—”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that you’re someone who’s spent her whole life trying to be perfect so no one would hurt her. Someone who was told growing up that softness was weakness. And someone who finally feels safe enough to let herself be small, to play, to laugh, to cry without being punished for it.”
I swallowed hard. “You make it sound like it’s a good thing.”
His gaze softened. “It is a good thing. Littles aren’t broken. They’re brave enough to show the parts of themselves the rest of the world hides.”
The words hit somewhere deep in my chest. “But I’m not normal.”
He shook his head. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
My breath stuttered. “Perfect?”
“Yeah.” His voice dropped, gentle but sure. “Messy. Angry. Scared. Sweet. All of it. You don’t have to hide any of it from me.”
Something inside me broke, but not pain this time, but a strange, aching relief.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I whispered.
“That’s all right,” he said, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “That’s what I’m here for. To help you figure it out. At your pace. No rules. No pretending.”
I didn’t mean to start crying again. It came out in shudders—ugly, raw, too big for my chest.
Blake just held me, his hand moving slowly up and down my back, not saying anything. The warmth of him should’ve been comforting, but it hurt too. Because every word he’d said was so kind, so gentle and not at all what I wanted.
When I finally found my voice, it came out broken. “I don’t want to be your Little.”
He froze. His hand stopped mid-motion.
I pulled back enough to look at him through my tears. “I don’t. I can’t.” My voice cracked on the last word. “You keep talking about taking care of me like I’m something fragile, and maybe I am, but I don’t want that with you.”
His brows drew together, not angry, but confused, careful. “Holly—”
“I want you to want me,” I blurted out. “Like a woman. Like you wanted Amanda.”
The silence that followed burned.
His jaw flexed. “Amanda,” he said quietly, like the name tasted bitter.
I swallowed hard, words tumbling too fast now to stop. “She was beautiful. Perfect. Confident. The kind of woman you take to dinner, not hide away in your house. When she came here, she looked at me like I was some broken charity case. And she’s right, isn’t she? I’m not what you want.”
“Holly—”
“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “You don’t have to lie. You don’t have to make me feel better. I know what I look like. What I am. You save things. You fix them. You don’t need to keep them.”
He stared at me, and I could see the war in his eyes, the guilt, anger, hurt, everything at once.
I covered my face with my hands and sobbed harder. “I don’t want to be your project, Blake. I don’t want to be this scared, weak girl who needs toys and rules. I just want you to see me.”
He reached for me then, slow and deliberate, and gently pulled my hands away from my face. “Look at me,” he said, his voice low, rough with something I couldn’t name.
When I finally did, his eyes were dark, steady, and far too kind.
“You think I don’t see you?” he said. “I see everything, Holly. Every scar, every fight you’ve had with yourself just to keep standing. You think that makes you small? It doesn’t. It makes you the bravest damn person I’ve ever met.”
My lip trembled, but I couldn’t speak.
He cupped my face with both hands, thumb brushing away tears I hadn’t realized were still falling. “Amanda was easy,” he said finally. “She didn’t need me for anything real. You—” he swallowed, hard “—you scare me, because you make me want again. And I haven’t wanted in a long time.”
My breath caught.
He sighed, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. “But I can’t rush you. You’ve been hurt too much to know what you’re ready for. So yeah, I’ll take care of you. Not because I see you as a child, but because I can’t stand to see you hurt. You get that?”
I nodded, trembling.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because when you tell me you’re ready—really ready—I won’t treat you like a project, Holly. I’ll treat you like the woman who walked into my life and turned it upside down.”
And even though I was so confused, something deep inside me unclenched, maybe a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding since the night he’d found me.
