All Chapters of Daddies Taste Better : Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

He pulled back just enough to cup my face in both hands, thumbs wiping frantically at the tears streaming down my cheeks even as more kept falling. “We’re not going to die,” he said firmly, thumbs still moving, still wiping, still trying to keep me together when I was falling apart. “Listen to me. This room is built to withstand worse than whatever’s happening up there.” “But why?” I whispered, voice cracking again. “Why do you even have this?” My hand gestured weakly at the concrete walls, the monitor, the shelves stocked with supplies like we were preparing for the apocalypse instead of a holiday getaway. He exhaled slowly and opened his mouth to answer but before the first syllable could leave his lips, the door started slamming. They were hard impacts that reverberated through the thick steel like someone was trying to drive a battering ram through it. Each blow landed with a deep, metallic clang that vibrated up through the floor into my knees, into my spine, into my teeth.

I stepped out of the car and into the driveway, the cold biting at my cheeks the second the door shut behind me. The driver had already pulled away, taillights disappearing around the bend before I even reached the front steps, leaving me alone with the crunch of my boots on fresh snow. When I finally got to the door I pushed it open and stepped inside but froze for a second because even though the foyer was exactly how it was when I left, everything was… too quiet.I stood there for a long moment, coat still zipped, scarf still wrapped around my neck, bag still slung over my shoulder, listening to the house breathe around me. It felt different. Not dangerous, exactly—just… off. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the feeling. I mean, I was already tired, I didn't need to add another reason to feel even more paranoid than I already am. I kicked off my boots by the door—Mrs. Harlan would probably tsk at the puddle they left on the marble tomorrow—hung my coat on the rack, and padde

I stared at them across the narrow hospital bed, the morphine drip still humming its indifferent rhythm beside me like it had no stake in this conversation. “Why?” The word came out rough, almost a growl, scraping past cracked lips and bruised throat. “Why the fuck would you even want him dead?” They leaned back slightly—giving me space, or maybe giving themselves room to breathe—then answered without a single hitch in their voice. “That’s not part of the deal,” they murmured. “You don’t need to know my reasons. And I know you’ve spent most of your life wanting the same thing, even if you’ve never admitted it out loud.” I barked a laugh that tasted like blood and bile. “You’re delusional.” They didn’t rise to the bait. Just tilted their head a fraction, and kept their eyes steady. “Am I?” The silence that followed felt heavier than the cast pinning my left arm to my chest. My pulse thudded in my ears, loud enough to drown out the monitor beeping its steady ninety-two.

The Mercedes rolled to a stop in the circular drive, tires crunching over the thin crust of refrozen snow that had fallen while I was gone. He killed the engine without a word. The silence that followed felt heavier than the pain radiating from my ribs with every shallow breath I took. I didn’t wait for him to open my door. I shoved it open myself—left-handed of course, the motion pulling every cracked bone in my torso like someone was yanking piano wire threaded through my flesh. A hiss escaped between my teeth but that didn’t matter. I needed to get out of the car and needed to be inside. The cold bit into my face the second my boots hit the ground. Snowflakes caught in my eyelashes, melted against the staples in my scalp and as I swayed but then steadied myself against the car door until the world stopped tilting. He appeared at my elbow. “Sir…” “I’ve got it,” I snapped, sharper than necessary. He stepped back immediately, hands raised in the universal gesture of I’m not tou

After going back and forth with Jason for God knows how long, I was allowed in and I pushed the door to room 712 open with my good shoulder. The room was a bit dark since the curtains were mostly drawn, with only the soft blue glow from the monitor screens and a single wall sconce above the bed. Machines hummed and oxygen hissed through the nasal cannula. Mrs. Harlan lay small and still under the thin blanket, eyes closed, breathing shallow but steady. Wires snaked from under the gown to the monitor that beeped its calm, relentless ninety-four. She looked older than I’d ever seen her—skin papery, cheeks sunken, silver hair escaping the braid someone (probably Thea) had tried to keep neat. A heart monitor patch clung to her chest like a sticker on a gift no one wanted. And Thea… She sat in the ugly plastic chair pulled right up to the bed, elbows on the mattress, one of Mrs. Harlan’s hands cradled between both of hers. Her head was bowed, forehead almost touching the blanket, h