My Bestie's Dad Likes Me Wet-Chapter 66 Daddy’s

NOVA POV

The words raise up your shirt weren’t the issue.

It was the way he said, spread your legs, like he was talking to a street girl and not me.

My spine went rigid, and I didn’t even have to speak before Grant did.

"If you don’t address my woman properly," Grant’s voice was low and deadly calm, "I’ll be the last person you see before you arrive in hell."

His hand was on my shoulder quite gentle and protective but the quiet violence in his tone made the whole studio go still. You could hear the electric buzz of the tattoo gun die midair. Even the air conditioner sounded like it was holding its breath.

The grumpy, burly man in front of us swallowed audibly.

"I’m... I’m sorry, boss," he stammered, his voice cracking like it was being forced through a locked throat.

Grant didn’t even blink. "If you don’t apologize properly to her, you’ll be more sorry."

Apparently, tattoo man wasn’t used to apologizing to anyone much less a woman but he managed something that passed for decency. I nodded quickly, hoping to end the tension before it spiraled into bloodshed.

But Grant wasn’t done watching me. His gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable, as if measuring my reaction. The artist dared to speak again, voice careful.

"Is she not getting the tattoo anymore?"

Grant didn’t even look at him this time just said, softly but coldly,

"You won’t be touching what’s mine. Get a female artist. And get the fuck out till we’re done."

He didn’t bother to argue. Just packed his tray and disappeared like smoke.

A few minutes later, a new artist appeared—a woman with short pink hair, arms covered in gorgeous inked flowers, and a smile that instantly made me relax.

"Hey, sweetheart," she said warmly. "Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you."

I smiled back, some of the tension melting.

Grant, however, was still all business.

"I already picked the font," he told her. "Just Daddy’s, italicized. Red ink."

The

woman nodded as she started prepping her station. My pulse fluttered in my throat when I realized what the tattoo would say and what it meant.

"If I’m getting inked..." I began, biting my lip. "What about you?"

Grant looked up at me, amused. "I’ve got my share," he teased.

"That’s not what I meant." I looked him straight in the eye. "I want something that says you’re mine too."

The pink-haired artist paused mid-motion, pretending not to listen, but I saw her grin hide behind her mask. Grant raised a brow, clearly surprised, but then something softer passed through his expression. He nodded.

"So what do you want me to have?" he asked, voice low. "A sign that I belong to you and you alone?"

I couldn’t help the grin that stretched across my face.

"How about Nymph, right above your groin, since mine’s between my legs?"

Grant’s laugh was rich and full, and then shockingly, he agreed.

"Nymph, in italics, red ink, with a peach emoji beside it," he told the other artist across the room. "Right under my beltline. Let people know exactly who this dick belongs to."

My face burned so red I could’ve matched his tattoo color. The other artists tried to hide their smirks, and I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Grant didn’t care. He looked proud, possessive and unapologetic.

"Let’s get you inked first," the woman said, her tone way too cheerful for what was about to happen.

I nodded, trying to breathe. I never imagined myself in a place like this; half-naked, about to get tattooed with something that screamed submission and love at the same time. I used to be the nerd with glasses and headphones, nose buried in a book. The kind of girl who lived quietly in her imagination.

But ever since Grant stormed into my life, I’ve discovered sides of myself I didn’t know existed, the dark, hungry and wild sides. The parts that wanted to be seen, claimed, and known.

As the needle buzzed to life, the world blurred. The pain was sharp, but somehow grounding. Every heartbreak, every betrayal, every fear I’d swallowed, it all led here, to this strange, perfect, dangerous moment.

For a while, it was just us and the hum of the needle.

Then Grant’s voice cut through the haze, soft but sharp.

"Tyler’s been released."

The words slammed into me like cold water.

"What?" I jerked slightly, wincing as the artist steadied me.

"Sandy’s lawyers pulled a miracle," he said, tone flat. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the end of the peace I’d been trying to hold onto.

"But the crimes. Grant, that’s not something she could’ve fixed legally. There’s always a hook. There’s always a hook." My voice cracked as I tried to stay still, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

Grant’s jaw tightened. "You’re right. There’s a hook." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Apart from the rumors she has been spreading and telling people we’re an item. She has earned Lena’s trust. Lena trusts her, believing she’s harmless. But this isn’t just about you anymore, Baby. Sandy’s building her stage. When she moves next, she’ll make sure everyone bleeds."

My stomach turned. My chest tightened with fear and fury.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. The artist worked silently, sensing the storm in the air.

"Chill, baby," Grant said softly. "I’ll handle it."

"No." My voice came out hoarse, but strong. "We’ll handle it. You don’t get to shut me out of things that affect my life. Not anymore."

His eyes flicked to mine, his was dark, searching, then softening just slightly.

"Alright, my love. Anything for you."

It was too easy, the way he said it. And though part of me wanted to believe him, another part knew Grant’s version of "handling things" often came with blood and fire.

But for now, I chose peace. I chose the illusion.

"Alright, you’re set," the tattooist said finally, pulling her gloves off. She handed me a mirror, and I craned awkwardly to see.

Daddy’s was inked in delicate red script right where only he would see it. It was beautiful. Dangerous. Ours.

"It’s perfect," I whispered.

"You’re perfect, baby," Grant murmured, eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight. "Imagine waking up to that view every morning. My days are made."

I laughed, flustered. The artist ran through aftercare instructions, but Grant had already turned away, phone in hand.

"It’s sorted," he said suddenly.

"What?" I blinked.

"Sandy’s been handled. Lena’s coming home tomorrow."

I frowned. "Handled how?"

He froze, clearly not expecting that question. With a flick of his wrist, he gestured for the staff to leave us. The room emptied like magic.

"You’re questioning me now, Nova?" he asked quietly.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. The tone was dangerous and familiar. But I refused to back down.

"I’m not questioning you," I said carefully. "I’m reminding you that we’re partners. Trust goes both ways. If you can’t tell me what’s going on, then what are we even doing?"

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just looked at me. I could almost see the struggle in his eyes, control versus care, dominance versus love.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I don’t like being questioned," he muttered.

"Only if I’m your employee or your property," I shot back, voice trembling but steady. "But I’m not. I’m your girlfriend. Or did you forget that already?"