He’s close now, all that bronzed skin scattering my thoughts, battering my walls.
“But what I don’t understand,” he continues, “is how you give me your body like a sacrificial offering for my darkest desires, how you fall apart so perfectly for me, and still somehow keep most of yourself locked away.”
“I—”
“Don’t bother,” he says on a sigh. “Last night, when you acted jealous, I thought…” He shakes his head, gaze lowering to the floor. “I knew this was a mistake. I should have listened to my gut. You’d think I would’ve learned that when it comes to women I want, they’re always liars.”
This is it. The moment I either walk away or tell him everything. I didn’t think it would come so soon, had selfishly hoped we could stay as we were—Dom and part-time submissive. Sadist and his glutton for pain. The thought of losing him now, so suddenly, takes my breath away. I want to run, I want to fall… I don’t know what I want anymore.
“Dominic,” I whisper. “You don’t understand. I’m not… not right. Most days I don’t even feel alive—that I’m still breathing isn’t a relief. It’s a curse. I don’t want to hurt you. I didn’t know you even…”
“Cared about you?” His head lifts, a sour smile on his lips. “Christ, London, the only reason I haven’t fucked you is I’m afraid I won’t be able to get enough. Tell me you don’t feel anything when I dominate you. That it’s just scratching an itch, and you’re just a pain-slut looking for a good time.”
Even though the moniker isn’t said with any judgment, I suck in a breath, my stomach clenching. “You’re right. That’s what I am.”
He moves too fast for my eyes to track. One second we’re several feet apart, in the next my back hits the wall by the bathroom and his fingers encircle my throat. He isn’t squeezing, but his grip is firm enough that I know he’s in control. Despite the parallels to last night’s assault, in every way that matters this is different. My head knows it. And my body’s reaction?
Damning.
“You want me to believe that any Dom could touch you like this and you’d react the same? Your pupils just blew. I can smell you, London. I know just how wet you are right now. Know exactly how you’d taste on my tongue. If I ordered you to display right now, you’d do it. Not because you want pain, but because I’m the one giving it.”
He’s right, and I would. God help me, I’d drop to my knees right now if he told me to.
“Please,” I whisper, “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
Have feelings for you.
Trust you.
Need you.
I give him the only safe fact. “I can’t tell you the truth, and I can’t tell you why. I’m sorry.”
His fingers gentle, feathering my skin as he retreats back a step. For a pregnant moment, his gaze takes in my features. Then he nods and leaves the room.
When I’m showered and wearing the spare set of clothes I keep at the loft, I walk out of the bedroom. The space is empty—he’s gone, and I have the sinking feeling he’s not coming back. My gaze stalls on the dining table. Breath shallow in my chest, I walk toward what he left for me.
Our contract, torn cleanly down the middle. A note rests over the breach, and I lift it with numb fingers.
London,
I’m terminating our contract effective immediately. Whatever we both thought going into this—that we could keep it casual, friendly—was wrong. I don’t want to be your friend, and I don’t want to be the only one invested. Seems I have learned something from the past, after all.
If you want to renegotiate our contract, I think you know what it will require. The ball is in your court. But I do want you to know that whatever trouble you’re in, you have my number. Use it if you need it.
Sign up for those self-defense classes. It’s not an order, but rather a very strong suggestion from someone who knows how violent the world is.
Don’t worry—you’re not fired.
Take care,
Dominic
Blinking away the sheen of tears, I whisper, “Good for you, sir.”
30
“I want something in return.”
My statement is met with a raspy chuckle. “You’re not in a position to bargain, Blondie. Either you come, or one of these women gets special treatment.”
Behind Cinder, two other guards joke quietly in Russian, their attention on a pair of young women who look like sisters. Their glazed eyes stare back unblinking.
“Maybe your friend here.” Cinder’s big boot kicks at the curled-up legs of the teenager, who shifts protectively around the toddler. Though I told her several times to move somewhere else, to get as far away from me as she could, for some inexplicable reason she didn’t listen.
Then again, this is a house of insanity. And the gamble I’m about to make proves it.
“No,” I say, hauling myself to my feet. Blood rushes from my head, my vision momentarily darkening. I brace a hand on the wall behind me and lift my chin. “I have conditions. I want cots in here, one for each woman. Pillows and blankets, too. A fresh, hot meal once a day, and fresh milk for the child. Clean water to use for bathing, a tub and a privacy screen. And you get a doctor in here. I’m sure there’s one on the payroll. Some of the women have been sick for a week. They need medicine—”
For such a brutish man, Cinder moves like the wind. My head slams into the wall as his fingers seize my throat. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“You tell your boss my terms,” I grind out, stretching to gasp air, blinking dark dots from my eyes. “I’ll play his little game when and if I get what I asked for.”
Rage purples his face. He squeezes harder, severing my claim to oxygen. I’m too weak to fight back. My vision slowly dims, and I wonder if my last sight on this earth will be the angry vein throbbing in his neck.
With a beastly roar, he tosses me to the ground. On my hands and knees, I cough and retch until I’m choking on bitter, unhinged laughter. Sagging back against the wall, I palm my sore neck. When I look up, I laugh harder at the comprehension in Cinder’s eyes.
“That’s right,” I mock hoarsely. “You should be scared. You can’t hurt the stable’s prized stallion, can you? It might upset their owner. And we both know what happens when he’s upset.” I mimic a slice across my neck.
He snarls something in Russian and spits, a fat glob of phlegm landing near my feet. “You’ll get yours, American whore.”
I grin. “And so will you.”
When they’re gone, I look around at silent, staring faces. Beside me, the teenager whispers, “Who are you?”
I shake my head. “No one.”
31
The warmup, as always, is slow and delivered with care. Tickles and taps from the flogger’s leather tails on my thighs, stomach, breasts. A tease, a foreshadowing of what’s to come. The blindfold is thick and tight, no light leaking through, enhancing my other senses and keeping my nerves on edge. I tremble on the cross, fingers and toes twitching. Ready for worship. Enthralled by his devotion.
The memory is a favorite—if it were a timeline-bead, it would be worn, smooth from over-handling. But I don’t care. It’s mine. I can do whatever the hell I want with it, even if it means rolling it around and playing with it until there’s nothing left. Which is doubtful. I’m not sure a blow to the head and amnesia could extract Dominic Cross from my marrow.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Charlie’s office has recently become my refuge. Much to her annoyance. But at least here I don’t have to pretend, smile and laugh with colleagues and clients like nothing’s changed. Like I can’t see him every time he moves through the crowd. Like I don’t miss him.
Not the cross, cuffs, or clamps. Not the wax, rope, whip, or flogger. Just him. His laugh, rare and contagious. His loathing of socks, obsession with Cary Grant movies, and habit of touching me. Always, anywhere, whenever we shared the same space. A hand in my hair. A foot against mine under the table.
His fingers grazing mine as we passed in the back hallway of the club.
A handful of nights together and it feels like a thousand. One kiss amidst a lifetime of surrendering to pain and pleasure at his hands. It’s insanity, the hold he has over me. I’ve never even seen his dick, for fuck’s sake.
“I don’t even know what he was, you know?” I mutter at the ceiling. “We weren’t lovers. He wasn’t my boyfriend.”
Charlie looks up from paperwork. “He was your Dom, London. Sometimes that means a whole lot more than those other labels.” She sighs, pulling cat-eye glasses from her nose. “If you don’t give me details, I can’t help you. All this vague, love-sick shit is getting old. Either tell me why he called it quits, or get out of my office. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work, anyway?”
She’s still scary—but not nearly as scary as she was before this whole thing started. Or before two weeks ago, when I cried like a baby in her arms during a break the night after he ended things.
But I can’t tell her the truth, any more than I can tell Dominic the truth. There’s no way through this. No happy ending. He made sure of that two years ago. The visit from the thug on Nate’s birthday only confirmed what I already knew: I will never be free of the past.
Charlie merely frowns when I make excuses—look at the time—and head across the hallway to get dressed for work. For the first time in nearly two months, I pull out my opening night outfit. I haven’t worn it since my first time with Dominic. Since he put his first marks on me. But my body no longer shows any signs of a sadist’s barbed care. I’m exactly the same as I’ve always been.
On the outside, at least.
Another three weeks pass. I return to my pre-Cross routine. Work, eat, sleep, and withstand the nightmares. The only change has been on my days off, when I religiously attend self-defense classes at a gym in my neighborhood. As I get stronger, faster, and more agile, I experience moments of pride. And gratitude. Because of Dominic, I now know exactly what to do if someone assaults me again—and they will. The echo of that stranger’s hands on my throat lingers. He isn’t done with me yet. It wasn’t a message but a warning.
I buy mace. Hide a knife in my nightstand. Consider, then discard, the idea of purchasing a gun. I keep going, living, in the twilight.
Every night I come into work, I dread hearing that Dominic will be publicly participating. Doing an instructional scene in the Epicenter for the delight of the crowd, or worse, taking a sub into one of the playrooms. There are times, too, that what we shared feels like a dream. That nothing ever changed between us—we are barely civil, rarely in the same place at the same time.
On a Saturday night, five weeks after ultimatums and torn contracts, I arrive at work to find Nate waiting for me in the employee lounge. The look on his face—part sympathy, part frustration—tells me everything I need to know.
My heart contracts painfully.
“Charlie wants to see you,” he says softly.
I drop my purse in my locker, avoid the curious stares of others, and follow him from the room. Nate knocks twice before opening Charlie’s office door. She looks up from her desk, nodding at him before focusing her dark gaze on me. Nate slips out, closing the door silently behind him.
After a few moments of appraisal, she sighs. “You look like shit.”
I smile tiredly. “Having a hard time sleeping lately.”
“And when you were serving Cross, did you sleep?”
The question throws me. “What?”
Domme-vibe in full force, she snaps, “Answer the question.”
“Y-yes.”
Charlie nods grimly. “Listen up. You’re not working tonight—not behind the bar, at least. I’m renegotiating your employment contract on your behalf.”
I frown. “I’m lost.”
She stands, rounding the desk with a sharp smile. “I know. In three hours, at midnight, Cross is scheduled to demonstrate proper technique for caning.”
I shudder. Of all his toys, the cane is my least favorite—it delivers a vicious, all-consuming pain that cannot be quelled by pleasure. And yet… the idea of him giving that pain to someone else makes me wild with jealousy.
“Don’t like that idea, do you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.” Her smile spreads. “How would you like to be the sub he canes tonight?”
My brain screeches to a halt, then shifts into overdrive. “What? No! I can’t do that to him, surprise him like that—he’ll be so pissed. Are you nuts?”
Charlie gives me a flat look. “Dominic is a professional. He might yell at you after the fact—and me, no doubt—but he’d never allow anger to affect the scene. Do you want to do it or not?”
As the idea sinks in, my heart picks up pace. “Yes, absolutely, yes. Why are you doing this for me, Charlie?”
She returns to her desk, sliding gracefully into the chair. “My reasons are my own, but I’ll say this: as much as I begrudgingly like you, London, I’m not doing this for you. Take the bag by the door on your way out. Nate will help you get ready in one of the playrooms. Don’t disappoint me. Or Dominic. Understood?”
Swallowing inane laughter, I bow my head. “Yes, madam.”
32
“Ten minutes.”
I nod from my perch on a padded table in Playroom Four. The curtain over the viewing window is drawn, only Nate as witness of my lip-chewing, foot-tapping state. We’ve worked our way through a handful of risqué knock-knock jokes and compared favorite movies and books. He’s doing his best to distract me, and I’m doing my best not to bolt.
“Oh—I forgot to ask. You’re not on your period or about to get it, are you?”
My head swings toward him. “What the hell? Why?”
He shrugs. “Pain receptors are more active during that time, apparently.”
“I’m good,” I mutter, screwing my eyes shut. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“The caning or the blatant manipulation?”
I shake my head. “The audience.”
Nate laughs shortly. “I can. Didn’t your parents force you to vacation at a nudist colony one summer? This is nothing.”
I groan but laugh in spite of myself. “That was the worst. Who takes teenaged daughters to a nudist retreat? Scarred us for life.”
“Speaking of—have you told your parents yet?”
“About letting someone tie me to a pole and beat me with a belt? No. No, I have not. They’d probably throw a party.”
He laughs and glances at his watch. “Five minutes. Up you go.”
With a jolt of adrenaline, I slip off the bench to my feet. The floor-length silk dressing-gown whispers against my legs, rippling like crimson water. Nate approaches me with the only other item that had been in Charlie’s bag. A full-face hood. Not latex or leather—thank everything that’s holy—but black lace with intricate designs over the eyes and mouth.
Nate carefully rolls it down from my crown, over my face and under my chin. The light in the room dims, filtered by the thickness over my eyes. My lungs protest to the restricted airflow over my mouth. I breathe slowly through my nose until claustrophobia fades.
“Okay?” he asks, adjusting my low braid over one shoulder. I nod and he steps back, a wistful expression on his face. “It’s… breathtaking. I wonder where she found it.”
“It was probably a gift for you,” I quip, tilting my head from side to side to get used to the light pressure and constriction.
Nate snorts. “Definitely not. Oh—hear that?”
I do. The playrooms are close to soundproof, but not completely, and the noise of the crowd in the main club filters through. Having witnessed it so often from behind the bar, I can easily envision what’s happening. The music softening, the lights dimming. Masked employees bringing the velvet-swathed cross into the Epicenter. The soft spotlight slowly intensifying as the crowd surges to the railings, ready for action.
Nate offers me his arm. “My lady.”
; His stoic expression gives me pause and stills the nervous quip on my tongue. I take his arm.
“Thank you.”
We make it to the door before he hesitates. “Are you sure you don’t want Advil? Or something stronger?”
My breath shudders out, warming the lace before my mouth. “No.” I leave it at that.
Pain slut.
Maybe I am. But as we leave the playroom and walk down the hallway toward the cheers and shouts ahead of us, I’m not ashamed of who I am. Of what I want. And with new certainty, I know Dominic was right. My pain belongs to him, because he’s the only one I trust to take it from me.
When the edge of the crowd notices us, a low murmur ripples outward and a path opens up. As we walk forward, from the corner of my eye I catch nods of respect from submissives and Doms alike. And I take a moment to appreciate Charlie’s genius. If I were already naked, gagged or blindfolded, my reception might be different. Debasement. Demeaning shouts or harsh touches. But covered completely by the mask and robe, I’m a dignified sacrifice on the way to the altar. No one touches me. No one dares.
It’s a heady feeling. Undeniably erotic.
We reach the short steps that lead down into the Epicenter. The space is empty, the cross unveiled and waiting. Nate stops. With a final squeeze of my arm, he whispers, “Good luck,” and disappears.
My hand on the railing, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm, I stare at the cross. The crowd is remarkably silent, the faces around me disappearing into darkness after the first few rows.
Two tall, masked men step into the pit and take up position on either side of the cross. My cue. I step down on weak knees and walk the short distance to my altar, then reach for the ties on my robe. My shaking fingers struggle, then find the release. Fabric slithers down my body and flutters to the floor.
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