Page 11 of Caging Cessie (Submissives of Rawhide Ranch #20)

Cessie blinked, clearly caught off guard by his question. She shook her head slowly. “How they train falcons… you mean for hunting?”

“Yes. Falconry.”

“Like how knights used to have a steed, a hound, and a hunting bird?”

He smiled, just a little. “I don’t know if that’s factually accurate, but yes. It’s called falconry, but it wasn’t just falcons. Hawks, eagles—birds of prey. It’s an old art, older than written history. Some say it started in Mesopotamia.”

“Humans bred them to be working animals, like we bred dogs for tasks,” she guessed, her eyes alight with intelligence.

Leon leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

His gaze never left her face. “There’s no such thing as a domesticated bird of prey.

Thousands of years, and we couldn’t domesticate them.

Not like dogs or horses. A falcon will never forget it’s a predator.

It will never become a pet. It stays wild, always.

You don’t break that wildness—you work with it. ”

Cessie tilted her head, her eyes taking on that far-away look that meant she was thinking. If he didn’t hurry up, she might guess where he was going with this.

“To train a falcon, you start by earning their trust,” Leon continued. “You gentle them—get them familiar with you. You keep them from flying away, but you can’t force them. You have to offer your hand, again and again, until they choose to step onto it.”

He let the words hang for a moment, watching her process them.

“How long does that take?” she asked.

“As long as it takes,” he said simply. “You can’t rush it. Every bird is different. Days. Weeks. Sometimes longer.”

“And what do you do if they don’t take that step and trust you?”

Leon smiled again, slower this time. “You wait. You show them that every time they trust you, there’s no threat.

Only safety. Only reward. That you’ll let them be who—” Wait, he wanted to keep this conversation academic.

“You’ll let them be what they are. Their life wouldn’t be what it is without a falconer, but you prove that you don’t want to change the essence of what they are.

And eventually, the bird learns that your voice, your hand, is safe. Is home.”

Cessie glanced away, her gaze flickering toward the window. “Sounds... delicate.”

“It is,” Leon said. “Falconers call it manning— the slow process of getting the bird used to you, your touch, your presence. You sit quietly near them. You talk to them. Feed them by hand. Move slowly, deliberately. Never give them a reason to fear you.”

He paused, letting her process.

“It’s not about forcing submission,” he said. “Because as we both know, true submission cannot be forced. It’s about building trust so deep that the bird chooses to come back to you. Even when it could fly away.”

Cessie was quiet for a long time. Leon didn’t rush her. He simply sat, watching the afternoon light halo her hair in gold.

Finally, she asked, “Training a falcon… that’s why we’re here?”

Leon leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Yes. Montana has a dozen different species of birds of prey.”

She frowned, gaze snapping to him. Her expression clearly said “wait, are we actually going to try and train a bird?”

Leon grinned at her, and Cessie relaxed slightly, shaking her head in silent rebuke for the misdirect.

“The relationship between a falcon and its falconer is unique. A trust that isn’t demanded or commanded. It’s given. Freely.”

He sat forward again, elbows resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. “I want you to come home to me because you trust me. Because you choose me.”

Cessie sucked in a small breath, the sound almost the start of a sob. “I do trust you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“I know you do. But you don’t trust me, not in the way you need to.”

Instead of getting defensive, she said, “Trust isn’t... easy for me.”

“I know.” He let the words settle between them before continuing. “ That’s why we’re here.”

Cessie raised her gaze to his. Searching. Weighing. He met her stare evenly, letting her see the patience there, the promise.

“We’ll build it, little by little,” he said. “Trust. Like a falcon and its falconer.”

She gave a faint smile. “Despite my name sounding like kestrel, I’m not a bird.”

Leon chuckled. “No. You’re more dangerous than a falcon.”

That startled a laugh out of her—soft, surprised. Some of the tension in her shoulders eased.

“You keep saying I’m dangerous. I quite literally spend my days trying to keep people alive.”

“But you also stab people right in the spine without paralyzing them. That’s dangerous.”

Her laugh was relaxed and genuine. Fuck he’d missed that sound.

He sat back again, giving her space. “You’re not a bird, but the principles of gentling and training a falcon are what we need.

I’ll show you my hand, over and over, until you know it’s safe.

Until you call me when you’re too exhausted to drive because you trust me to show up and support you, even if I’m pissed at your decisions. ”

She ducked her head.

“I’ll treat you like a falcon I’m training until you trust me enough to tell me what you need. Trust me enough to listen to me when I tell you how fucking worried I am—” He cut himself off before this devolved into a fight or unproductive conversation.

The point of all this was the mechanism of falconry would allow them to work on their issues without getting mired in the minutia of their relationship’s cracks and faults.

“And if I, the falcon, doesn’t come home to the falconer, even after all the training?” she asked, not challenging exactly—more testing, feeling out the edges of his promise.

Leon shrugged one shoulder. “Then he waits for her to return, and when she does, he starts again.”

Her relief was visible, and it made him want to simultaneously hold her and shake her. “For now, all you need to know is this: you don’t have to prove anything to me, Cessie. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Cessie was quiet for a long time after that. Leon stayed still, content to let her think, to let her weigh his words.

Eventually, she unfolded herself from the couch. He held very still and vowed that if she turned around and walked out the door he would wait until she was far enough away, she wouldn’t hear him lose his shit.

She took two steps toward him, turned… and knelt at his feet. She didn’t touch him, didn’t speak—just knelt there, her head bowed, breathing slow and steady.

Leon watched her, his chest tightening in a way he hadn’t expected. He lifted a hand and let it hover near her hair, not touching, just waiting. Offering.

Slowly, almost tentatively, Cessie pressed her cheek into his palm.

Leon’s fingers curled gently, cradling her face and taking the weight of her head. Cessie let out a breath, a soft, shaky thing, and leaned more fully into his touch.

“I think it’s time to show you the bedroom.”

Cessie stepped through the doorway into the bedroom and stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

The room was beautiful, in a stark, imposing way—wide and open, the dark wooden floors stretching out beneath her bare feet, the ceiling vaulted high above, supported by thick beams. A single large window dominated one wall, its heavy drapes pulled back to let in the last golden light of the afternoon.

Through it, she could see the dense trees and deep shadows of the forest, but it wasn’t the view that held her attention.

The king-sized four-poster stood at the heart of the room, grand and sprawling.

Thick, square posts rose up at each corner, supporting a simple canopy draped with gauzy fabric that stirred faintly in the breeze from the ceiling vent.

The linens were a deep, rich green, the pillows piled high against the tall, carved headboard centered against the wall opposite the door.

But what captured and held her gaze was what surrounded the bed.

A cage.

The black, iron vertical bars surrounded the bed on three sides and were set far enough apart for her to slip an arm through, but no more. The matte metal seemed to soak up the afternoon light.

The cage appeared to be a freestanding structure, with horizontal flat bars at the top and bottom, like some perverse, oversized railing.

The bars didn’t extend all the way to the ceiling, and the top was mostly open, though several heavy crossbars formed a tic tac toe grid ten feet above the floor.

There was three feet of space between the cage and the sides and bottom of the mattress. Enough room for someone—for her—to walk around or kneel beside the bed.

Her pulse fluttered and her body began to both heat and soften.

At the foot of the bed, set neatly into the bars, was a door.

It took her a minute to notice it, because it too was vertical bars, except for the door jamb and header, which were the same flat metal bars as the top and bottom of the cage.

It was closed now, the heavy black ‘lock hanging from the latch.

Cessie swallowed, her mouth dry.

She shifted her gaze, trying to take in the rest of the room, but the cage remained in the corner of her vision, impossible to ignore.

Against the far wall, beside the window, stood a tall, imposing armoire.

Dark wood, polished to a high sheen, with brass handles and delicate carvings winding along the edges—a touch of elegance against the otherwise spartan space.

She imagined it filled with carefully folded clothes, or maybe not clothes at all.

Maybe other things. Things meant for whoever would step willingly—or be led—inside that cage.

An armchair near the window was turned to face the bed. A spot for someone to watch the captive in the cage.

The idea of it—of being inside it—unsettled her. But not in the way she expected. It wasn’t fear she felt twisting low in her belly. It was anticipation. A quiet, powerful hum that prickled along her skin.

Leon hadn’t said anything when he led her to the door and gestured for her to enter ahead of him. He hadn’t explained or warned her. He simply opened the door and waited to see what she would do.

Cessie took a small step forward, drawn closer almost against her will. The bars shone brighter as she neared, the play of light and shadow making them seem alive. She lifted a hand, hesitating a moment before letting her fingers brush the nearest bar.

Cool metal met her skin—smooth, implacable.

She wrapped her fingers around it gently, feeling the solid resistance, the promise of it. It wouldn’t give way if she pulled. She doubted it would move or shift no matter how hard she pulled or pushed.

Cessie’s throat tightened.

It’s not a cage, you’re only thinking cage because you were talking about birds. It’s a cell. It looks like a freestanding prison cell .

But no matter how hard she told herself to say “cell,” each time she looked toward the bed, she thought “cage”.

She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to find Leon standing silently behind her. But he wasn’t there. He’d left her alone with the bed and the cage and the weight of anticipation.

She turned back, staring at the cage door. The lock itself was large—not ostentatious, but functional, serious.

She imagined stepping through that door, the sound of it clanging shut behind her, the heavy click of the lock turning.

She imagined curling up on the bed as Leon sat in the chair watching her.

Planning what he would do to and with her the next time he chose to open the cage door and let her fly free.

The thought sent a shiver racing down her spine.

Cessie closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. The black iron cage was stark against elegant but simple decor and elements in the room.

Some part of her, the part that still resisted, whispered that she should turn away. Walk out. Pretend she hadn’t seen what was waiting for her.

But another part—deeper, quieter, more honest—whispered something else.

If Leon opened that door, she would go willingly, eagerly, into the cage.