Page 36

Cleo

I woke with my heart already racing, sheets twisted around my legs like I'd been fighting demons all night. Maybe I had. The burner phone sat on the nightstand where Dex had placed it—evidence of my lies, my cowardice, everything that should have made him walk away.

The apartment was quiet, but not the empty quiet I'd been dreading. Coffee scented the air, mixing with something else—bacon? My stomach clenched. He was still here. Still making breakfast like this was any other morning, like I hadn't shattered everything with three days of deception.

I pulled on one of his t-shirts, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, and padded toward the kitchen on bare feet.

My gut churned. We’d talked things through last night, but I was still nervous about how Dex would be this morning.

I had this awful feeling that he’d been up all night, working out how best to say that we couldn’t be together any more.

Would he be cold? Distant? Would he tell me to pack my things with that same controlled voice he used when emotions ran too deep?

But when I appeared in the doorway, Dex looked up from the stove with a smile that made my heart thrum. Not forced, not tight with hidden anger. Just . . . gentle. Like he saw my fear and wanted to soothe it before I could even speak.

"How are you feeling, little one?"

I'd been so sure—so fucking certain—that I'd lost the right to those words. Lost the right to be his little one, his baby girl, his anything.

"I—" My voice cracked, and I tried again. "Aren’t you angry?"

"I was angry." He flipped bacon with practiced ease, not looking at me. "Spent half the night working through it. But anger won’t fix what's broken between us."

I moved into the kitchen properly, hovering near the table like I wasn't sure I was welcome closer. "Dex, I need to apologize again. I need to explain why I—"

"Stop." His hand caught my wrist as I gestured helplessly, his grip firm but not painful. Just . . . grounding. "We're not doing that."

"But I—"

"No." He turned off the burner, giving me his full attention. Those dark eyes held mine with intensity that made my knees weak. "Not the endless apologies, not the guilt spiral. What happened, happened. Now we deal with it."

"Deal with it how?" The question came out smaller than intended.

He guided me to a chair, then sat across from me, our knees almost touching. "I believe in radical forgiveness, Cleo. Complete absolution. But it has to be earned."

My pulse kicked up at something in his tone—promise and threat wrapped together. "Earned how?"

"Through discipline that cleanses the slate entirely." His thumb stroked over my pulse point, and I wondered if he could feel how it raced. "I want you to tell me everything. Every lie, every moment you didn't trust me, every time fear made your decisions instead of faith in us."

The words should have terrified me. Should have made me want to run again. Instead, I felt a slow pooling of heat, low in my belly, and a nervous energy that threatened to overwhelm me.

"And then?" I whispered.

"Then I'm going to discipline you for each one until there's nothing left between us but truth." His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide with something that made me squirm in my chair. "No more secrets. No more walls. Just complete honesty, even when it hurts."

"That sounds . . ." I swallowed hard, searching for words. "Intense."

"It will be." No sugar-coating, no gentle lies. "You'll cry. You'll beg. You'll want to use your safe word, and I'll respect it if you do. But if you can submit to it—really submit, not just endure—then we come out the other side clean. Forgiven. New."

The idea terrified me. Also thrilled me. Also made me so wet I had to press my thighs together under the table. To be completely seen, completely known, completely absolved—wasn't that what I'd wanted all along? What I'd been too scared to ask for?

"When?" My voice barely made it past a whisper.

"Tonight." He released my wrist to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "There's a place I want to take you. Private, safe, where you can let go completely without worry about neighbors or interruptions. Where we can do this right."

"What kind of place?" I leaned into his touch despite myself, always seeking his warmth like a plant chasing sun.

His smile turned wicked, all sharp edges and dark promise. "A place where Daddies take their little girls when they need serious discipline. When they need to learn what submission really means."

My breath caught. I'd read about places like that in forums, in the careful whispers of other littles online. Private clubs where dynamics could be explored without judgment, where safety and discretion were paramount. Where girls like me could scream and cry and break apart without shame.

"You mean like a—"

"Sanctuary," he confirmed, and the name sent shivers down my spine. I'd heard whispers of it, the exclusive club that catered to dynamics like ours. "I've been a member for years. Kept hoping I'd find someone to take there. Someone who could handle what happens behind those doors."

"And you think I can handle it?"

"I think you need it." His thumb pressed against my lower lip, and I fought the urge to suck it into my mouth. "Need to let go completely. Need to trust me with your darkest parts. Need to be disciplined by someone who loves you enough to do it right."

Someone who loves you. The words settled into my chest like birds finding home.

"Yes," I breathed against his thumb. "Yes, I need it. Need you to—to make it right. Make us right."

"We will." He leaned forward to press a kiss to my forehead, tender in contrast to the dark promises he'd just made. "But first, breakfast. You're going to need your strength for tonight."

I ate mechanically, barely tasting the food, mind spinning with anticipation and fear. Tonight, I'd confess every shameful moment. Tonight, he'd discipline me until I cried. Tonight, we'd either fix what I'd broken or shatter completely.

But looking at him across the table—calm, controlled, certain—I knew which way it would go. Knew that tomorrow I'd wake up clean, forgiven, his.

The thought made me squirm in my chair, and from the knowing look in his eyes, he knew exactly what I was thinking.

"Eat," he commanded gently. "We have all day to prepare."

I took another bite of bacon and tried not to think about how desperately I wanted it to be tonight already.

We spent the read of the day preparing. It felt like some long meditation, as though I was preparing for something monumental, a birth, a marriage, the loss of my virginity.

In the afternoon, he bathed me.

The bath was already drawn when Dex led me in, steam curling up from water that smelled like lavender fields. He'd lit candles—when had he bought candles?—their soft light making the ordinary space feel sacred.

"Arms up," he commanded gently, and I obeyed without thought, letting him pull the t-shirt over my head. His movements were clinical, careful, but his eyes held heat that made me shiver despite the warm air. "Into the water, little one."

The lavender oil made the water silky against my skin. I sank down with a sigh, muscles I didn't know were tense starting to unwind. Dex knelt beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up with methodical precision that made my stomach flutter.

"Lean back," he murmured, guiding my head to rest against the tub's edge. "Let me take care of you."

His fingers worked through my hair with patience I didn't deserve, untangling knots with the same focus he brought to everything. The intimacy of it—being washed like a child, cared for without expectation—made my throat tight with emotion.

"Close your eyes," he instructed, and I did, surrendering to the feeling of his hands massaging shampoo into my scalp. "Good girl. Just feel."

I drifted in sensation—warm water, gentle hands, the soft splash as he rinsed my hair.

He washed the rest of me with the same careful attention, a soft cloth and vanilla soap that made me smell like dessert.

His touch never lingered, never turned sexual, but awareness thrummed between us like a struck chord.

When we were done, he wrapped me in a towel that had been warming on the radiator. "Tonight will be intense, and you need to go into it feeling cherished. Prepared. Mine."

Mine. The word settled into my bones as he dried me with careful pats, then led me to the bedroom where a white dress lay across the bed. Simple cotton, almost innocent in its modesty, but the cut suggested curves, promised beauty.

"White?" I touched the fabric, soft as butterfly wings.

"For new beginnings." He helped me step into matching white panties, his hands steady on my hips. "For innocence that chooses to submit. For the clean slate we're creating."

The dress slipped over my head like water, settling against my skin with weight that felt ceremonial. In the mirror, I looked younger somehow. Vulnerable. Like the girl I'd been before life taught me to build walls.

"Sit," Dex directed, guiding me to the vanity chair. "Hair next."

His fingers were gentle as they worked through my damp strands, sectioning with practiced ease.

"Tonight isn't punishment," he explained as he began to braid, each twist deliberate and firm.

"Punishment implies you did something wrong out of malice.

But you didn't. You acted out of fear, out of misguided protection. "

"If it isn’t punishment, what is it?" I watched his concentrated expression in the mirror, the way his jaw set as he worked.

"Cleansing. Forgiveness. Renewal." He secured one braid with an elastic, started on another section.

"You'll confess things that shame you, and I'll help you let them go.

You'll face truths you've been hiding from, and I'll hold you through them.

And when it's done, when you've given me everything, we'll be clean. "