Page 37

He finished the braids—two of them framing my face like a crown—and stood back to survey his work. "Perfect. Now, come see what I've prepared."

The bag sat on the bed, black leather with careful organization inside. He opened it slowly, letting me see each item. Silk restraints in deep purple. A leather paddle worn smooth with use. A flogger with falls like water. Bottles of oil and lotion. Each item placed with military precision.

He picked up the paddle, let me feel its weight, its surface butter-soft.

"This will sting," he explained, clinical as a doctor.

"Sharp at first, then spreading warmth. I'll start with my hand, work up to implements as you're ready.

" He set it back precisely in its place.

"The flogger is different, covers more area.

Good for when you need to feel overwhelmed but not precisely punished. "

Each explanation made me squirm, as my body reacted to the thought of the pleasure and pain. He noticed—of course he noticed—and his smile turned predatory.

"Already wet, little one?" He didn't touch me to check, didn't need to. Could read my body like one of his tactical maps. "Good. Arousal makes you more sensitive, more open. Tonight will hurt, but it will also feel good in ways you don't expect."

"I'm scared," I admitted, the words tumbling out honest and raw.

"You should be." He zipped the bag with finality. "I'm going to push you tonight. Further than we've gone before. You're going to confess things you've never said out loud, face truths that terrify you. You'll cry—not just from the discipline but from the release of finally letting go."

"And you'll stay?" I hated how small my voice sounded, how needy. "Even when I'm messy and broken and—"

"Especially then." He pulled me against his chest, and I breathed in his scent—leather and soap and safety. "That's when you'll need me most. When the walls come down and you're nothing but raw truth, that's when I'll hold you tightest."

I pressed my face into his shirt, letting his certainty anchor me. In a few hours, I'd be confessing every shameful secret. In a few hours, he'd be marking my skin with leather and silk and careful violence. In a few hours, we'd either heal or shatter.

"Ready?" he asked against my hair.

"No," I answered honestly. "But I want to be. Want to be clean. Want to be yours without reservation."

"Then let's go." He pulled back, grabbed the bag and his jacket. "Time to learn what complete surrender really means."

The drive across town passed in charged silence. I pressed against his back on the bike, white dress riding up my thighs, feeling like a sacrifice ready to be offered in some ancient ritual.

When we pulled up to the Victorian house, all wrought iron and climbing roses, I understood why they called it Sanctuary. It looked like somewhere you went to be transformed. Somewhere that held secrets in its bones.

"Last chance," Dex said as he helped me off the bike. "Once we go inside, once we start, I won't stop unless you safe word. No matter how much you beg, how much you cry, how much you plead. Only your safe word will end it."

I looked up at the beautiful house that promised beautiful destruction, then back at the man who loved me enough to break me properly.

"Let's go inside," I said, and meant it with every terrified, eager cell in my body.

S anctuary's interior knocked the breath from my lungs—nothing like the dungeons I'd imagined in guilty late-night research.

Soft lighting washed over hardwood floors that gleamed like honey, classical music drifting from hidden speakers.

The foyer could have belonged to an upscale hotel, all marble and fresh flowers, except for the subtle details—hooks by the door clearly meant for leashes, artwork that suggested rather than showed scenes of submission.

"Mr. Brandon." The woman behind the desk looked like she should be running a library, silver hair in a neat bun, reading glasses on a chain. But her eyes held knowledge that made me blush. "So lovely to see you again. And this must be Cleo."

I startled at hearing my name. Dex's hand found the small of my back, steady and reassuring.

"I called ahead," he explained quietly. "Made arrangements. Clarissa, this is Cleo. Tonight is her first time at Sanctuary."

"How wonderful." Clarissa's smile was warm, genuinely welcoming.

"We've prepared the Victoria room as requested.

Third floor, complete privacy, fully stocked.

" Her eyes found mine, and something in them gentled.

"The emergency button is by the door, though I doubt you'll need it with Mr. Brandon.

He's one of our most conscientious members. "

Members. The word reminded me that Dex had been here before, had brought others to these elegant rooms. The spike of jealousy surprised me with its intensity.

"Thank you, Clarissa." Dex's voice stayed professional, but his thumb stroked a small circle on my back, like he'd felt my tension. "We won't need interruption unless called for."

"Of course." She handed him an old-fashioned brass key. "The Victoria room will be particularly lovely tonight. Enjoy your evening."

We climbed stairs covered in carpet thick enough to muffle any sound.

Passed doors with brass nameplates—The Library, The Garden, The Tower—each hiding its own secrets.

Other members passed us in the halls, some in formal clothes, others in various states of dress that made me avert my eyes.

Everyone moved with purpose, with the confidence of people who knew exactly what they wanted and weren't ashamed to claim it.

"Here," Dex said finally, stopping before a door marked Victoria.

The key turned with a soft click.

The room stole what was left of my breath. Exposed brick walls gave it an industrial edge softened by candlelight. The hardwood floors were partially covered by thick rugs that would cushion knees. And the furniture—Christ, the furniture made my pulse race.

A leather spanking bench dominated one corner, all curves and restraint points.

Silk ropes hung from discrete anchor points in the ceiling beams. Against one wall stood what I recognized as a St. Andrew's cross, though this one was padded in burgundy leather.

And the bed—massive, four-posted, covered in sheets that looked soft as clouds.

"This is where we start over," Dex said, closing the door behind us with finality.

The sound of the lock engaging made everything real. We were alone now, truly alone, in a room designed for exactly what was about to happen. No neighbors to hear, no interruptions to save me from the confessions climbing my throat.

"Come here," he commanded, voice shifting into that register that made my knees weak.

I crossed to him on legs that felt disconnected from my body. He caught my shoulders, turned me to face away from him, and began undoing the small buttons down the back of my dress. Each one revealed more skin to the warm air, more vulnerability.

"Breathe," he reminded me when he felt me tense. "Just breathe and let me."

The dress parted like a confession, falling away from my shoulders with a whisper of fabric. He caught it before it could pool on the floor, folding it with the same military precision he brought to everything.

"Panties," he said simply, and I hooked my thumbs in the waistband, sliding them down with hands that shook slightly. Those too he folded, placed precisely beside the dress.

I stood naked except for the braids he'd woven, skin prickling with awareness and anticipation. He circled me slowly, and I fought the urge to cover myself, to hide from his assessing gaze.

"Beautiful," he murmured, but it wasn't about desire, not yet. This was about power, about establishing the dynamic that would carry us through what came next. "Now kneel."

A silk cushion waited beside a leather chair, purple like the restraints in his bag.

I sank onto it gratefully, the position grounding me even as it emphasized my vulnerability.

The cushion was perfectly placed—I could kneel comfortably for hours if needed, my head at the right height to meet his eyes when he sat.

Which he did now, settling into the chair with controlled grace. The leather creaked softly as he adjusted, and then we were face to face, me naked and kneeling, him fully clothed and in complete control.

"Tell me the first lie," he said, voice gentle but implacable. "The first moment you chose fear over trust."

My throat closed up. This was it—the beginning of the cleansing he'd promised. I forced myself to meet his eyes, to give him the truth he deserved.

"The bus schedules," I whispered. "I started looking at them Tuesday morning. After—after he came to the bakery. I was so scared, and I thought if I just disappeared, if I ran far enough, they couldn't use me against you."

His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "How long did you spend looking?"

"Hours." The admission burned. "I had three different routes planned. Checked prices, departure times. Even looked up shelters in the cities where I'd end up."

"Stand up."

I rose on unsteady legs, and he guided me across his lap in one smooth motion. The position was formal, deliberate. His left arm banded across my lower back, holding me secure, while his right hand rested on my bare bottom.

"Five," he said simply. "For the hours you spent planning to abandon us instead of trusting me to protect you."

The first strike landed with precision, blooming heat across my right cheek. Not cruel, not vicious, but firm enough that I gasped. The second followed quickly, left side, building a rhythm that had me squirming by the third strike.

"Stay still," he commanded, and I forced myself to stop moving, to accept what he was giving. "Good girl. Two more."