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Chapter Three

Saul

A soft sound made me turn. Jesse stood in the doorway, his wet hair dripping onto the shoulders of my old UCLA t-shirt. It hung off his frame, making him look even smaller. He'd rolled the sweatpants at the waist several times, but they still pooled around his feet.

"Hey," I said softly, keeping my movements slow and deliberate as I ladled soup into a bowl. "Hungry?"

He nodded, his eyes darting around the kitchen before settling back on me. "It smells good."

"I enjoy cooking," I replied, placing the bowl on the table along with some bread. "Nothing fancy.”

I knew that look in Jesse's eyes as he finally appeared in the kitchen.

I'd seen it in the mirror for years after escaping my parents' house. That haunted wariness, like he was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. The way he flinched at sudden movements. How he kept his back to walls and his eyes on exits. Not that they’d ever left permanent marks on me.

Their brand of punishment involved locking me away.

It had taken a lot of years to overcome my fear of small spaces.

When Chris had texted me that he was bringing home someone from the fire, I'd imagined maybe a displaced neighbor or family member who needed temporary shelter. Not this broken boy with terror etched into every line of his too-thin body.

I busied myself with the soup while Chris showered. Jesse needed space, not another person making him feel watched. The soup was my grandmother's recipe—the one thing from my childhood worth salvaging. Simple chicken, vegetables, and herbs that somehow managed to taste like comfort itself.

Chris appeared and I took in every exhausted line in his face. I scooped some soup into a cup and held it out. “Go to bed, sweetheart,” I said softly. Chris nodded, his shoulders drooping. He glanced at Jesse, his eyes were fixed on the floor, then did as I asked.

Brief humor warmed me. Chris must be tired if he was accepting any order from me. The only Dom I’d ever been submissive for was Chris, but I needed more. I wanted someone to spoil in a different way. Chris said I was a Daddy.

Not like my beautiful man. He was a Dom through and through. Which was why we’d attempted to find a third for so long. Chris needed a submissive and I needed someone to spoil. Fortunately we loved each other and had compromised.

Jesse took a tentative seat at the table, perching on the edge of the chair like he might need to bolt at any second. I sat across from him, giving him space while still being present. The silence stretched between us as he stared at the soup, his hands trembling slightly.

"You can eat," I said gently. "It's yours."

He picked up the spoon, dipping it into the broth before bringing it to his lips. The moment the flavor hit his tongue, his eyes widened slightly.

"Good?" I asked.

He nodded, taking another spoonful with more confidence. "Really good," he whispered, his voice still rough from smoke damage.

I pushed the bread closer to him. "Helps soak up the soup."

We sat in companionable silence as he ate, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. I didn't comment when he thought I wasn’t looking, tore off a piece of bread and tucked it into the pocket of his borrowed sweatpants. The need to hoard food was something I understood all too well.

"There's plenty more," I assured him. "And you're welcome to anything in the kitchen, anytime."

Jesse's eyes met mine briefly before darting away. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, so quietly I almost missed it.

I considered my answer carefully. "Because someone did it for me once, when I needed it."

His gaze lifted again, studying me with new interest. I saw the question there. “Who?”

I grinned thinking of the dynamo that took me in at fourteen. “My gran. Dad’s mom, and she told them both that if they ever even looked at me again, she was calling the press.”

Jesse’s eyes went up.

“My dad is a US senator,” I explained.

Jesse's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. "A senator?"

"Yep. Texas." I kept my voice casual, though this wasn't something I talked about often.

"Very conservative, very concerned with appearances.

Despite their brand of discipline meaning starving me and locking me up, I rebelled.

When they caught me with a neighbor at thirteen, he and my mother decided conversion therapy was the solution. "

Jesse winced, his knuckles whitening around the spoon.

"Fortunately, my grandmother intervened. She was this tiny Italian woman who could make grown men quake with a single look." I smiled at the memory. "She showed up at the facility, raised absolute hell, and brought me home with her to Georgia. My parents didn't fight it—couldn't risk the scandal."

Jesse set his spoon down carefully. "And they just... let you go?"

"They did. Gran told them that if they tried to force me back, she'd go to every news outlet in the country." I shrugged. "My father's political career meant more to him than I did."

Something flickered in Jesse's eyes—recognition, maybe. He took another careful swallow of soup before asking, "Is she still...?"

"She passed away five years ago," I said softly. "Left me this house and enough money to set up my restaurant without debt. I met Chris a year later."

Jesse nodded, absorbing this information. "My parents are religious," he finally offered, so quietly I had to lean forward to hear him. "When they found out I was gay, they decided to lock me up.” He looked up at me. “I ran before they got the chance.”

I hesitated, not wanting to push, but needing to understand. "How did you end up... there?"

Jesse's fingers tightened around the bowl, his gaze dropping to the table. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.

"Graham is… a powerful guy," he finally said, his voice hollow.

"I was seventeen, working two jobs, sleeping on friends' couches when I could. He started coming into the diner where I worked. He was older—forty—and I almost ran, but he seemed kind, sympathetic. Told me there was no way he would tell anyone where I was.” He scoffed.

“But not for the reasons he made out. Said he had a spare room in his house outside the city.

Offered it to me for cheap rent." A bitter smile twisted his lips. "Stupid, right? Textbook victim."

"No," I said firmly, fighting to keep my voice gentle despite the rage building inside me. "What happened to you wasn't your fault, Jesse." But powerful guy? What did that mean?

He shrugged, unconvinced. "The first month was normal.

Then he started getting possessive. Angry if I was late coming home even though I did nothing but work.

Checking my phone. I decided to leave, but.

.." His voice faltered. "He caught me packing.

Seemed all supportive and made me a coffee.

Even talked about bus routes. When I woke up, I was in the cage. "

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe through the white-hot anger. "And you were there for a year?"

Jesse nodded, his eyes distant. "It’s September, right?

He'd let me out, sometimes, in handcuffs, when he wanted.

.." He trailed off, and I didn't need him to finish the sentence.

"If I fought or disobeyed, he'd punish me.

" Jesse's voice was barely audible now. “I tried not eating, but it made him worse.”

I stared at the table, fighting to keep my expression neutral despite the fury building inside me. This Graham was a monster, a bully.

"When the fire started," Jesse continued, "I thought maybe he'd left something burning on purpose. To get rid of me. The evidence." He looked up, his blue eyes suddenly piercing. "But now I'm worried he'll come looking for me."

"He won't find you here," I said with absolute certainty. "Chris and I won't let anyone hurt you again."

Jesse's gaze wavered, like he wanted to believe me but couldn't quite bring himself to. I understood that too. Trust wasn't something that came easily after betrayal.

"You should eat more," I said gently, changing the subject. "Your body needs to heal."

He picked up his spoon again, taking a few more cautious swallows. I could see fatigue settling over him, his eyelids growing heavy despite his obvious attempts to stay alert.

"The guest room is yours for as long as you need it," I told him. "No strings attached, no expectations. Just a safe place to recover." I smiled. “My gran was always a big believer in paying it forward.”

Jesse set down his spoon, his bowl nearly empty. "But you don’t even know me," he whispered, the words clearly difficult for him.

I met his gaze steadily. "I know enough."

Jesse looked away, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. "What if he finds me? What if he comes here and hurts you or Chris because of me?"

"First," I said, keeping my voice calm despite the protective surge that rose in me, "Chris is a firefighter built like a linebacker who knows how to handle himself.

Second, I'm not exactly helpless. And third, this Graham doesn't know where you are.

" I knew Chris would have handled the insurance. No idea what he’d done, but we would sort it out.

Jesse's shoulders remained tense, unconvinced. I leaned forward slightly, making sure not to crowd him.

"Jesse, what happened last night—the fire—it was terrible. But it also created a clean break. You have a chance to start over."

His eyes widened slightly at this realization. "I hadn't thought of that," he whispered.

"Get some rest," I said, standing to clear his bowl. "Things often look clearer after sleep."

Jesse nodded, rising shakily from his chair. He swayed slightly, and I resisted the urge to steady him, knowing my touch might not be welcome.

"Thank you," he said, the words so soft I almost missed them. "For the food. And... everything."

I smiled. "Anytime."