Page 56

Chapter One

The stairs loomed before Lincoln like a mountain, each step promising a slow, grueling climb.

He braced a hand on the banister and drew in a breath before pulling himself up.

Each step dragged, his muscles resisting like he was wading through wet sand.

A dull ache curled around his calves, creeping up his thighs, the fatigue clinging to him like a second skin.

His breath came shallow and slow, and each inhale pressed against his ribs like a weighted vest. The hallway stretched ahead, longer than it should have been, the distance between him and his room stretching with every sluggish step.

The thick carpet cushioned his bare feet, soft and inviting, but instead of comfort, it only reminded him of what he had lost. The plush fibers should have been familiar—once, they had been a welcome surface beneath his knees, a quiet indulgence of submission, of patience, of waiting.

Now, they mocked him, whispering of months spent standing, moving, enduring, but never kneeling.

His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, aching for direction, for the simple relief of placing them on his thighs, palms up, where they belonged.

But there was no reason to kneel, no command to follow, no presence behind him offering the steady weight of a guiding hand.

Just silence.

There was a time when he’d taken these stairs without a second thought, his steps sure, his body strong.

He used to bound up them two at a time, Henry’s voice trailing after him, teasing, laughing, always close behind.

Kneeling had been effortless—not just because he needed it, but because his body had obeyed him without hesitation.

Back then, surrender had been second nature, woven into his bones as easily as breath.

Now, even the thought of it felt distant, like remembering a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

Lincoln rubbed his forehead as he made his way to his room— his room.

Not theirs. Not anymore. The word still felt foreign, like an ill-fitting suit, something he’d never meant to claim as his own.

Henry had moved him out months ago, insisting he needed the space, the rest. At the time, Lincoln had agreed. It had made sense.

But standing in the doorway now, staring at the neatly made bed that never held more than one body, all he felt was the weight of absence.

The air in the room was still, untouched, holding none of Henry’s warmth.

None of his scent. The walls were bare of memories, no framed photos, no lingering echoes of shared laughter.

His chest tightened, the pressure constant, dull but unyielding.

He swallowed, but the thickness in his throat remained, refusing to ease.

He had thought he’d grow used to it, but the loneliness had settled in like an unwanted houseguest, heavy and unmoving. He ran a hand down his face, exhaustion dragging at his limbs, but the kind of rest he needed wasn’t the kind that came from solitary sleep.

If Henry gave him a list of what to do—even simple things like get dressed, brush teeth, rest and eat healthy—he might be able to get through the day.

A breath shuddered through him, slowing as his mind drifted back—back to a time when this house had been alive.

When the night air had carried the quiet murmur of Henry’s voice, when strong hands had traced the tension from his muscles, grounding him, holding him.

The phantom sensation of Henry’s touch prickled along his skin, fleeting and cruel in its absence.

His fingers curled into his palm, and he dug his nails in until he felt the bite of pain, desperate for something solid, something real.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to recall the details—the smooth press of Henry’s body against his, the warmth of his breath at the shell of his ear, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat he had once fallen asleep to.

But no matter how hard he tried, the memories slipped through his grasp, leaving only longing in their wake.

A sharp pang curled through his stomach, part nausea, part grief.

He wasn’t sure which was worse—the painful clarity of what he had lost, or the way time had blurred the edges of it, making it harder and harder to hold onto.

The last time he truly felt safe had been after a long caning.

His skin had felt hot and humming. Henry had caught him as he sagged, murmuring praise while wrapping the softest blanket around his naked, trembling body.

Lincoln had been floating, but Henry had grounded him with nothing more than nearness and strength.

He’d held him through the shudders, his hard body offering silent support.

Henry had stroked his hand through Lincoln’s hair and murmured sweet praise, until the world came back into focus.

He missed that. Not just the intensity of the scenes, but the care afterward and the mental closeness. There had been a wordless understanding that lingered in the quiet, when Henry held him like nothing else in the world mattered.

It was gone.

Lincoln exhaled slowly and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

He pressed his palm flat against the mattress beside him—cold.

The space where Henry should be had gone untouched for months, but he still reached for it anyway.

Out of habit or stupidity, he did not know.

He let his fingers curl into the sheets, clenching his jaw against the burn in his throat. He should be past this by now.

A dull ache settled in his chest, a familiar pressure that never truly eased, heavier than the exhaustion that clung to his limbs. It wasn’t just fatigue—it was something deeper, something that lived in his bones, weighing him down even when he was still.

With a sigh, Lincoln sank onto the edge of the mattress, rubbing his hands together.

His fingers moved absently, restless against his palms, the motion a poor substitute for the touch he craved.

He caught himself doing it often now—fidgeting, searching for something to hold onto, something solid in a world that felt increasingly distant.

Before, there had always been something to do. Cases to prepare, arguments to refine, a purpose to throw himself into. And at home, Henry had been the anchor that kept him steady, the force that pulled him back when he got lost in his own mind.

Now?

Lincoln exhaled sharply, the sound hollow in the silence, and reached for his phone.

His thumb swiped over the screen, scrolling through notifications he had no real interest in, chasing a distraction that never came.

The screen’s cold glow illuminated nothing but an empty inbox, the absence of messages pressing against his ribs like an accusation.

Of what, he wasn’t sure.

Something to fill the silence. A reason to stop feeling like he was floating outside of his own life.

The screen refreshed, a new message popping to the top of the list.

A message from Henry.

Working late at the club tonight. Don’t wait up.

Lincoln’s fingers hovered over the screen, debating whether to reply. What could he even say? I miss you. I need you. The words felt too small, too fragile, like they might break under the weight of everything left unsaid.

And what if Henry didn’t need him?

The thought curled around his ribs, squeezing tight.

He stared at the message, at the simple, impersonal words that told him everything and nothing. Working late at the club tonight. Don’t wait up. No warmth, no invitation to talk, just a quiet confirmation that Henry’s nights were spent somewhere Lincoln wasn’t.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but no words came.

The past year had been one long exercise in second-guessing himself.

Every time he thought about reaching out, something held him back.

A quiet voice in the back of his mind whispering that Henry had already done enough—more than enough. His patience, his care, his love.

And Lincoln?

He’d been stuck in place, waiting for his body to feel like his own again, for the fog in his mind to lift, for something—anything—to click into place and make things right.

Maybe Henry was tired of waiting for that too.

Lincoln locked his phone and set it face down on the nightstand.

Whatever was left between them, it wouldn’t be fixed with a text message.

And right now, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to try.

His throat tightened, and he rubbed the back of his neck, absently massaging the tension that never fully went away.

He wasn’t sure when it had started—the feeling of being out of sync with himself. It had crept in slowly, a whisper of doubt at first. Small things—hesitating before speaking, overthinking responses, wondering if Henry noticed the way Lincoln avoided looking at himself in the mirror these days.

He had always taken care of himself, taken pride in his appearance. Now, there were mornings he barely had the energy to dress for work. It was easier to hide behind suits and routine, to let the world believe he was still the same Lincoln Andrews.

But he wasn’t.

And Henry must have noticed.

The sheets barely rustled as Lincoln lay back, staring up at the ceiling. The quiet stretched around him, wrapping tight around his chest. He shifted, resisting the impulse to grab one of Henry’s old t-shirts from the dresser.

Pathetic.

He clenched his jaw. He wasn’t some love-struck boy, desperate for scraps of attention. He was a grown man, a submissive who had spent over twenty years at the feet of a Master who had never once let him fall.

So why did it feel like he was slipping away?

Lincoln turned onto his side, exhaling as the weight of exhaustion finally won out over his restless thoughts. His eyes drifted shut, but sleep didn’t come easily.

Down the hall, Henry’s door remained closed.

And for the first time in over twenty-five years, Lincoln wasn’t sure if it would ever open for him again.