Page 66

Chapter Ten

The night air was crisp, cool against Henry’s heated skin as he walked, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

The streets of Kansas City stretched out before him, familiar yet foreign in his current state of mind.

He wasn’t sure where he was going—he only knew he couldn’t stay.

Not when the walls of their house felt suffocating.

Not when Lincoln’s words still rang in his ears.

“ I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

He had failed. Not in some catastrophic, world-ending way. No, this failure had been slow, creeping in like a shadow, taking root in the spaces between them until Lincoln was questioning everything they had built.

And Henry? He had let it happen.

His boots hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, grounding him as he sorted through the memories—twenty-five years of devotion, discipline, and trust. The first time he put a collar on Lincoln.

The first time his boy had knelt for him.

The years of pushing each other, of growing together, of learning every inch of what made the other tick.

He walked without any direction or plan. Just the sound of his own footsteps on cold pavement and the wind slicing through his coat. Lights blurred and he wiped the tears from his face with an angry swipe.

God!

He wanted to scream and rage, instead he walked.

Houses became restaurants, offices, and shops. He passed the occasional bus stop.

In his mind, Lincoln laughed with his head thrown back and his eyes alight. He saw him kneeling, calm and confident, that perfect stillness in his posture. He saw him writhing under the kiss of the cane, bound, trembling, glowing with submission. The man who took pain like a prayer.

They had built something powerful. Something sacred.

He had been Lincoln’s anchor and his safe place.

And yet, tonight, Lincoln had looked at him with something dangerously close to doubt.

Henry exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.

Being a Master isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present.

Somewhere along the way, he had stopped being that for Lincoln. He had gotten caught up in work, in responsibilities, and in his own exhaustion. He had started treating Lincoln’s struggles like something to fix instead of something to support.

No wonder his boy was pulling away.

Henry’s throat worked against the emotion rising in his chest.

He was Lincoln’s Master.

And it was damn well time he started acting like it.

But was it still what Lincoln needed?

What he needed?

Henry shoved his hands in his pants’ pockets and turned a corner, wind cutting across his face. The ache in his chest wasn’t about the Master and slave dynamic or about giving and receiving pain. But without a doubt in his mind, they both needed the lifestyle.

This was about what might still be there, buried under the hurt, the silence, the shift neither of them had asked for.

He pulled out his phone and hit a name without thinking.

“Derek,” he said when the call connected. “Can we talk?”

“Of course. Where and when?”

Henry glanced around and read the street sign across the intersection.

“Now, if possible. I’ve walked for miles. I’m near Sweet & Savory. Can you meet me there?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the spare key. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes?”

Henry nodded and remembered Derek couldn’t see him. “Thanks.”

He walked a few more blocks and reached the café five minutes later.

Henry hunched in his suit jacket and wished he pulled on his coat before walking out. His breath puffed in the chill.

The café windows were dark except for the soft glow over the register.

He hovered near the door and waited for Derek’s arrival.

The wind bit through his pants and made his suit jacket flap like a flag.

Grabbing his lapels and pulling the fabric around his upper body, he made himself smaller.

His ears burned, and he pulled up his shoulders, wishing he was a turtle.

Derek arrived in a beat-up silver Subaru that had seen better days. He parked and climbed out, frowning. “Damn it, man, you’re freezing. Come inside.”

Damn overprotective Doms – whether they were Masters or Daddies.

Henry followed him inside, saying nothing. The place was quiet, still carrying the faint scent of cinnamon and espresso. Derek flipped on a single overhead light, then made a beeline for the espresso machine.

Henry stood near the counter, watching him fumble with the portafilter and steam wand like it was a battle he fought nightly. Derek cursed under his breath when foam splattered onto the tile.

Henry’s lips twitched. Just a little.

Derek glanced back, caught the almost-smile. “Don’t judge me. Sonja’s the barista in this relationship. I’m just the moral support.”

Henry didn’t answer. He didn’t have the words yet.

Derek handed him a too-hot mug with too much foam. They sat by the window, both quiet for a moment. Henry held the mug in both hands, letting it thaw his fingers.

“It’s Lincoln,” he finally said.

“Yeah.” Derek dumped two packages of sugar in his coffee and stirred. “Figured.”

Henry exhaled. “He said he can’t do it anymore.”

Derek didn’t react. He just sipped his own coffee, waiting.

“I don’t know what to do.” Henry took a tentative sip from the coffee – it wasn’t that bad even if not up to Sweet and Savory standards. “We were Master and slave for twenty years. It wasn’t just kink—it was everything. It was us. But now…”

“Now he’s different.” Derek nodded and licked foam from his upper lip. “And you don’t know how to treat him.”

“I’ve tried to be careful.”

“Exactly.” Derek set his cup down. “Henry, you’re not a gentle Dom. You’re a sadist with a conscience. You give structure. You push. You demand. That’s what worked for Lincoln when he was at full capacity. But now he’s walking through life like someone with half a tank and no roadmap.”

Henry stared at the foam slowly disintegrating in his mug. Like his relationship?

“He still needs the lifestyle,” Derek continued. “But not like before. He needs care. Predictability. Love with edges.”

“I’m not…” Henry paused. “I’m not sure how to do soft.”

“You don’t need to become someone else. Just… shift the frame.” Derek leaned back. “You know how Sonja and I live, right?”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “You’re into DD/lg.”

“Yeah. I’m her Daddy. She’s my babygirl.

We still scene, but the focus is on emotional safety.

We have set up protocols and schedules. But we also use comfort objects.

I brush her hair when her arms are tired from carrying food around all day and give her foot rubs.

I remind her to eat and to hydrate. She cuddles into me and watches cartoons after work. ”

Henry blinked.

Derek smiled faintly. “You think Lincoln would hate that?”

“No,” Henry said slowly. “I think he’d fight it. Then melt into it the second he let go.”

Just like he did during the dance at the gala.

“There you go.” Derek leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “So, give him something to let go into. You can still have him kneeling if you want to or bring out the impact toys. But I think you both need something else at this point in your life. How about giving age regression a try?”

Henry stared at his cup.

He had paced the length of the bedroom until the carpet beneath his feet felt worn thin. The silence rang louder than any argument ever could. As soon as Henry turned and stormed out, he’d known he messed up.

That hadn’t gone well.

He’d pushed too hard. Or maybe not hard enough.

He’d told Henry the truth—he couldn’t keep pretending—but he hadn’t said what he wanted instead. Hadn’t said what he still needed. Still craved. The stability. The rules. The sense of belonging to someone stronger.

He stared at the phone again. It was a good thing he’d finally started charging it.

Picking it up, he dialed Henry’s number.

Voicemail.

Fuck!

“Hey,” he said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean… I just wanted to talk. Please call me.”

He hung up.

His thumb hovered over Jackson’s name. His police detective friend would have access to trackers and data.

What good was it to know a few cops if you couldn’t ask them to find your husband?

But he didn’t press the button.

Because maybe Henry didn’t want to be found.

He paced again. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath was shallow and unsteady.

The front door creaked open.

He froze mid-stride.

The footsteps that echoed down the hall were steady, familiar, unhurried and clearly Henry’s.

Lincoln’s stomach dropped. His feet wouldn’t move, but every cell in his body strained toward the sound. And then Henry appeared in the doorway, shadowed and solid in the dim light. Their eyes met. Lincoln’s knees went weak, and he started to kneel.

Henry crossed the room in three long strides and cupped his face with warm, strong hands, halting his downward track.

“Cuddle-bug,” he murmured in Lincoln’s ear. “Let me talk.”

Lincoln’s breath hitched. The pet name nearly undid him. His lips wobbled and his eyes burned. He pressed his mouth into a firm line.

Henry leaned in, resting his forehead against Lincoln’s. They stood for a moment, breathing each other in.

“I’m sorry I walked out earlier. Your words…” Henry trailed off. “I’ve been walking for hours. Trying to figure out what we are now. What we need. What you need.” He fell silent.

His silver-tongued Master at a loss for words?

But Lincoln wasn’t any better. His lips parted, but no sound came. He just stood there, drinking in the nearness like a man parched.

Henry’s thumb traced his cheekbone. The pad dragged lightly over his beard-stubbled skin. The touch ever so gentle, comforting, and anchoring. Lincoln closed his eyes for half a breath, barely resisting the instinct to lean into the touch like he used to before everything fractured.

“I think you still need rules. Boundaries. Someone to lean on when the world gets too loud.”

Henry’s words echoed through Lincoln like church bells in an empty chapel. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed being seen like this. Not as someone to be pitied, shielded, and handled like glass, but like someone who… mattered.

Henry pulled back just enough that Lincoln could make out his face. His expression was serious in a way that made Lincoln’s heart twist. Like he was afraid one wrong word would send them both tumbling off a cliff.

“But maybe,” Henry continued, voice gentling even more, “you don’t need a Master right now.”

Lincoln’s stomach clenched, a breath catching in his throat. Not out of fear—but because the word Master struck something raw and aching inside him.

It used to mean everything. Safety. Surrender. A trust so deep he could exhale his perfectionism and stop trying to hold the world together with both hands. With Henry, as his Master, he hadn’t needed to be the fixer or the man with all the answers. He’d been allowed to rest.

But now?

Now the word felt like a shirt he used to love that pulled too tight across the chest. Familiar, but wrong. Not because he wanted out of the dynamic but because he was terrified Henry did.

But if Henry let it go… what would be left?

He couldn’t be just a husband. Their closeness, that click between them, lived in the exchange of power. In being held when he let go.

His pulse pounded. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Maybe what you need,” Henry held Lincoln steady with his gaze alone, “is a Daddy.”

Lincoln felt the ground shift beneath him.

A flicker of something fragile bloomed in his chest. A fleeting something flickered to life, almost too quick to name and too precious to touch. His eyes burned, but he didn’t blink.

The silence that stretched between them was no longer suffocating. It shimmered—alive with things neither of them had dared say for months. Like maybe, just maybe, they could find their way.

Maybe not back to who they were but forward to something new.

His breath trembled as it left him. Something inside him unclenched. Not fully, but enough to let the words settle.

Hope wasn’t a thunderclap. It was this: a tentative hand still reaching. A voice speaking softly. A heart still willing to change for him.

Lincoln’s fingers twitched at his sides, aching to grab hold of Henry’s shirt, to pull him close and never let go.

But he stayed frozen, overwhelmed by the soft thrum of possibility waking inside his chest. For the first time in too long, he didn’t feel like an obligation.

Or a stranger in his own skin. He felt… wanted.

A tear slid down his cheek. He wasn’t even sure when it had started. Henry’s hand moved to wipe it away.

Lincoln didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But the weight in his lungs lifted, just a little. Enough to breathe again.

He tried to speak, but emotion crushed his voice flat. His throat worked, but all that came out was a breath. He didn’t know what this meant yet. Only that something in him ached with wanting and with relief.

And maybe… with the first spark of belonging again.

Henry smiled. “Let me take care of you differently. I don’t say we drop the respect and discipline, but let’s add schedules, enforced bedtime, and things like that. Let me hold you when it gets too hard. You’d still be mine, cuddle-bug. Just… more from a nurturing perspective.”

The words shattered something in Lincoln.

And built something new.

“I think I’d like that,” he whispered.

Henry kissed him. There was no rush or heat in the affection. Just the steady press of lips that asked for nothing and offered everything.

Lincoln’s breath caught.

His eyes fluttered closed as Henry’s mouth lingered against his, like he had all the time in the world. Like Lincoln was worth waiting for.

The knot of dread in his chest loosened another notch. He hadn’t realized how tight it had wound until the tension began to melt beneath that kiss, like frost giving way to spring.

Henry’s hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the hair there. The blast of dominance shot straight to his core.

A quiet noise escaped Lincoln’s throat, not quite a sob, not quite relief.

Something in between. His hands, idle and uncertain for too long, finally moved and curled into the front of Henry’s shirt, gripping soft cotton like it might dissolve if he let go.

He didn’t kiss back at first. Just let it happen.

Let it land. Because something in him needed this—to be kissed like he was still loved.

When Henry finally drew back, just far enough to breathe, Lincoln leaned forward instinctively, chasing the connection before he could second-guess it.

Henry chuckled. “Horny little cuddle-bug.” He tightened the grip on Lincoln’s nape. “Let Daddy hold you.”

And for the first time in months, the ache in Lincoln’s chest felt less like an open wound and more like a scar that might one day fade.