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Chapter Twelve

The bingo card was full.

Twenty-five glittering star stickers lined the rows, each one a memory: Henry spoon-feeding him pudding while calling him “cuddle-bug.” A sticker for coloring a train with scented pencils that made Lincoln dizzy with sweetness.

One for the quiet thrill of watching a cartoon in his Daddy’s arms, chest to chest on the couch.

One for wearing a diaper while napping—though he hadn’t slept, just stared at the ceiling while the soft padding crinkled against his thighs.

He’d completed the list in a little over three days. And he’d meant every second.

The dynamic worked. It gave his brain a way to rest, to stop spiraling, to just be.

And yet…

It wasn’t enough.

He loved the softness. The giggles, the gentle scolding, the warmth of Henry brushing his hair and calling him good. But a gnawing hunger lived deeper down. Something the stickers couldn’t reach. He didn’t just need Daddy. He needed Master.

So, he’d asked.

One quiet morning, curled in Henry’s lap with syrup-sticky fingers and sleepy eyes, he’d whispered, “Can we go to the club?”

Henry had paused mid-sip of his coffee. “You want a play date, babyboy?”

Lincoln shook his head, burrowing close. “I want to be flogged. Restrained. Pushed. I want… to be yours again. All the way.”

And now the private room at Club Indigo was set. Every detail meticulously planned. Every candle positioned just so. Every restraint, every tool, every single thing arranged to re-create their beginning.

The first night Henry had taken him as his own.

Lincoln exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. His body still ached with the ever-present weight of fatigue, but for this—for Henry—he would push through.

His Daddy deserved this.

Deserved to see that despite everything—despite the distance, the doubts, the ways Lincoln had felt like less in his own skin—he still belonged to Henry. Body, mind, and soul.

The heavy door opened. Lincoln turned.

Henry stood in the doorway, dark eyes sweeping the room before settling on him. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just took him in. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows over his strong features, but it was the raw emotion in his expression that made Lincoln’s chest ache.

Slowly, Henry stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“You remember,” he murmured, voice rough with something Lincoln couldn’t quite name.

Lincoln’s pulse jumped. He swallowed. “Of course I do.”

Henry’s gaze flicked to the thick collar waiting on the nearby table. To the rich mahogany St. Andrew’s Cross—just like the one from their first scene. To the neatly coiled flogger, the carefully folded blindfold, the sturdy leather cuffs.

His eyes darkened.

Lincoln forced himself to stay still, to let Henry process this in his own time.

Finally, Henry exhaled. Long. Slow. Measured.

“Strip.”

Lincoln obeyed. No hesitation.

His fingers moved over buttons, over fabric, baring himself inch by inch under Henry’s quiet scrutiny.

He let his shirt slip from his shoulders. Toed off his shoes. Pushed his trousers and underwear down in one smooth movement, stepping out of them and shifting back into position.

Bare. Open.

Waiting.

Henry made a low, pleased noise.

“You’re beautiful, boy,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Always have been.”

Heat flared in Lincoln’s chest, spreading down his spine.

Henry reached for the collar, running his fingers along the inside before holding it out.

“Put it on me,” Lincoln whispered.

Henry arched a brow.

Lincoln held his gaze, pulse hammering. “Tonight, I need to choose this. I need you to see that I want this. That I’m not too tired, or too broken, or too anything to be yours.”

Henry stilled.

And then—after a breath, after a moment that stretched between them—he nodded.

Lincoln’s fingers trembled as he took the collar. As he lifted it to his throat. As he fastened the familiar weight into place, the cool leather grounding him, steadying him.

Henry watched. Always watching.

Then, quietly—reverently—he spoke.

“Good boy.”

Lincoln’s knees hit the floor.

His body knew this. The shape of his submission. The rightness of it.

Henry’s warm fingers tilted his chin up, forcing their eyes to meet.

“No more holding back,” Henry said, voice like steel-wrapped velvet. “Tonight, I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

And Lincoln?

He had never been so ready.