Page 32

I nod, but my voice comes again, barely there. “For all of it.”

His eyes hold mine.

And I feel him searching—not for lies, not for masks. Just for me.

He nods once. “Always, little one.”

The endearment wraps around me, warm and unexpected. A strange ache rises low in my belly, unfamiliar and sweet. It’s not just what he says. It’s how he says it. Like I’m already his.

Silence drapes around us again. In that always.

It’s heavier, but not tense. Full of what we haven’t said yet. Things I know we still need to talk about. Yesterday, and everything that happened.

The field. The tracker.

Cal coming for me when I couldn’t say yes.

He waits. Doesn’t push, just gives me the space to reach.

Just lets me choose.

And I do.

I lift my eyes again. “What happens now?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a shift in tone. Maybe for his expression to harden, just a little. But he’s still just… Cal.

Steady. Quiet. Watching me like nothing I say or do could make him let go.

Then he squeezes my hand.

Just once.

Grounding.

“We talk about what happened,” he says, voice low and even.

My pulse trips, a warm flicker lighting in my chest.

Not in fear, but in knowing.

I already knew this was coming.

But hearing it—spoken like that—makes it real.

He doesn’t stop there.

“But not to shame you,” he says. “Not to punish.”

My eyes lift to his.

His voice softens, but the edges stay firm.

“To protect you.”

I swallow. Hard. And still, I nod.

Because I get it.

Because part of me wants that. To be protected from my own recklessness. To be kept.

“You broke a rule meant to keep you safe, little one.”

There it is.

A flush creeps up my neck as shame tries to take root. But it doesn’t find ground—not with the way he’s looking at me. There’s no anger there. No judgment. Just calm. Steady. Certain. It holds me in place, keeps the panic from rising. I breathe in slowly, grounding myself in his presence.

“I know,” I whisper.

His thumb brushes along my knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth.

“And because of that,” he says, “you’re getting a spanking.”

Heat rushes up my spine and blooms across my cheeks. My breath catches low in my belly—tight and warm and almost overwhelming. Not from fear. From the weight of what it means. From knowing he means it.

I don't look away.

I can’t.

“You’ll go over my knee. You’ll feel every bit of what I need you to remember.”

My thighs tense instinctively, and my breath hitches again, this time lower, heavier. It lands not just in my ears, but in my spine. In my pulse.

Cal’s eyes stay on mine, unwavering. One hand still holds mine, grounding, but the other lifts—to stroke down the length of my arm in a slow, steady pass, anchoring me to him even as his words lift every hair on my skin.

His voice stays calm. Controlled. But there’s a current beneath it now, something deep and protective that makes my whole body go still.

“And afterward, I’ll hold you.”

That nearly undoes me.

I bite my lip, but don’t pull away. Not from his touch. Not from the promise in his tone.

“You’ll cry. And I’ll still hold you.”

The words hit low, warm and steady, and I feel my heart stutter before it steadies again—like something inside me just... lets go. My fingers tremble slightly in his, but I don’t pull away. I lean closer instead, needing the promise in his voice as much as the hand that holds me.

He cups my cheek. His thumb strokes once, softly.

“You don’t have to do anything but stay with me.”

I nod. Because I want to. Because I will.

And then—so gently it makes my chest ache—

“Do you understand?”

I think I nod.

I think I understand.

But still, something in me catches.

The room feels too quiet all of a sudden, like his words are still echoing through it.

My cheeks burn and my breath stutters. I look down at our hands, still wrapped together, and then up again—just enough to meet his eyes.

And then I say it.

Or try to.

“You’re going to…” I pause. Swallow hard. My voice is barely a whisper. My voice is barely there, and it scrapes a little on the way out—tight and uncertain. “You’re going to… spank me?”

It feels strange in my mouth.

Not silly. Not dirty. Just… real.

Too real.

His expression doesn’t change.

Not a flicker.

He nods once. Calm. Steady.

“Yes, little one.”

And it’s the way he says it—like it’s something steady. Like it’s care, through and through. Like it’s just a form of care, the kind that leaves no room for pretending you’re fine when you’re not.

My shoulders drop the slightest bit, a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding slipping free. Because this isn’t about pain; it’s about belonging.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

Like it’s okay.

Like I’m okay.

I don’t move. Don’t speak. Not right away.

The air feels thick, but not suffocating. Like a pause I’ve stepped into. Like time is giving me room.

He still has my hand. I didn’t realize how tight I’m holding until I feel the ache in my fingers.

But he doesn’t shift, doesn’t rush me. His thumb traces that same rhythm—soft and steady, like a heartbeat outside my own.

My eyes sting, though I’m not crying.

It’s just… a lot.

The kindness. The certainty. The fact that he hasn’t backed off even once, and somehow, it doesn’t feel like pressure.

It feels like structure.

Like safety, in a shape I don’t fully know how to stand in yet.

I open my mouth. Close it again.

Then, smaller still—

“You really think I need it?”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“I know you do,” he says. Quiet and unshakeable. “You broke a rule. One that protects you. And I know how easy it is to let the world convince you that your safety doesn’t matter.”

I blink hard.

“But it does, Emmy,” he murmurs. “You do.”

And that’s when the tears come.

Silent. Just two.

But they slide warm down my cheeks and he sees them—of course he does. He brushes one away with the back of his knuckle, so gently it steals the breath from my lungs.

“I’m not angry,” he says. “I’m not punishing.”

He leans in just enough that I feel his presence like a weight across my chest.

“I’m keeping you.”

And God—

I’ve never wanted to be kept more in my life.

He stands. Reaches out a hand.

“Come here.”

I hesitate. Just a breath.

Then I shake my head, shrinking smaller in the chair.

Because I know what a spanking means. Not just pain. Not just heat.

But being seen.

Exposed.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

I’ll be across his lap. My body bare. His hands on skin no one’s touched in years.

And I can’t pretend that doesn’t scare me.

I shift where I sit. Squirm, just a little.

It’s the anticipation thrumming under my skin, a slow current winding through me, tight and sparking with nerves. The weight of vulnerability pressing on my chest. My limbs feel too aware, every nerve lit up, waiting.

His gaze doesn’t harden. Doesn’t narrow. But I feel him watching. I feel him know.

His hand reaches, not to tug—but to rest over mine again—warm, steady, so much bigger than mine.

“Emmy.”

Just my name.

And somehow, it settles me more than a whole speech might.

“I want to make sure you know something,” he says, voice low. Measured. “Before anything else happens.”

I look up at him. Slowly.

His thumb brushes along the edge of my hand.

“You have a word,” he says. “If it ever feels too much. Too fast. Too anything.”

My chest goes still.

“You say it,” he adds. “And everything stops.”

I swallow. My voice barely makes it out.

“What is it?”

“Red.”

He says it like it means something.

Like it’s a lifeline, not a test.

“If you say it,” he murmurs, “we stop. Immediately. No questions. No frustration. Just me, holding you.”

My throat tightens.

I nod.

But something in me still hesitates. Still braces.

He squeezes my hand gently.

“You’re not powerless here, little one,” he says. “You’re mine. That means I protect you—even from this. Even from me.”

Something in me eases. Not completely.

But enough.

Because he saw it. Because he gave me a way out before I even asked for one.

And that? That feels like love.

My lips part. But I can’t bring myself to speak.

And he waits.

One more heartbeat.

Then he gently takes my hand. And I let him.

Because even though my legs feel unsteady, even though my chest is tight, there’s something in the way he moves—calm, unshakable—that makes it feel like all I have to do is follow.

He leads me to the couch. Sits down, slow and sure, spreading his legs slightly as he settles.

And pulls me gently between his knees.

“This is going to be on the bare,” he says quietly. “Not to shame you. Not to humiliate. But because it’s real. And I need you to feel it.”

My face burns, and I can’t help but suck my head.

His hands rest lightly on my hips. Not holding. Just there. Close enough that I could lean in and he’d catch me.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Because my hands are shaking. I try to hide it, tucking them into the folds of the quilt still draped around my shoulders.

But he notices. Of course he does.

“Emmy,” he says, soft. Steady.

I shake my head.

“I don’t—Cal, I don’t think I need that,” I whisper. “I promise I won’t break any more rules. I don’t want to be too much trouble. And this feels like… like trouble.”

He doesn’t react right away.

Just lets the words land.

Then he reaches up.

Takes both my trembling hands in his.

Lays them gently against his chest.

“Sweet girl,” he says, quiet but firm, “you are not trouble. Not now. Not ever.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

My vision blurs.

“You have a word,” he reminds me. “You remember it?”

“Red,” I whisper.

He nods.

“And if you say it,” he says, voice low, full of that quiet steel that wraps around me like protection, “we stop. Right then. No shame. No disappointment.”

I nod, though it’s barely a movement.

“And if you don’t say it,” he continues, “then I’m going to give you exactly what you need to remember next time.”

The air in the room stills. My pulse roars in my ears.

And still—I don’t say it.