Page 2 of Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

Chapter Two

Hunter

I get to Flannagan’s at a quarter to seven, ordering myself a local beer before sliding into a corner booth with both privacy and a perfect view of the entrance. I still have no idea what to expect from this encounter. I’d spent most of last night and a good part of today debating calling Travis to ask if he knew what this might be about, but it felt too much like a violation. Maison hadn’t asked for me to keep this a secret, but the desperation—the fear— in his blue eyes had said enough.

Maison shows up two minutes late, looking even more terrified than he did at the store as he scans the area. His dark hair is a chaos of loose waves, one side worse than the other. I realize why when he brings his right hand up to nervously tug at the messy locks. It’s unfair that he can look like a complete wreck while also handsome as all hell. Even just in light jeans and a dark blue hoodie, the man is pulling off the sexy boy-next-door thing that I hadn’t realized until right this moment very well deserves to be a kink all on its own.

Not wanting him to have to be anxious any longer, I go retrieve him. I have my go-to calming smile on my face, the one I reserve for shy and skittish subs, but it becomes a little hard to maintain when his eyes finally lock with mine. There’s so much going on in that head of his, all broadcasted in the shades of blue. Fuck, the poor man is drowning in emotions and worries.

I don’t know what exactly he needs from me yet, but at this moment, I already know I’m going to give it to him.

“Maison,” I say, my tone soft but firm. “I’m glad you made it. I have a booth. Come.”

Surprisingly, the man follows without so much as a frown at being given an order. With how prickly he got at the store yesterday with his just friends comment, I had assumed he’d want to draw an immediate line. Maybe once he has a beer and takes a few deep breaths he’ll remember he doesn’t want to give me any leeway. Or maybe the boy-next-door was lying to me last night.

A server appears out of nowhere, asking Maison what he’d like to eat. He doesn’t even bother to look at her as he mumbles, “I’ll have an IPA. Whatever’s on tap.”

If I was his dominant, I’d be extremely unimpressed with the lack of manners. Since I’m not, I swallow any comment I may have with a mouthful of my beer.

He doesn’t seem to be willing to start the conversation, his eyes glued to the coaster between his hands. I decide to take a little weight off his shoulders by going first. It’s the least I can do when the man is sitting there looking like I’m about to sentence him to death. “I know Carter and Travis are new to this area. Are you as well?”

“Yeah.”

I pause, waiting for more. He just continues to stare down. I think his leg is bouncing beneath the table. “Where are you from originally?”

He shifts in his seat, lifting his gaze just enough to scan our surroundings while still avoiding looking at me. “Here and there.”

“You moved around a lot growing up?”

“Not growing up, but as an adult. I’m—” He pauses, grabbing at his messy hair again. “I was in the military for a while.”

That tracks. It accounts for the way he seems to hold himself, as well as his hypervigilance right now regarding his surroundings. It also has the night he barged in on me with a gun making a little more sense. I had actually started to wonder recently if Travis was ex-military or ex-law enforcement. Maybe they served together?

“Thank you for your service,” I say, knowing it’s the right thing regardless of the questions I have surrounding him and his circumstances.

He visibly flinches, his hands curling into fists on the table. His knuckles are bruised. There are little scars among the darker coloring, bright white slashes like they’ve been cut open a few too many times. “Don’t.”

“Don’t thank you for your service?” I ask with a frown.

“No.” He lifts his eyes, showing me a glimpse of the kind of pain I’ve only seen once before—in his brother, the night he broke down on my living room floor. “Please.”

I nod. “Okay.”

The server arrives with his beer, placing it on the coaster between his fists. He at least grunts a “thank you” before lifting the glass and draining half of it in a single go. I raise my eyebrow, not concerned with hiding my thoughts in my expression. He’s no longer looking at me anyway.

“Shall we dive right in then?” I ask him after another minute of tense silence.

“Sure.” He clears his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You said you need my help.” I rest my forearms on the table and lean forward. His eyes immediately lock on my hands. “And from your follow-up question, I’m assuming that help is in my capacity as a dom.”

He nods.

“Joking and sexual innuendos aside, are you a sub looking for a dom?”

“No. I—no.” He tears his gaze away from my hands and finishes his beer. Then he stares down at the empty glass for a long time. I’m considering what else to ask him when he finally says, “My boyfriend is the sub looking for a dom.”

Oh .

I’m not sure what I feel at this moment. Disappointment, maybe. Intrigue, definitely. Maybe a spark of anticipation. Will I at least get to watch this beautiful specimen in action? Does he want to watch me and his boyfriend together? Are they looking for a third? Something stirs at the thought of that last one. I’m sure whoever this man is dating is just as beautiful as he is. Maybe I’m disappointed that Maison isn’t here for me to become his dom, but there are plenty of other options that could be equally as exciting. Maybe even more so.

“What do you want from me?” I ask him, deciding it’s better to just ask instead of sit here wondering. When Maison just shakes his head, I try to give him a nudge by bringing up the most likely option. “Are you hoping I’ll train you to be a dom?”

That’s not rare in the community. Doms do it often enough. I’ve only done it once in an official capacity, though I’ve mentored plenty of doms when it comes to particular skills. Someone even did it for me, when I first started out. An older gentleman in California, during my time at college. He was specifically interested in ropework and rigging, and his best friend was a wizard with a flogger. The two of them built me into the dom I am today. Well, mostly, anyway. I’ve definitely picked up a few of my own things along the way.

“No,” Maison says, his voice choked. “I don’t want— no .”

I blink. “Okay. What is it that you do want then?”

“I don’t want any of it,” he growls, the words so low I almost miss them beneath the noise of the bar. He shakes his head and starts to stand. “This was a mistake.”

“Sit down,” I order without meaning to, my tone clipped and authoritative. It’s my dom voice as my friends and subs like to call it. A voice that leaves no room for argument. A voice that makes naturally submissive men want to fall straight to their knees and obey.

Maison hesitates, but then he sits. Interesting . I tuck that away for later.

“Explain yourself,” I say, keeping my voice the same since it seems to be working on him. “Now.”

He inhales shakily before finally—fucking finally—lifting his eyes to meet mine again. The turmoil in them steals my breath. “I need you to train me to like it.”

Wait—what?

“To like what? Submission? Or dominance?”

“I—” He pauses to groan, his elbows resting on the table so he can grab fistfuls of his hair and tug. Our server passes us by. I gesture to his empty glass and mouth a thanks when she nods and heads to the bar to get him another. I certainly don’t want to get the man drunk, but some liquid courage never hurt anyone when it came to a difficult conversation. I even let him wait until the drink is brought to him. Sure enough, he downs a quarter of it before forcefully placing the glass back down and word-vomiting, “He needs me to want to dominate him. It’s not enough for me to pretend. He said it feels like he’s the dom, ordering me to be dominant, instead of him being the sub? I don’t fucking know. And—well, there are kinks he wants, a fucking lot of them, that I don’t want, and I thought maybe you could teach me how to want them. At least some of them. Because what I can offer right now isn’t—it isn’t fucking enough .”

“Alright.” I sit back, digesting the information for a moment. “I’m going to assume from the way you’re talking that the two of you have tried to have a dominant and submissive dynamic already?”

“Yes.” He rubs a hand over his face. “It wasn’t good.”

“Was that the only thing that went badly? Him feeling like you didn’t want it?”

He shrugs, looking down at his drink. His leg is bouncing beneath the table again, making his body and the table slightly shake. I lift my arms off the surface to keep from feeling the vibrations. “It was kind of a hot mess all around. It fucked with my head, trying to be that for him. I hate it.”

“You hate being dominant?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracks. He drinks more of his beer, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping them that way even after he’s placed the glass back down. “It—it makes me sick. It makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my fucking skin.” He opens his eyes, staring blankly at the table ahead of him. There’s something haunted in the look. Something worse than the desperation of before. “It’s too much. I can’t do it. I hate it.”

My heart aches. If he hates it, I can’t fix that. Not ethically. Some doms are willing to condition subs, and I’m sure it could work the opposite way, but that’s not me. I don’t fuck with the mind like that. I can’t help him with this.

“How important is it to your boyfriend that the two of you practice that dynamic together?”

“He claims he’s fine without it, but…” He closes his eyes again. His expression is nothing short of grief. “He needs it. I know he needs it. And I don’t think it’s just about sex. Like, it’s not just about getting off for him. It’s his mind that needs it, too.”

Well, fuck.

“Maison, I can teach you how to be a dom.” I brace myself for the pain I’m about to see on his face. “But I can’t teach you how to want it.”

Sure enough, his entire expression crumples. He presses a hand over his face to hide from me. I hate that I don’t know him well enough to comfort him. I don’t know what he needs to hear right now. Hell, I don’t even know enough details to give good advice. I’m sure there are options they can consider—

I startle as he suddenly shoves out of the booth and starts walking away, a few crumpled bills beside his drink that I hadn’t even noticed he’d placed. I call after him as I frantically dig out some money of my own. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

Fuck.

I drop the first bill I get my hand on, not caring that it’s going to be a ridiculously large tip, and hurry after him. My heart drops for a moment as I reach the cold air to find that he’s nowhere in sight. Then I hear a grunt.

He’s in the alley around the corner, his forehead pressed to the damp brick of the building as snow lightly falls onto his hair and shoulders. One of his hands is braced near his face. The other is hanging limply beside his hip, covered in blood. My throat goes tight at the sight.

“ Maison .”

“I’m being dramatic,” he says, his voice thick with unshed tears and anguish. “Just give me another minute.”

Anyone else, and I’d probably agree. Yes, this is dramatic. Yes, this is how teenage boys behave when they’re upset. But something deep inside of this man is hurting. I think that maybe something has been hurting for a very long time. And that erases everything else.

I walk up to him, mindful that he’s not a submissive, not single, and a man who very well may be armed considering our first encounter. He doesn’t flinch when I place a hand between his shoulder blades. A soft whimper escapes him instead.

“I’ve done bad things,” he chokes. His muscles tense beneath my hand as he seems to press his forehead harder against the brick. “I ruin things, Hunter. I’ve—I’ve had to make decisions that—that hurt people. I’m so fucking tired of hurting people. I’m so fucking tired of being the one in control. I don’t wanna do it anymore. I can’t do it anymore. He wants me to be this person, this dominant personality, and—and I—I can’t. I can’t. I can’t . I’m gonna ruin it. I ruin everything I touch.”

I don’t believe that, not for a fucking second, but I also don’t think he trusts me nearly enough for me to convince him otherwise. Not yet, at least.

“Maison, breathe.”

He sobs, the sound awful and harsh in the otherwise silent night. His legs buckle. I catch him before he falls, using the building to help me keep him on his feet since he’s a fucking giant. “Help me. Please. I can’t ruin this. I can’t lose him too. Not him. Not him, too.”

“Okay.” I run my fingers through his snow-damp hair, hushing him as he cries harder. It’s the strangest feeling as I realize I’m both completely in my element and entirely outside of it. I know how to help him, I know how to handle this breakdown, but I don’t know how to do it as someone who isn’t a dominant and I don’t have his permission to be that right now. Only you, Hunter. Only you could get yourself into such a fucking mess. “It’s going to be okay, Maison.”

He shakes violently as he catches his breath and calms himself down. Then he turns just enough to show me his glazed blue eyes and croaks, “ How? ”

I never knew I was a masochist, but apparently I am. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out.”

The look he gives me is so unbelievably full of hope that it makes my insides quake.

I am in so much trouble.