Page 14

~ SAM ~

The past week had been hell. Bridget and I video called every night on the burner phones, but it was like watching a building crumble in slow motion. Bridget cranked tighter every day, spoke less, and the shadows under her eyes grew deeper. If I hadn't known I would see her in the flesh today, I would have given in last night when she wouldn't even flirt with me.

But now I was here and she wasn’t. I was ready to bite something.

We were back in that swanky conference room, but this time it was me sitting in the hot seat, facing the camera, answering the questions. At least, I would be. They were still trying to figure out the mic.

Slumped in the leather upholstered chair, I watched Jeremy, sitting across the table, his face a blank mask. He refused to meet my eyes. But I hadn’t missed that he kept looking at the door. And every time he did, his jaw tightened more.

He didn’t know where she was either.

While I watched, he pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and tapped on it for a few seconds, then stared.

Nothing.

Our eyes hooked as he slipped it back into his jacket, but he kept scanning the room like he didn’t even see me .

My hands itched.

I’d left my burner phone hidden at home to be safe, but that meant I had no way to check in. If she didn’t get here, God would have to talk me off the ledge of feeding Jeremy’s ass to his face.

What did you do to scare her, you bastard?

My lawyer leaned over me, adjusting the position of the mic on the table and using the opportunity to murmur in my ear when no one else would hear.

“You look like you’re about to strangle someone. They’re turning the cameras on. Relax.”

I nodded and rubbed my face, reminding myself that this was all part of the process. That if I wanted to keep her safe from Jeremy’s interference, then I had to play the game. But I never imagined she’d miss this chance to be in the same room. And that begged the question, what wasn’t she telling me?

I was barely halfway through another silent prayer for God to keep her safe and bring her here when the door clicked and swung silently open, and she stepped in.

Leggings. A hoodie big enough to be loose on me. Her hair tucked behind her ears. No make-up. And her big eyes down on the floor.

My fingers tightened on the arm of the chair until she lifted her chin and our eyes caught for the barest second, then we both looked away.

Thank you, Jesus. She was safe. For now.

As my entire body flooded with relief, a simmering coil of anger right under my ribs flared hotter.

I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew these assholes were messing with her head, and since I couldn't touch her, I couldn't break through.

I needed to fucking touch her.

It felt like I was sweating under my skin.

While Bridget slipped into the chair next to Jeremy, the lawyers spoke quietly, testing the sound, making sure the camera was correctly framed.

When Jeremy leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and Bridget went still, I froze .

For a split second, every dark, violent tendency I’d ever had rushed out of the cave where I’d stuffed it and roared to the surface.

I’d put a tracker on his car one night when he was working late and use it to follow him. I only needed one night when he got out on an empty street, or parked outside his house. Just a few seconds in the dark when he was preoccupied with something else and I could slip up behind him and cut off his air—

“Mister Priestley,” the Court Reporter’s voice broke through my reverie. I was sweating. She didn’t have a clue. “I understand you’ve chosen to give your oath on the bible. If you’d please place one hand on the Bible here and raise the other, we can get started.”

I did as she asked, breathing deep to calm my system.

“Do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony you shall give in this deposition will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

“I do.”

I turned back to the table to find Bridget staring at me, her eyes wide, drinking me in. Her eyes were gravity, pulling me in. The lawyer spoke again and I needed to focus, but something was wrong. I could feel it. Something was tearing her up and she wasn’t talking about it. A quiet Bridget was a dangerous one. Usually to herself.

As I answered the opening questions by rote—my name, address, my time in prison—I barely heard the words because she was still staring and even though I forced myself to keep my eyes on the lawyer, I could feel her gaze on me like lasers raking down my cheek.

She needed me. The question was, did she know it? Was she getting ready to flee? Or worse?

Every night I was plagued by fears of her losing her shit and putting herself out as bait to those sick fucks again. My mind conjured images of her on dark streets or in shadowy parks, running from some psycho who didn’t know anything except his own animal instincts and—

“Mister Priestley?”

I blinked and focused again .

The man was a professional, but there was a gleam in his eye like he knew what I was thinking. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes. Yes, please.”

Polite. Calm. And giving no hint of my desire to close hands on Jeremy’s throat—and this guy too while I was at it—I forced myself to stay present, praying I could sustain it. I needed to get this right.

“Part of your charges are a breach of parole for prior convictions. Have you faced any further charges or complaints since leaving the state penitentiary?”

“Objection. Relevance and prejudice,” my lawyer growled, but he’d already warned me that I’d have to answer every question even if he objected. They would work hard to keep those answers out of court.

Bridget’s lawyer looked smug and waited for me to answer.

“I haven’t had any convictions or charges of any kind since I left prison. Until now,” I added reluctantly.

The lawyer nodded, flipping open a folder in front of him and scanning a page. “Since leaving prison have you continued working as what is commonly referred to as a Primal Dom?”

I knew it was coming, but it still made me brace. “Yes.”

“Please explain what practices are involved in being a Primal Dom?” he looked up at me and there was a smug gleam in his eye.

I rolled my jaw. I’d faced skepticism and fear from people ever since I’d discovered my appetite for this kind of work. I knew how it sounded to someone unfamiliar with what we did. I also knew how to answer those questions before they were asked. This fucker wasn’t going to corner me.

“It is a consensual agreement between two adults—females, in my case—in which the Dom… pursues them.”

“Stalks them?”

“Objection!”

“I follow them to catch them unaware—but only after they have asked me to,” I said tightly. “Stalking is illegal and intimidating. What I do is… invited.”

“Part of this practice is termed hunting. As in, hunting women , correct?”

“Objection—prejudicial. ”

I took a deep breath. “The chase is often called a hunt because it’s sport. But the women always know it will occur, even if they don’t know when. We’ve discussed it in detail beforehand and agreed on our terms. They usually want to be surprised.”

“Usually?” The asshole’s head tipped like a curious dog.

“Every agreement is different. Different boundaries or requests. Most often my clients would request that I pursue them when they didn’t know it was going to happen.”

“And once you’d hunted a woman… what then?”

I met his eyes and didn’t back down. “If I was successful, there would be a takedown.”

“And did the women ever fight?”

I nodded. “Almost always. The agreed point was for them to do their best to thwart me.”

“Were you or your clients ever injured during these struggles?”

“Of course. Mostly bruises and scrapes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Were you ever injured by your client during these struggles?”

“Yes.”

“Give me an example?”

I was getting tenser. We’d known this was coming. My lawyers couldn’t object to the questions about the practice or my activities because, they said, it went to motive and proclivity. But they’d encouraged me to be as clear and thoughtful as I could, to look for ways to make sure I gave all the information, including hammering home that the women wanted my attention in this way.

“I rarely leave a successful hunt without scratches and bruises, as I said.”

“Anything more serious?”

“I’ve sprained wrists and knees. Scratched a cornea once,” I said reluctantly.

“And your clients?”

“Much the same. But part of our preparation before a hunt is that we establish an aftercare protocol. I will not hunt a woman who hasn’t already collected a substantial first-aid kit—one that I outline and require her to collect before I’ll move forward. It covers more than the simple things. When we’re done, either I will patch them up, or if we’ve been separated by events, they are required to send me videos of the care they gave themselves, and we’ll discuss whether we need to change our plan for future hunts.”

“So, you’d hunt them more than once?”

“Usually.”

“It’s a yes or no question, Mr. Priestley.”

“No, it’s not,” I growled and I saw Bridget blink—that was Cain’s voice. My stomach churned. “Every client is different,” I explained through my teeth. “Most want to try it once, then debrief. We may change the plan for the next hunt—set stricter boundaries, or remove them as she grows in confidence. It’s all a process of communication and choices. And the power for those protocols is always in her hands,” I said firmly.

The lawyer’s lips pursed like he was skeptical. “How tall are you Mister Priestley?”

“About six two.”

“Weight?”

“Two thirty, give or take.”

The lawyer nodded like I’d affirmed something important. “It’s obvious to me even in these clothes,” he said gesturing to the button down and slacks my lawyer insisted that I wear, “that you are fit, athletic man. Would you agree?”

“I do okay.”

“How big are the women you hunt?”

“That depends on the woman. I don’t measure them or weigh them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, Mister Priestley, I’m asking you to outline for us the difference in size and strength between you and your clients. Would you say that most of the women you hunt are under five eight? Five eleven? Are they fat or thin? Fit?”

“Yes to all—it depends on the client,” I growl.

“Well then, let’s take an average—let’s assume your client is somewhere in the realm of five foot six and one hundred and fifty pounds. You are eight inches taller and almost one hundred pounds heavier—how likely is she to be able to escape you?”

“Objection, calls for speculation!”

I gave the man a flat look. “The purpose of what I do isn’t to escape,” I said through my teeth.

“Then what is it? ”

I rubbed my jaw and held his gaze. “The answer will always depend on the mark.”

“You must have seen some patterns, surely? You’re an…” he looked back down at the paper to read something specific and my heart sank. “An experienced Primal Dom seeking real life prey. Is that correct?”

I waited for the objection—this was what we’d feared. If they asked me outright if I was Cain—an online persona who had undertaken criminal activity—I could plead the fifth. And they knew it. But if they found a way to tie me to information about Cain that they could provide in evidence…

Shit.

“That would accurately categorize what I was doing, yes,” I said reluctantly.

The lawyer smiled like a shark. Dammit. “So, we have established that you are significantly larger and taller than your prey, Mister Priestley. Now please, I need you to explain why a woman would intentionally engage you to hunt her?”

“It’s a kink,” I said bluntly. “She wants to feel overpowered. Dominated. But in a way that’s safe.”

“Safe? But you just told us that you and your prey were often injured in these interactions?”

“So are football players and we have entire stadiums showing up to watch. Humans are strange creatures,” I snapped.

My lawyer cleared his throat. He’d warned me that it was important to stay calm and unemotive, to portray all of this as something simple and fun.

“Ah, the kink. So this practice is sexual?”

“Often, yes.”

“Often? Usually? You seem reluctant to give me straight answers, Mister Priestley.”

“I’m not reluctant—but you aren’t asking the right questions.”

“Then please, enlighten me: How often—a rough percentage will do—does this practice lead to sexual contact?”

“Objection—calls for speculation.”

I stopped, heart beating hard, but everyone was waiting for me to answer. I swallowed hard. “Every woman who made an agreement with me had protocols in place for sexual contact,” I said calmly. “What was and was not allowed. What she liked. Firm boundaries—and areas in which she’d like to be challenged.”

“So, there was a script?”

I shook my head. “No scripts. No specific plans. Only boundaries and freedoms.”

“Then how would you know if you were doing what she wanted?”

“I always gave her a lengthy list of activities I’d be happy to provide and we used a stoplight system—green lights were things she knew she liked and was happy to engage in. Yellow lights were places she was curious, but unsure, or things she was afraid of that she might become open to… challenge. Red lights were off-limits. Firm boundaries. Under no circumstances would I engage in redlight behavior with a client.”

“And every client was different—meaning, they had different practices or activities that they wanted, or that they refused?”

“Yes.”

“How did you keep them all straight? How could you be certain you remembered the details correctly?”

“I put a lot of work into this,” I said, biting back a smile because even though this guy was pissing me off, I had the distinct feeling that he was jealous. His irritation and mock-shock in these questions were a little overplayed.

He got off on this idea.

“It seems like, in the heat of the moment—especially if there was no script or plan, it would be very easy to overstep a boundary, or remember one wrong.”

“Objection, counsel isn’t asking a question. Don’t answer that, Sam.”

I did smile then. And it was a fucking mistake.