Page 13

I wake slowly, drifting in that soft space between sleep and awareness, my body warm, heavy, cocooned in something safe. Something solid. Someone solid.

Two someones.

Heat surrounds me, and the quiet rhythm of steady breathing tickles the back of my neck. I don’t move, don’t open my eyes, just absorb the sensation of being held.

By two men at once.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t wake with a jolt of panic.

There’s no cold sweat. No gasping breath. No shadows reaching for me.

Just warmth.

Just them.

But then… it shifts. A rustle of sheets, a slow, careful withdrawal of heat, and I immediately miss it. Miss them.

I force myself to stay still, keep my breaths even, and listen.

The shower turns on, muffling the quiet shuffle of movement. I recognize Hank’s footfalls—steady, deliberate. Gabe’s are lighter and more fluid, moving toward the kitchen .

My heart pounds harder, not from fear but anticipation. They don’t know I’m awake. And right now, I want to hear them talk—about me.

Eyes closed, my ears strain as I track their movements.

“That kiss…” Gabe’s voice rolls through the air, smooth and rich. “Didn’t expect that.”

“The timing, you mean.” Hank’s tone is lower, contemplative. “One minute, she’s having a panic attack?—”

“Next, she’s trying to start something.” I can practically hear Gabe shaking his head. “Girl’s got layers.”

“More strength than she knows.”

“Pure instinct.” There’s something darker in Gabe’s voice now, something rougher. “No hesitation. No shame.”

“No fear,” Hank adds, and my chest tightens at the realization.

Because he’s right.

I trusted them. In the middle of a panic attack, with my mind spiraling into the past, I reached for them. And they didn’t pull away. They didn’t push or demand. They were just… there.

I let out a slow breath and finally open my eyes.

The scent of coffee and sizzling bacon fills the air. My stomach growls, reminding me I barely ate yesterday. I sit, rolling the sleeves of Hank’s shirt. The hem brushes against my thighs as I slide off the bed, my bare feet quiet on the cool floor.

I catch sight of them before they notice me.

Hank stands at the stove, his movements precise as he flips eggs with military efficiency. Gabe leans back in his chair, all lazy confidence, fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, but even in relaxation, there’s an edge to them, a tension coiled beneath the surface.

They’ve been holding back.

Their eyes find me at the same time.

“You cook?” My voice is softer than I intend, a little shy, as I move toward the barstool.

Hank barely glances up from the stove. “Man’s gotta eat.”

I bite my lip, watching his forearm flex as he flips the eggs, controlled precision in every movement. Gabe, meanwhile, watches me like a hawk. I can feel his attention, a slow drag against my skin, assessing.

I shift on the stool, my mind running through puzzle pieces—through them.

They’re partners. Friends. More than that.

They share.

“So…” I let the question trail off, my heart hammering. “How does this work?” My words come out breathy, but I don’t back down.

Hank’s grip tightens on the spatula. Gabe’s smile turns knowing.

“We take it slow, sweetheart,” Gabe says, his voice smoother now, coaxing. “One step at a time.”

“However you want,” Hank adds, his tone steady but laced with something deeper. “We’ll show you. Guide you. If you want to stop at any point, say the word, and everything ends. No questions asked.”

Something inside me melts and unravels.

I slide off the stool, stepping closer to Hank. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react—just lets me.

I rise onto my toes, brushing my lips against his cheek, my fingers curling around his bicep. Testing.

Gabe’s heated gaze tracks us, the air between us thickening with an energy that isn’t just attraction—it’s understanding.

I bite my lip, my mind working through the next step, the next question, the next unknown variable in this equation of us.

“Show me,” I whisper. “Show me how this works.”

Gabe rises from his chair but keeps his distance. Hank remains still, his breath steady, but his body thrums with barely held restraint.

“You sure about this?” Hank’s voice is rough. “There’s no rush. No expectations.”

“I trust you,” I say softly but with certainty. “Both of you.”

Silence.

Not awkward. Not tense. Just charged.

I take another breath. “I lost a little bit of myself the first time I was taken. Not just safety… but agency. The ability to determine my fate was suddenly and forcibly taken.” My voice doesn’t shake. It’s steady, sure. “But you two… You offer a different kind of surrender. The kind that makes me feel…” I search for the word. “ Safe .”

Something shifts.

Something unseen but felt.

Hank’s eyes darken, understanding flashing behind them like a tactical brief locking into place.

Gabe’s lips part slightly, his fingers twitching at his sides.

I step toward him. Slowly. Purposefully. He watches me like a wolf sizing up prey, but I see what’s behind that—restraint.

I reach up, tracing the hard line of his jaw. His breath hitches—a tell I don’t think even he expected.

“You’re both so careful with me,” I murmur. “So restrained. But I’ve seen the darkness you carry. The control you want.”

I turn, my other hand finding Hank’s forearm, completing the circuit between us.

I swallow hard, excitement and curiosity tangling in my gut. “I’m not scared,” I admit, surprising even myself. “I’m… curious.”

Gabe steps closer, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist, deliberate and coaxing.

“Curious about what specifically?”

I meet his gaze, heat surging through me.

“How it will feel,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “With someone who doesn’t pretend. Someone who knows.”

Gabe’s thumb circles lazily over my pulse point, his touch deceptively light, but I feel the weight of his presence—his awareness of me, of this moment.

“Someone who knows what?” His voice is low, coaxing, though there’s an edge to it, something sharp beneath the silk.

I exhale slowly, grounding myself in their presence, the strength of their bodies, and how they listen—really listen.

“Someone who knows how to take control without taking over.” The words come carefully, but my voice doesn’t waver. “Someone who understands that control doesn’t mean forcing submission. That it’s something given, not taken.”

Hank’s breath draws in slow and measured. His fingers flex where they rest against his thigh, his knuckles whitening before he releases the tension. Gabe is completely still, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that heats my skin.

I press on.

“The first time I was taken, my choices, my autonomy—everything that made me me —was ripped away. I wasn’t afraid. I was… erased.” I swallow, my throat tightening around the memory, but I force myself to hold their eyes, to own my truth.

Hank shifts first, the barest movement, but I feel it in my bones.

“I lost my ability to decide,” I continue, my voice steady. “My body wasn’t my own. My fate wasn’t my own. I was just… something to be sold.” The words land heavy between us, but I don’t let them settle into silence.

I lift my chin, stepping forward, bridging the space between us.

“But you two…” I drag my gaze between them, reading the tension lining their strong frames, the restraint in their powerful bodies. “You offer something different. You take control but give me the choice to hand it over. And that?” My breath shudders on the exhale. “That makes me feel safe.”

A muscle ticks in Hank’s jaw. His control is precise, deliberate—but his pulse thrums hard at his throat, giving him away.

Gabe, though? He lets out a slow, rough breath and tips his head slightly, assessing. He’s always watching, always calculating, but there’s something else now—a shift, like he’s realizing something about me that maybe even I hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

“I don’t want to be afraid of what I want anymore,” I say, softer now, more to myself than to them. “I want to know how it feels.”

Gabe’s fingers tighten on my wrist, not painful, just anchoring. “How what feels, sweetheart?”

My stomach clenches, anticipation twisting through me. But I don’t hesitate.

“How to let go. How it feels with men who…” I wet my lips, forcing myself not to break eye contact, even as heat floods my cheeks. “Who know how to dominate a woman safely.”

A breathless pause .

But that’s not all.

I swallow hard, pulse hammering, my thoughts catching up to my instincts—to the quiet truth I’ve been circling since I met them.

“It’s not just about knowing,” I murmur, more to myself at first, but as I say it, I realize how much it matters. My voice steadies, certainty solidifying. “You don’t just know how to dominate… you need to.”

Hank still doesn’t move, but something changes in his posture—something almost imperceptible, but I feel it in my bones.

Gabe exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around my wrist, just enough to make me aware of his control.

“I’ve been with men who played at dominance,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “Men who wore it like a mask, who followed a script.” I shake my head, lifting my chin as I pull in a breath. “It was empty. Surface-level.”

Gabe lets out a low sound, something between a scoff and a dark chuckle.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow circles over my pulse. “That’s not us.”

“That’s what I’m realizing.” I feel it in the weight of their stares and the sharpness of their restraint. I feel it in the way Hank hasn’t moved a muscle, and yet somehow, I still know he’s the one controlling this entire moment.

I shift my gaze to him, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“You embrace what you are, and I don’t have to feel like less because I want it too.”

His blue eyes hold mine, steady, unblinking.

“You’re right,” Hank agrees, voice like a quiet promise. “We don’t pretend.”

And that’s the difference.

It’s not a role they step into. It’s who they are.

And that’s why, for the first time in my life, I can let go.

I inhale deeply, rolling my shoulders back, my body making the decision before my mind fully catches up.

Gabe watches me, his wicked smirk sharp, knowing.

Hank cocks his head slightly, assessing. Calculating. Then, his lips curve—not a smile, exactly. More like recognition. Understanding. Possession.

His fingers skim my jaw, a deliberate test. He tips my chin up, forcing me to hold his gaze.

“My question for you, luv…” His thumb brushes my bottom lip, applying the slightest pressure. “Are you ready for what that means?”

“Yes.” I inhale, my voice steady. “And for the record, my safeword is… marshymellow.”

Hank stills.

Gabe blinks.

Then, slow as sin, a Cheshire grin spreads across Hank’s face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gabe murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “You’re going to regret telling us that.”

Hank’s low growl sends a shiver straight through me.

“Strip her,” he commands, his voice like gravel. “Slowly.”