Auctioned to the Prisoners (Auctioned #4)

10

LORY

SMALLEST DREAMS

I’m in a dream, drifting from room to room with men I don’t know, experiencing extremes of pleasure before descending back into a heightened state of awareness of my situation. While they’re touching me, I forget where I am.

Forgetting is dangerous.

Immediately after I bound Rock’s hand, he leads me to the shower, helping me to get the water running warm. He lingers as I pull Kinkaid’s shirt over my head, his liquid brown eyes roving my body so hungrily that I shiver. “I’ll get you a towel,” he says when he snaps out of his daze, and then I’m left alone with my feelings.

Jesus.

This is intense. I knew selling myself at auction would come with risks and challenges, but the added aspect of being locked in this place with three men I don’t know has my heart skittering at levels that make me high.

Kinkaid’s steadying presence gives me an element of security, and spending time with Rock has shown me he’s gentle despite his enormous size.

Hyde is an unknown quantity, or at least, what I know about him is uncertain and unstable.

I soap my body, washing away the stickiness Rock left over my skin, and lower between my legs where my clit is swollen, and my sex is heavy with satisfaction.

I have never orgasmed so strongly. Both Kinkaid and Rock, with very different approaches, sent me skyrocketing.

But there hasn’t been any penetrative sex yet. Touching and licking is one thing. Getting filled by these men, especially because of how big they are, will be completely different. I’m not scared as such. Not now, they’ve touched me. I’m just wary that they might want things I’m not used to or that my body can’t take. Sometimes pain comes with pleasure. Sometimes, it snuffs it out.

I’m done washing myself by the time Rock reappears with the towel. His eyes are soft when I use my hands to cover my breasts; they’ve always been the part of my body that I’ve been most shy of. I expect him to hand over the towel and leave me to dry myself, but instead, he gently takes my hands and eases them from my body. “You’re so pretty,” he says, brushing the back of his heavy, veined hand over my right nipple, immediately stoking my arousal. There’s lust in his eyes that sweeps away my embarrassment. Next, he takes the rough towel and strokes it across my shoulder, gathering the beads of shower water. He continues lower, over my breasts and belly, dropping down onto his haunches and wiping each leg. With just the tips of his fingers, he strokes through the soft hair at the apex of my thighs, humming contentedly.

“Hyde will like this,” he says, then nudges me to turn.

I wonder how he knows what Hyde likes in a woman. Do they sit around discussing their preferences, imagining the women they’ll have when they’re freed from this place? If they’re freed. The idea softens some of my reservations with sadness. Dreaming of women they can’t have is endearing and a little melancholy, like a poor kid writing an expensive Christmas list.

Rock uses the towel to stroke over my ass, pressing a soft kiss to each cheek before rising to dry my arms and my back. I shiver when he’s finished, and not from the cold.

Noticing, he tugs the white t-shirt he’s wearing over his head and helps me put it on. It smells of him in a good way, of soap and deodorant and his fresh, masculine scent. Wrapped up in it, it’s like he has his arms around me again.

“You’re so small,” he laughs, fingering the hem where it grazes my thighs. The short sleeves hang well past my elbows.

“You’re so big.” I eye his massive chest, covered with a soft dusting of dark hair that makes him so overwhelmingly masculine. The tattoos that crawl his skin are intricate and beautiful. His eyes are deep and dark like mine reflected back.

Dipping down, he teases my top lip with his, then pulls back. I’m so mesmerized by the kiss that I drift forward, following his mouth. With a low chuckle, he cups my chin, and then his eyes dart to the main area where Kinkaid is talking to Hyde in a low tone.

“What’s going on out there?” I ask, a worried pang replacing softer feelings.

“Kinkaid will sort it out.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Even as I ask, I know it’s a stupid question. Hyde wears his challenges out in the open, where everyone sees and judges.

“He’s okay,” Rock says in the way people do when trying to brush something under the carpet. I guess he’s used to his friend, but to a newcomer like me, it’s less clear.

“My mom was like that. Always up and down, spinning out,” I offer, like that would make me an expert in understanding Hyde.

When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why she’d buzz with happiness one day and was unable to get up the next. The unpredictability of a parent like that left me feeling unsafe for a long time. My nanna helped me come to terms with a lot of what happened and to empathize with my mom, who continues to struggle with addiction and her mental health.

For a long time, I just wanted to blame her for my childhood struggles. Now, I understand she has demons. That doesn’t mean I want to have a relationship with her but letting go of my bitterness and resentment towards her has helped reduce the hurt and disappointment.

Rock rubs his forehead like he’s fighting a headache and drops his hands, sadness making his features fall. “He swings between high and low,” he whispers, checking we’re not overheard before continuing. “His childhood was fucked up. I mean, none of us has come from a privileged background, and he doesn’t talk about it much, but when he’s sleeping, he says things… things no one wants to hear, let alone live.”

I want to know more, not because I’m nosy, but because confirming what I’m dealing with could help me navigate the situation. But what’s the point? There are only so many options for terrible childhoods: cruelty, neglect, perversion. My heart breaks for the man wound up so tight he can’t stop moving.

“Are you worried about how he’ll treat me?”

Rock sighs. “He’s violent sometimes.”

A shiver passes through me, and I clench my arms closer to my body. “But do you think he’ll be violent with me?”

Rock's shrug isn’t reassuring, but his concerned expression provides some confidence. Hyde looks the closest to me in age, and he’s already been through so much. If men like Kinkaid and Rock are friends with him, he must have enough redeeming qualities to make his ups and downs worth enduring. They won’t let him hurt me. I’m confident of that.

“Maybe we should hang out,” I say. “Play a board game or watch TV together. Something where he’ll get used to me with you guys around. Then, when he’s more comfortable…”

I can’t even finish the thought. Will the halfway moments Kinkaid and Rock have had be enough for Hyde, or will he want more? Will he welcome my touch or pull away? If violence is part of his past, does it play a role in what gets him off? Our experiences shape us—sometimes in the worst ways. Most days, I feel powerless, like I’m coasting through life without purpose, just smiling through a job that’s half about pretending and half about swallowing other people’s shit. I work just enough to get by, barely surviving. So it wasn’t hard to walk away for a chance to do something real for Kennedy. And if I can ease even a little of Hyde’s darkness while I’m here, it’ll give me some sense of purpose, some proof I’ve made a difference. Even if it’s only for a moment.

“Yeah.” Rock slides his hand down my arm and links our fingers. My neck aches from tipping it back to talk to him, and when he tugs me to follow him, I take almost double the steps he does just to keep up.

Kinkaid is sitting next to Hyde, and he’s flicking through the channels on the TV. “What ya watching?” Rock asks.

“Nothing.” Hyde twists, eyes darting from Rock to me, to our joined hands, to my thighs, then back to the TV. His knee jumps, and he rubs it, trying to smooth it into inaction.

“There’s a chick flick on,” Kinkaid says. “Bridget Jones or something.” He smirks at me like that’s the kind of movie that’d appeal to me because I have a vagina.

“I like mafia movies,” I tell him. “And fantasy. Sometimes horror.” There’s something deliciously twisted about getting scared out of your wits and then turning off the TV with the comfort of returning to real life. It’s probably fucked up to need to be grateful that you’re not getting tortured or murdered. Kinkaid keeps flicking, settling on something gritty with a high-octane car chase, and then sits between Rock and Hyde. The chairs are uncomfortable, and Rock looks like he will break the back off his at any second. Hyde’s leg jitters, even with his heavy, tattooed hand pressed against it to weigh it down.

“See, that would never happen.” He points to the screen where a car is flying off the edge of a cliff and landing on a road below. “It’d fuck the suspension and probably shatter all the glass in the car. The airbags would all go off.”

“Yeah,” I say. “They always make it look like cars are bulletproof. You like cars?”

“Yeah,” he drawls. “When I get out of here, I wanna be a mechanic.”

“I bet you’d be good at it.”

He hums like he’s happy at my response. I turn to Rock, finding his face impassive. Kinkaid focuses on me, not the show, and I nod to let him know I’m okay.

“What’s your favorite car?”

“Dodge Challenger Hellcat.”

Yeah. He’d suit them with their aggressive stance and monstrous horsepower. They’re muscle-bound and brooding with the same raw energy as Hyde.

“I like the ’67 Mustang Fastback.”

Hyde turns in his chair to study me ignoring the show. His raw beauty takes my breath away, like one of those heartthrob actors from the nineties who died too young. He nods appreciatively. “That’s a classic. Beautiful lines, powerful, graceful.”

“Yep. She’s a beauty. I’d get one if I had more than two dimes to rub together.”

“Tell me about it. Gonna walk out of this place with nothing.” His hand flies to his face and rubs the bridge of his nose like the fact pains him. Years of wasted life, just waiting around, no chance to build anything. Men need opportunity and a chance to progress if they’re going to have enough self-belief and hope to leave jail and not turn back to the life that put them inside in the first place. But nobody in the system wants that. There’s no profit in redemption.

“It’s good to have dreams.”

His head jerks in a nod. “What are your dreams?”

It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to have any outside of keeping a safe roof over my head and food in my stomach. I guess I’m here because I dream of my sister and her kids living safely. If I had a chance to dream big, what would I want?

“One of those old colonial houses near a beach somewhere with lots of nature,” I say.

“With a ’67 Fastback on the driveway.”

“Yeah. And a couple of kids’ bikes.” I smile softly, imagining two dark-haired children on a swing set in the backyard.

His eyebrows rise. “What about inside?”

“Inside it’s white and pale blue and green. Soft colors like the view outside.”

“I see it,” he says. “Wood floors and cream rugs.”

“Yeah. A blue couch with cream throw pillows.”

“Swings and a treehouse in the backyard.” His expression takes on a wistfulness that softens the hard lines of his face and takes my breath away. He’s beautiful, but it’s toughened by his constant frown, the tattoos that draw attention away from the hard lines of his nose and jaw, and the brutality of what’s contained behind his eyes. Like this, filled with his interpretation of my soft dreams, all that falls away. It’s like I’ve formed a picture of what life could be like if he wasn’t in here.

“Yeah. And a porch swing where I can read.”

“Big trees,” he says as the car on the screen eventually crashes, and the man driving claws his way out under gunfire.

“Big trees and colorful plants. And a garden with vegetables.”

“And music,” he says.

“What music?”

“I don’t know,” he smiles. “Some classic shit. Something that wouldn’t bring me down or wind me up.”

I’m suddenly filled with an image of a different Hyde, dressed in beige slacks and a white button-down, rocking on a porch swing, reading the newspaper. He’s home from working a job with decent pay and benefits, content that he’s on the right path. His face is unmarked and unlined. All the stress that makes him jumpy and messed up here is gone. He’s still and quiet.

God, I want that for him.

Even with the other men around us and the movie playing, we’ve entered another space together and woven a dream substantial enough to cradle us together.

“What about you?” I turn a little in my chair. “What’s your dream?”

Like I’ve let go of a piece of elastic, and it’s snapped back, catching him in the face, the peace of my dreams drops away, and he hardens again. “Men like me don’t get to dream.”

He turns back to the TV, his brow low and his mouth set in a grim line, and I curse myself for not realizing that my peace had settled him. He doesn’t have it in him to imagine the same for himself.

He’s rigid for a few minutes, his fists clenched tight at his sides as he stares at the screen. Even though he looks like he’s watching it intently, I suspect nothing’s going in.

Then suddenly, he’s up, pacing again, back and forth, like a caged animal, his body taut, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. His breathing is shallow and quick like he’s fighting to keep himself under control.

Rock rests a hand on my arm, but I look at him and shake my head. I saw something in Hyde, or rather, I saw my words affect him, and I want to try.

I stand slowly and approach him, leaving a foot of space between us. His eyes are dark and feral, and his face is a snarl, accented by the scorpion tattoo that looks so real it could sting. “Don’t get in my way, Lory,” he growls.

I hold my ground and cautiously lift my hand to his cheek. His angry eyes follow the motion, and I half expect him to bat me away, but he doesn’t. When I touch his face, he stares at me pleadingly, and then his lids drop. He exhales a rush of breath through flared nostrils, like a bull ready to charge, and every muscle in my body braces for him to whirl away or push me. Maybe worse, but I don’t want to think of him being capable of that.

He’s fighting his darkness, but there are cracks forming from the pressure of holding it all in. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in fear of yourself, of not knowing if the man you are at one moment will be the same man the next.

A low rumble vibrates against my palm, then, in one sweeping motion, he lifts me, pulling me against him, and strides across the room.

“Hyde,” Kinkaid warns, standing and following.

My heart beats triple time at his power and strength and the knowledge that I’ll have no control over what happens next. Will he listen to Kinkaid and keep to the arrangement for today or tear through the boundaries? I’m not wearing any panties, so there’s not much to tear through.

When we’re inside the room, Hyde whirls to slam the door. Kinkaid and Rock are both there, just beyond the threshold. “Hyde,” Rock says.

Hyde shuts the door, and then we’re alone.

***

I expect him to force me against the wall and kiss me with the primal hunger of a trapped man who has been starved of human contact. I expect him to touch me with anger and desperation. But he does none of that. Instead, he sits on the bed and gathers me against him, just breathing into my neck in terrible gasping pants. I run my fingers through his dark hair, scraping his scalp with my nails, and he closes his eyes, growing calmer and stiller with each pass. My body trembles, but I try to fight it because I don’t want him to be alarmed. I want to be in control of this situation as much as I can be.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s pure instinct that drives me to want to take care of him, a deep sense that he probably didn’t get much love or attention when he was a vulnerable little boy in need of it. I had Kennedy, and she had me—we softened the edges of the world for each other. But who did Hyde have? Maybe no one. The way he melts into my arms, the way his defenses drop, tells me I could be right.

His rough palms skate over my thighs, then over the curve of my hips and waist, and higher beneath the shirt.

“You smell like Rock,” he says gruffly, but then his fingers graze my nipples, and we both groan.

In a fluid motion, he rolls to his back, taking me with him, and then he nestles us on our sides, with his face still buried in my neck. I want to look into his eyes to gauge how he’s feeling, but he seems uncomfortable with direct eye contact. He pushes up my shirt until it’s bunched over my torso, and then he’s shuffling lower on the bed to mouth my breasts. The first contact is so hot that my instinct is to grip the back of his neck, just in case I need to pull him away. Then his lips wrap around my nipple, and he groans, long, low and desperate, against me.

His big hand spreads across my back, holding me in place as he mouths my nipple into a tight peak, and then he sucks. Well, it’s more like he suckles in tight little pulls that send sensations skittering down my spine and between my thighs. His sole focus is on my breast, and when I gaze down at him, I find his eyes closed, his lashes kissing his cheeks, and a look of deep contentment softening his features.

For most men, this kind of foreplay is just a precursor to touching below the waist, but Hyde’s hands don’t roam. Instead, it’s almost like she slips into some kind of trance. At first, I’m too scared to let my hands wander, but then I brave stroking my fingers across his scalp again, and he hums contentedly at the contact. Minutes pass, him tugging at my nipple with his cruel lips and me making grooves through his thick dark hair, and I wonder what Rock and Kinkaid are thinking. Are they waiting outside the door to check for my voice, or have they gone back to their man-film, uncaring?

Somehow, even though I’ve only been in their company for a matter of hours, I’m confident it’s the former.

Hyde is so concentrated on his actions for so long that I don’t think he’ll go further, so when his hand wanders and his fingers find the soft curls between my legs, I flinch. He hums again as though he’s trying to soothe me, then gently caresses just the curls as though he’s seeking comfort there rather than trying to arouse me.

I’m aroused anyway, imagining his thick fingers with their nails chewed to the quick like mine, delving deeper, seeking where I’m warm, wet, and waiting. I’ve had two orgasms today, but it hasn’t quelled my hunger. If anything, I’m like an addict seeking another hit.

Gazing down at Hyde, at the way his shoulder bunches, his inked forearm concentrated on its gentle movements, I swallow back tears. He’s not looking for a quick release or to pull an explosive orgasm from my body. It’s like he wants comfort. He’s like a kid with a blankie, a kid who isn’t loved enough, craving the simplest of human touches.

I give him time as he lulls me into a dazed half-sleep with the shallow tugs of his lips and his tentative touch at the apex of my thighs. I moan in my throat, and he does, too.

And when I forget he’s a big dangerous prisoner, and I’m a tiny woman who’s been bought for his pleasure, I let my hands wander over his neck and into the stretched collar of his white t-shirt, and my fingers find lumpy skin forming scared ridges. Before I draw back, he rears up over me and grabs both my hands in one of his. Pinned in place, I pant up at a furious Hyde whose eyes have become the color of coal and whose calm, contented face has twisted into something menacing. “Hyde,” I gasp as adrenaline blasts through my veins, setting my heart into a frantic rhythm. His name has never felt more appropriate than at this moment.

The door flies open and Kinkaid bursts in, followed so closely by Rock that he looks in danger of mowing him down. Hyde’s eyes blaze into mine as Kinkaid grabs him by the shoulder on one side, and Rock does the same on the other. His hands release my wrists, and I draw my arms around myself, covering my tender breasts. Around my hips, Hyde’s thighs clench as though he wants to hold on to me in whatever way possible.

“Did he hurt you?” Kinkaid asks as Hyde breathes hard. Between his legs, his cock stands out violently against his orange regulation pants.

“No,” I say. “No.”

Rock nods, relief softening his hardened features. The hand gripping Hyde’s shoulder flexes, but interestingly, Hyde doesn’t struggle out of their grip. It’s like he understands they’re only restraining him for his own good, and he’s grateful for the hold they have over him.

“Lory,” Kinkaid says, his voice low and gravelly. “Take his dick out.”

My eyes focus on Hyde’s straining erection and then the pained expression on his face. There’s a desperation to the tightness of his jaw combined with the wideness of his eyes. A desperation that breaks my heart. I can do this. I can make him feel better through a release that he’s been craving. But it isn’t right to touch him when he’s being held by two other men. It’s not acceptable to take away his right to control his body.

“No,” I say, resting my hand on his straining thigh. “I won’t touch him when you’re holding him. I won’t touch him until he’s ready for it, and he asks me.”

“You want it, don’t you,” Rock says, jostling Hyde’s shoulder.

“He wants it,” Kinkaid seconds.

“Do you want me to touch you?” I ask Hyde, maintaining eye contact with him despite the fierceness flaming in his expression. With his unruly dark hair falling over his right eye, he looks wild and dangerous, but his eyes plead.

“Like this, Hyde. Do you want me to touch you while they’re holding you like this?”

There’s a pause where he closes his eyes and breathes slowly and deeply. I wait, still naked beneath him, while Kinkaid and Rock continue to prevent their friend from hurting me. But, despite their concern, I don’t believe he will. He’s vibrating with his own efforts at restraint. Even when Hyde was looming over me, gripping my wrists, I felt his desperation to maintain his frayed control.

When his eyes open, they’ve lost some of their feral darkness, and a deep forest has replaced it.

He shakes his head.

“Let him go.” I sit up and wrap my arms around Hyde’s waist, pressing my body into his. He smells of warm laundry detergent and fresh sweat, which I suspect is from panic. “Let him go,” I repeat, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest over his shirt. Rock and Kinkaid reluctantly release their grip on him. “It’s okay,” I say confidently, even though I’m still shaking from everything that’s happened. “I’ve got him. We’re okay.”

Hyde’s arms wrap around me slowly, and he rests his face on the top of my head, breathing hotly into my scalp. His tight body loses all its rigidity as he softens in my embrace. Rock and Kinkaid leave the room, glancing over their shoulders before they pass through the door and close it. I keep Hyde in my arms, waiting for him to let me go first. My heart aches for the pain that he wears in his tight expressions, jittery movements, and the tattoos he’s covered himself with. The scorpion on his face is the worst, as if he placed it there as a warning of what he believed he was capable of. I wish I could soothe away every hurt he’s ever experienced in his life so he could be someone who wasn’t clinging to the edge with just his fingertips.

“Lory.” His voice is ragged, his breathing is erratic, and his eyes are dark with turmoil. But he looks at me, really looks at me, like he’s searching for something, a lifeline, or a way out of the storm that’s raging inside him.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” Pulling back, he tips my face with his tattooed fingers.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, braving a touch to his cheek.

His eyes flutter, then close again as he breathes into my gentle caress.

“It’s been a long time.”

“A long time since what?”

His fingers touch my side tentatively.

“Since someone touched me like that.”

Sadness washes over me like a tsunami. We all need touch and gentleness, even the toughest of men. Especially the tough men who everyone thinks have enough strength and resilience to deal with the world without any assistance.

“And for not touching me.”

I immediately understand what he means. I could have made him come, and it would have felt good physically, but it’d just be another way of taking from him. I’d guess that he has suffered that too many times in his life already.

“How would you like me to touch you?” I ask.

“Not my back,” he says, staring at the wall. His cheeks flush at having to discuss this with me. “Or the backs of my thighs.”

Jesus. Are the scars I felt all over his legs, too? “Okay. Where else?”

“Just go slow. Let me see your hands, so I know what’s going to happen.” He swallows audibly, closing his eyes slowly before opening them again. “I can’t deal with surprises.”

I have an idea that might make him more comfortable. The thought of talking about sex positions is kind of mortifying, but he’s already seen me naked and played with my body. This is important enough for me to swallow a little embarrassment. “We could sixty-nine with me on top. That way, your back will be against the bed, and you can relax.”

“Fuck, Lory.” His eyes soften as he strokes my cheek and over my bottom lip, staring at my mouth. Is he imagining what it’ll be like to bury his dick between these lips? I stare at his lips, too, recalling the way he sucked my nipple. Will he do that to my clit? God, I hope so.

“Do you want to get undressed?” I wriggle out of his lap as he pulls his shirt over his head and shoves down his prison-issued pants and underwear. Beneath his clothes are more tattoos, some beautiful and some frankly terrifying. A devil’s face glares at me from one thigh, contrasting with a butterfly and lilies on his forearm. Dark and light, just like Hyde.

He grabs me around the waist, using his brute strength to pull me into his lap, facing away. In front of me, his cock looms large.

“Sit on my face, baby.” He tugs me until I’m kneeling over his waiting mouth, then forces my hips until he’s smothered by my sex. The first swipe of his eager tongue makes me cry out. Then he latches onto my clit, tugging at it gently with his lips and tongue, sending sensations skittering up my spine.

I slump forward bonelessly, resting my weight on my forearm. I grip his dick, and it throbs in my palm as I stroke it gently. In this position, he’s in control, so big and strong beneath me. When I slick his head with my tongue, he hisses into my pussy, and when I take him deep into my throat, he growls against me. The vibrations turn heat into liquid pleasure, pushing me close in so little time it makes me gasp around him. I’m sensitive from two previous orgasms, and the way he feasts on me leaves me utterly breathless.

His hand grips my thighs, pulling me so harshly against his face that I worry I’m going to smother him. His tongue pushes inside me, lapping against my G-spot, making me writhe. I grunt against his dick as I come and taste the salty-sweetness of pre-cum surges against my tongue. The devil’s face, upside down, with its red eyes and leering mouth, is a reminder of the duality of this man: the darkness that makes him jittery and intense, and the sweetness that craves kindness and touch makes him soft as a lamb. Maybe, while I’m here, I’ll remind him of the goodness in the world outside these walls and within himself. Maybe I can help him find some peace.

Reaching lower, run my finger up the seam of his balls, and suddenly, his whole body seizes beneath me. For a moment, I worry I’ve found another trigger point on his body, a place where the memory of pain rests just below the skin, but then he fills my mouth with his orgasm, and I swallow it down as he groans like a man who’s been stabbed, and I come just from the vibrations of his pleasure against my pussy.

Afterward, he hauls me so my face rests next to his on the pillow. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and then touch the slick of my arousal on his chin. With no embarrassment, he wipes it away with his fingers and licks them like a lollipop.

He touches my lips, focusing on them like he’s trying to work out how they gave him so much pleasure. His eyes are the vivid green of lemon leaves now, softer and calmer as he breathes deeply. I shut my eyes, blissed out from the orgasm he tore from me and emotionally exhausted from a very intense day. The bed isn’t particularly comfortable, but I’m boneless and craving sleep. After a few minutes, Hyde’s breathing evens out. I crack an eye, staring at his perfectly relaxed face. Like this, the scorpion on his cheek doesn’t seem so ominous, and the lattice of tattoos that encircle his neck are less like a choking torture device. He seems calm.

When I close my eyes, his throat clicks with a swallow.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” he whispers into the silence. “I don’t know how to hold it in.”

My heart breaks at the raw pain in his voice and how tired he sounds. To battle with yourself must be exhausting. I remember my mom and how much she used to cry when she’d come back from her emotional lows and realize the damage she’d done. We were kids, though. We didn’t understand and couldn’t adjust. We needed her to be stable so we could develop and grow.

This is different. “You don’t have to hold it in,” I say gently, reaching up to cup his face in my hands. “Not all the time. Not around people that care.” His skin is warm under my touch, and he leans into it, starving for connection.

He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine for something—maybe for permission, maybe for reassurance. Then, slowly, he nods. I can’t wrap my arms around him without touching whatever he has on his back, so instead, I touch my nipple, watching as he eyes it hungrily. When he latches on, cupping the small peak with his huge hand, I sigh with deeper contentment than I could ever have imagined would come from his actions. I touch his hair, and he doesn’t resist.

He lets himself be vulnerable with me and touch my body this way without fear of judgment or rejection, and I realize that this moment of calm after the storm is what he’s been searching for all along. Not dominance, not control, but peace. And maybe, just maybe, in the twenty-nine more days that we’re together, I’ll help him find his, and he can help me find mine.

My nana used to sing me a song when I found it hard to sleep, and it comes back to me as I soothe Hyde the way she used to soothe me.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . The words leave my lips in barely more than a whisper, but he hears me because he stills to listen. I don’t know all the words, but I can sing enough to settle us both.

There’s no sunshine in Blackstone, but I learned when I was cowering with my sister beneath my childhood bed that people can be the light in the inkiest darkness.