Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Maison

The punching bag didn’t help. Even when I started to bleed, my hands aching and burning with the pain, it wasn’t nearly enough.

There was no liquor leftover from the holiday dinner, unless I wanted to drink one of Matt’s disgusting seltzers or the cheap beer Casey’s dad favors that would require an entire case to get me drunk. Even my emergency stash in my office was gone. I had forgotten I’d finished it off back when everything first started with Hunter.

I end up at a bar downtown, my knuckles tacky with drying blood, a double whiskey in front of me. It’s on the same street as the pub where Carter works. The pub where I met with Hunter. I had walked past it to get here. Walked past the alley where Hunter had put his hand on me for the first time and promised things would be okay.

My silent phone sits on the bartop as I drink my way through a first round, and a second, and a third. It lights up often. At first, it’s just texts every few minutes, followed by a call from Hunter. Then a voicemail notification. Once Nolan wakes up, though, it’s near-constant. I can’t get myself to read the messages. Can’t get myself to listen to the words either of them leave for me.

Someone slips onto the stool beside mine as my glass is refilled by the bartender.

I glance at them, annoyed that they decided to sit so close when there are plenty of open spots around the place. I close my eyes when I see who it is.

He flags the bartender down, ordering himself a gin and tonic.

“Is it time?” I ask, not daring to reach for my drink. I don’t want him to see that my hands are shaking.

“Time?”

“For the op.”

“No. Thankfully. Not sure how useful you’d be in your condition.” Keats nods at the bartender when he’s brought his order. He takes a small drink before placing it down on a coaster. His eyes don’t drift toward me, but I know I have his full attention. Any nonchalance right now is false. “Nolan asked Ace to trace your phone. He was worried.”

“And he sent you to come fetch me?” I ask, too drunk to hide the hurt in my voice.

“No. Ace said we can’t track operatives’ phones. Nolan bought it.” Keats sighs. “We thought it might be best if we found you first.”

“Why?”

He hunches over a little, looking down at his drink. “Ace knows you pretty well, you know. He saw you this morning when you and Nolan came home from wherever you spent the night. He saw you go at the bag in the gym. Saw you nearly tear apart the kitchen looking for booze. He had a hunch you’d be at a bar.”

“Track my phone to figure out which one?” I ask in annoyance.

“Nope. Used my super cool spy skills instead. Only two bars open right now in town. One your brother—who you don’t get along with—works at. Figured the other was a safe bet.”

“Gold star to you.”

“You want to talk about it?”

I nearly laugh. “No.”

“Nolan is pretty upset.”

“Yeah, well, can’t hold that against him. I ruined something good for him.”

“I’d say Hunter Meridian is good for the both of you.”

I whip my head around to look at him, my heart in my throat. He doesn’t look smug or amused. He doesn’t look like a guy who found out a juicy secret. He just looks serious. Maybe a little sad.

“He seems like a good man,” Keats continues. “I bet whatever happened, whatever you did, he’d let you fix it.”

I decide to take a drink after all. I don’t give a fuck if he sees my shaking hands.

“You know it’s okay, right? To be with him?”

I close my eyes.

“You did that background check on him, after that night with Carter. After he got involved with him and Travis. I did my own. Trust me, if I couldn’t find anything on him? He’s clean.” He nudges my elbow with his. “You can tell him. If that’s the problem. If it’s the secrets that ruined things. Everyone agreeing to let him come to the house meant agreeing to take the risk he’d find out. They trust Travis—trust all of us operatives—to be careful enough not to bring someone around who isn’t safe. If you and Nolan are ready to share that part of yourselves with him, you can.”

“How did you even find out?” I ask. It’s the only thing I can wrap my head around. The rest of it, the possibilities of what he’s saying, that’s all too much.

“I’m a nosy bastard.”

I glare at him. “Is it even possible for you to not be fucking cryptic? How the fuck did you find out, Keats? Just tell me.”

His jaw ticks before he looks away. “I keep track of all of you. It’s—I don’t know. A coping mechanism, almost. A very unhealthy one, I’m aware. When your phones started registering that you were going somewhere and staying there, I looked into it. When I saw who owned the house, I dug deeper into him than I did the first time around. I wanted to make sure this guy was popping up again out of coincidence and not something worse.”

“I went after him,” I say, not wanting him to be suspicious. “I tracked him down.”

Keats smirks. “One day, you’re going to tell me that story. I can’t fucking wait.”

I roll my eyes at him, caught between amusement and anxiety. “Have you told anyone?”

“No. And I won’t. It’s not my place. Even Ace doesn’t know. Whatever reasons you have for keeping it under wraps, I respect that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I remind him. Remind myself . “It’s over.”

“Mmm.” He taps his thumbs on the rim of his glass. “Well, nosy bastard that I am, I’ve got one more thing, alright?”

I huff. “Sure.”

“There’s someone I think you should talk to about all of this. Someone who can help a hell of a lot more than I can.” He finishes his drink and stands. I frown at him, trying to figure out who he could be talking about. If it’s Hunter, I’m going to tell him to fuck off.

He puts a piece of paper down in front of me, a series of numbers written neatly across it. Above the numbers are two words. A name. Ash Miller.

I just blink at it for a moment, trying to understand. I’m either much drunker than I thought or I don’t know who this person is.

“It’s Hyde,” he says before I can ask. I look up at him, startled. He smirks. “He gave me the okay to share it with you. For the op. But I know him—he won’t mind being called for something else. Something personal. He’s fond of you. Ash Miller isn’t fond of many. I don’t know how well you got to know him, outside of his work, but if you won’t talk to Hunter about what’s going on, he’s the next best thing.”

Because he’s a dom.

Keats doesn’t know if I know that, but I do. Of course I do.

Hyde— Ash Miller— was the first person I ever handed control over to. He was just like Hunter. He exuded calm and control. He was dominant in everything he said, everything he did. It wasn’t a switch he flipped on and off. It wasn’t something purely sexual.

The nosy fucker is right, if anyone could help me sort out this mess I’ve found myself in, anyone other than the two men I’m in the mess with, it’d be Ash.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Keats adds as he pulls his coat on. “I stole your keys. You aren’t in any condition to be driving anyway. Call me if you need a ride. Or, you know, call your boyfriend. Or your dom. Whoever.”

He leaves before I can tell him to go fuck himself.

I spend a long time after just staring at the number.

“Refill?” the bartender asks at some point.

“No, actually.” I carefully fold the number, sliding it into my pocket, and stand up to pull out my wallet. “I think I’m done.”

In my line of work, trust is as valuable as the air you breathe. You don’t give it out freely and you don’t break it if someone else hands theirs to you. It’s why people like me usually have a very small circle, but within that circle is a bond that’s nearly unbreakable. It’s why we all wanted to stick together after the operation. It’s why there’s no fucking way Keats could be the head after all we’ve been through. It’s why when a guy like Hyde— Ash— asks for you specifically, you show up.

It’s why when I decide to call Ash, standing in the alley where Hunter first promised to take care of me, his hand on my shoulder, my knuckles just as bloodied as they are now, I don’t doubt he’ll answer. I don’t doubt he’ll help.

The issue now is whether it’ll matter. Would Hunter even be willing to take us—me—back after what I did? Or did I truly ruin everything?

Worse, what if I didn’t ruin everything and he does take us back and then later he finds out the truth, finds out the secrets, and realizes I’m not the kind of man he wants in his life? Finds out I’m a fucking monster?

Would I survive him walking away from us? Would Nolan?

Would it just be better to leave things how they are now instead of letting ourselves fall that last little bit, until absolute heartbreak is inevitable?

I could try to explain it all to him. I could tell him I’m a bad man, but I’m trying so fucking hard to be good. I could tell him about the op with Keats I have planned and all the ones I promise to participate in. I could tell him about the box of files I have of the ones I lost, the ones I couldn’t save, that I make myself read anytime I start to forget about them. I could tell him all of the ways I’ve punished myself, all of the ways I plan to make amends, all of the good I’ve tried to do to outweigh the bad.

Maybe Hunter wouldn’t hate me for what I’ve done. Maybe he’d be able to love me anyway, like Nolan. Maybe the three of us could really be together, be happy, even with all my darkness out in the open.

Yeah, right, a voice that sounds eerily like Carter says in my head .

I can’t blame him.

What would Hunter say if he found out I sat in a chair, pretending to be tied up, just watching while my little brother was humiliated and violated repeatedly? What would his face look like if he found out I had the exact location of his auction and did nothing but wait for my friend to buy him? What would he think of me if he knew I got a phone call every night with updates on his rape and torture and did nothing but drink myself to sleep after each one?

I force myself to make the call.

Despite what Keats said, Ash must have been expecting me because he answers after a single ring with, “Maison, you motherfucker. Glad to hear you’re still alive.”

I crack a smile. It’s hard not to with this guy. “Glad to hear you still have a filthy mouth.”

“This is where I’d say something sexual and flirty about filthy mouths, but my boy is sitting right beside me with an impressive scowl, so I’ll refrain.”

“Tell him I say hi.”

I hear him relay the message, followed by a soft murmur that makes Ash chuckle. “He says hi back if you’re calling to talk, but not hi and he doesn’t like you if you’re calling to ask me to do something dangerous.”

I chuckle. He and Nolan would get along great. “Is he unaware that it’s you asking me to do dangerous things?”

“He’s aware. He’s also aware I’m dying to join you guys. He’s not a fan.”

“Well, you can tell him it’s not about anything dangerous, and if anyone gets hurt, it won’t be you.” I clear my throat. “Actually, I’m calling for—uh—for advice, I guess.”

“Alright.” He makes a thoughtful sound. “Does this have to do with Ohio?”

My face burns at the mention of Ohio. I can still see the asshole lying naked beside me in bed, the both of us sweaty and sated, his fingers carding through my hair. I can still hear him when he said, so damn softly, carefully, “Don’t shoot me, but you’d make an excellent sub if you let yourself.”

I hadn’t shot him, but I’d told him to shut the fuck up and he’d listened. He never brought it up again. I did a very good job at pretending to forget it ever happened.

“Maison?”

“Ohio, yeah. Sort of.” I close my eyes, remembering why I’m doing this. Why it’s important. “What you said to me, mostly. That I’d be…you know. A good sub.”

“Ah. So, you found yourself a dom, then?”

I startle. “What?”

“Oh. Sorry. I just thought—well, my assessment of you was that you had a submissive side, but that it would never come out unless you found a dom that would bring it out. You’re not hardcore, you could be happy without it, you definitely don’t need it as a lifestyle, but you’d enjoy it. My assessments are usually spot on, so I figured you found that dom to bring it out of you, but correct me if I’m wrong.”

“He’s not my—” I pass a hand over my face with a groan. How did I forget that this asshole is like this? Cocky and all-knowing with just enough genuine kindness and caring mixed in to make it dangerous. It’s exactly how Hunter is. Is there a dom school somewhere that I don’t know about? Do they have to take a course on how to be unsettlingly perceptive while somehow maintaining an aura that calms their sub anyway? Are they handed paddles instead of diplomas? Do they have class reunions where they share tips about how best to drive their subs to insanity?

“He’s not your…?” Ash repeats, pulling me back on track.

“He’s not my dom. He’s—okay, so I’m seeing this man. I’m completely in love with him. It’s not even funny. It’s—he’s fucking everything. He’s it , you know? I can feel it. I could feel it even in the beginning. But he needs to submit. It’s something he can’t stuff down. Or, I won’t let him stuff down. But I can’t—I can’t dominate him.” I release a shaky, nervous laugh. “I tried. It was a fucking nightmare.”

“You can’t force it, buddy. Just like he can’t. But you have options, alright? If you called me for that, I can definitely brainstorm some—”

“We have a dom,” I blurt. Then I wince. “ He has a dom, I mean. My boyfriend. Not me. I don’t, you know, do any of that. The submitting. I’m just there for the sex and to make sure he’s alright and all that.”

There’s a stretch of silence before he asks, “You’re sure you don’t submit to him?”

“I think I’d know.”

“You submitted for me, once.”

I laugh. “No, I didn’t. I mean, you were rough, but it wasn’t that .”

“You handed over your phone, so nothing could weigh your mind down. We established that no and stop would be respected, making them the safewords. You let me pin you down, let me push your shirt over your eyes, let me tease you and edge you while you begged for it. Do you even remember me coming that night? Because you were flying pretty fucking high after you came. You weren’t with me anymore when I finished. Not mentally. Then I cleaned you up and fed you a chocolate bar from the vending machine and put you to bed.” He sighs. “I don’t care how you want to label it, it was a scene. You submitted.”

I stare at the brick I had punched months ago, my entire world shifting around.

“But—” I stop myself, not even sure what I’m trying to argue. He was there. He did all of those things. He knows. He’s right.

“I don’t do that with him,” I decide to say. It’s the truth. It’s the truth, isn’t it? “I might skirt the edge because I participate, but it’s like…second-hand.”

“Do you want it to be more than that?”

I can hear Hunter whispering in my mind. I’d take such good care of both of you, if you ever let me.

He doesn’t know, though.

He doesn’t know the monster that I am.

He doesn’t know what I did to my own brother.

Once he finds out, he’ll probably want me out of his life. On the off chance that he doesn’t, I still don’t think I can give him enough to really satisfy him. I’m a walking case of unresolved trauma. I think him being disappointed in what I could give him would be the worst possible thing that could happen.

“What has you calling tonight?” he asks when I never answer the first question. “What changed?”

“Nothing.”

He snorts. “Fuck off. What changed?”

“I—fuck, I fucking—I fucked up, okay? I got—I don’t know— triggered , or whatever. During a scene. I got in my head and started freaking out. Like, how can I let him do this shit, you know? After everything I’ve seen? After all the work I’ve put into saving people from sex just like what was happening in front of me? I know it’s different, I know that consent makes it different, but in that moment it felt like that difference was bullshit. I panicked.”

“You safeworded?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, Maison. That’s really good. This dom didn’t make you feel like shit for it, did he?”

“No. I—well, I didn’t really give him a chance. But I know he wouldn’t have. He’s good. He’s—he’s a really good dom. He’d never be mad about that.”

He pauses long enough for me to sense his disappointment. I hate it. It feels like an echo of how Hunter must feel about me right now. It feels like knives in my lungs. “You didn’t give him a chance. Meaning you safeworded and then left without debriefing.”

My silence is answer enough.

“Fucking hell, Maison. Is he okay? Is your boy? Are you?”

I close my eyes, guilt washing over me. It’s such a familiar feeling I nearly laugh. “I don’t think so, no. I don’t think any of us are alright. And it’s my fault. I know it is. I told you—I fucked up, okay? I really fucked up.”

“You did. Do you want to fix it?”

Do I?

There’s so much that would have to happen to fix it. I’d have to explain myself, at least to a point. I’d have to open up. I’d have to be honest. With him. With Nolan. With myself.

“Do you know anything about my op?” I find myself asking.

“Wait. One second.” I hear him say something before there’s shuffling and the sound of a door shutting. I wince, having forgotten that we had a listener. I’m glad he was smart enough to get rid of him before we started talking about classified shit. I don’t know if it’s the whiskey in my veins or the Hunter of it all, but my head is clearly fucked tonight. “Alright, your op. The long game you were involved in, right?”

“Right.”

“No, I don’t know anything about it. Not officially. I mean, I’ve heard some rumblings. I could make an educated guess that you’re the guy behind a certain recent regional collapse. But I don’t have any solid intel for that. I definitely don’t have the details.”

I kick my foot at the ground, heart in my throat. “I used myself as bait, at the end. Let them catch me.”

He exhales slowly. “Do you want to tell me about that?”

“Not really, no.”

But I do anyway. I spill it all in a mess of stuttered words and shaky breaths, skipping over the worst of it but saying enough for him to draw his own pictures anyway. I lose myself twice, once when describing the fear I felt on the rack, then again when describing the helplessness I felt on the stage. After each, he brings me back with a soft, “Take your time,” and I almost laugh when I realize he sounds like a dom. Sounds just like Hunter .

I tell him about Carter.

I tell him about Nolan.

I tell him about the nightmares.

I tell him about this morning.

I lower myself to the pavement of the alley as I finish, not caring that icy water starts soaking into my jeans. I rest my elbow on my knee and my head in my hand.

“That was a lot of trauma,” he says after sitting quietly for a few seconds. “You’ve been tryin’ to shove it down, haven’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“It gets worse down there. Grows stronger while you’re not lookin’.” He sighs. “You haven’t said so yet, but I’m guessing you’ve got triggers. You’ve got hang-ups. And that’s why you don’t think you can be with this dom. Not because you don’t want to or because you’re not submissive, but because you think you’re fucking broken and you don’t think he can fix it.” He makes a soft, distressed sort of sound. “Hell, the way you talked just now, the way you told all of that—you see yourself as the fucking bad guy, don’t you? Maybe you don’t even think you deserve to be fixed.”

The words slice through me. I hate hearing them from him. It’s so close to hearing them from Hunter.

“The thing is, you are broken, Maison. You’re cracked right down the middle. The longer you ignore that, the more that crack grows. It’ll spider like a nick in a windshield until there’s nothing left to salvage. You need to deal with it before it gets there. It doesn’t matter that you’re broken. We all break. Everyone fucking breaks. What matters is if you’re willing to do the work to fix it. You have to want to be fixed. And even harder? You have to let the people who love you help. They can’t fix it for you, but they can make it a hell of a lot easier on ya while you fix yourself.”

I think of broken pottery and gold fusing pieces together. I think of me. Of Nolan. Of a bowl on a kitchen floor. Of scars on our skin. Scars on our hearts.

I think of Hunter. Of how his smile makes my head go quiet. Of how his words promise happy endings. Of how his touch feels like molten gold just waiting to be handed the pieces.

It’s not the first time I’ve thought maybe he can piece us back together, but it’s the first time I want him to.

God, I really want him to.

“You’re not the bad guy, Maison. You are not the villain of this story. He isn’t ever going to see you like that. The only person who does is you.”

I press my closed fist against my lips, fighting a sob. I sound breathless when I admit, “I don’t know how to stop.”

“You’ll figure it out. Let him in. Let both of them in. Figure it out together.”

It sounds so good.

Too good.

“I don’t know if he’d want me,” I whisper. Even quiet as it is, my voice still trembles. “Do the triggers go away, eventually? Will I stop being so—so fucking—so scared? Because I can’t even stomach letting him do to me most of the shit he does to Nolan. For fuck’s sake, man—I don’t even think I’ll ever be able to—to—”

“Bottom again?” he asks in that same soft, calming dom voice from before. Hunter’s is better.

My stupid fucking voice cracks when I say, “Yeah.”

“Who says you have to? Where a cock goes isn’t tied to a power dynamic. You think I haven’t ridden my sub? And even if your dom never wants to bottom either, you’ve both got your boy.” He laughs. “And anal isn’t everything, man. Plenty of healthy queer relationships don’t involve it for one reason or another.”

“I just—I want to be enough, you know?”

“Sounds like he’s already made it clear you are.”

“He doesn’t know my limits. He doesn’t even know—fuck, man, I can’t even say—I don’t think I’d want to call him sir. And I can barely stomach seeing Nolan kneel. I don’t think I’d be able to kneel myself. I don’t want to be restrained in cuffs and I don’t want to be fucking—fucking whipped. I don’t want to be fucked. For fuck’s sake, what does that even leave?”

“A lot, Maison. It leaves a lot.”

I shake my head, my eyes stinging. “But what if it’s not enough?”

“One question.”

I close my eyes, afraid of what he’s going to ask. “Okay.”

“Do you trust him?”

It’s easy. So damn easy. “With my life.”

“Then tell him all of this. Trust him to help you. Trust him to tell you what he needs and if you’re enough. Just trust him, Maison.”

“He’ll look at me differently.”

“I’d fucking hope so. If you find out someone you love has trauma, you approach shit differently. It doesn’t change how you love them, it changes how you show them that love. Sharing your triggers with him, sharing all these worries, lets him see all of you instead of just the pieces you’re willing to show him right now. Of course you’ll be different to him then. You’ll be whole. He may love you even more for that.”

“I—” I stop, closing my eyes and trying to breathe. My body is shaking. I don’t think it’s because of the cold. “I’m scared .”

“Be scared then, Maison. Be scared and do it anyway.”

Be scared and do it anyway.

The words echo in my head as I walk from the downtown area toward Hunter’s house.

Be scared and do it anyway.

It starts to snow just as I reach the start of Hunter’s street. I put my hand out, letting the flakes gather in my palm. My feet are frozen on the pavement. I don’t know if I can do this.

Be scared and do it anyway.

Hunter’s house is lit. There’s a car I don’t recognize in the driveway. I stand on the sidewalk, hands stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. Snow collects on my shoulders as I try to gather the courage to walk up to the door and knock.

Be scared and do it anyway.

But I’m not just scared, goddamnit. I’m fucking terrified.

I’m shaking by the time I make it to the door. My throat feels swollen shut with panic, my head dizzy like it hasn’t been over an hour since I drank, like I just gulped down a pint of whiskey only seconds ago.

It hurts to knock, the fresh cuts on my knuckles throbbing as they’re rapped against the door. I wince when I notice drops of blood.

He’s going to be so disappointed in me.

He’s going to send me away.

He’s going to tell me he realized I’m bad and he doesn’t want anything to do with me and the only hope I will have is to beg him to at least let Nolan still—

The door swings open, revealing Hunter in a pair of sweatpants and—and— my sweatshirt. That’s my sweatshirt. It’s oversized on him, dipping slightly at the neck because that’s where I always pull on my clothes when I’m anxious. He looks good. Right.

He looks like mine.

“Maison.”

I’m suddenly reminded of the first time I showed up here, Nolan beside me. I remember the way Hunter had said our names. I remember thinking how happy he had sounded to see us on his doorstep. How pleased .

This isn’t that.

This is all sharp relief and aching want. It’s something so much bigger. It hurts so much more.

“Hunter,” I whisper, not trusting my voice at full volume. “I—” My eyes fall past him, over his shoulder. The world stutters to a stop at the sight of a man kneeling straight ahead, just behind his couch, tucked to the side of the hall and open area that the kitchen is settled across from. There’s a cushion beneath him. Nolan’s cushion.

Oh.

“I’m so glad you came. I’ve been—please, come in. Come inside, okay? Let’s—”

It’s strange, what happens inside of me. I’ve only felt it once before—when I got the phone call that my little brother had been captured by my enemy. It’s like the world around me takes a step back. A step out of reach. It’s like I’m isolated in a bubble and everything feels impossible and I’m not sure I’m human, I’m not sure I actually exist, I’m not sure how this reality can be my own.

The feeling is odd. Disconcerting. Terrifying, really.

What’s worse is the moment the feeling stops and the world snaps back into place around me and I’m crushed by the weight of it all. It’s breathtakingly painful.

Anger surges forward, my default self-defense.

“You move on fast,” I say in a voice that’s so cold, even I’m chilled by it.

“What?” I look away from the little shit that’s kneeling on Nolan’s cushion and fix a glare on Hunter that has him taking a step back. “Maison, what are you—”

“You fucking son of a bitch.” I step into him, grabbing the material of my sweatshirt and yanking. “Get this off. Get it the fuck off!”

“Hey. Okay. Jesus—hey, let go, I will—”

“Sir!” the man kneeling exclaims, shoving to his feet and scrambling forward like he can take me. He’s half my fucking size.

I want to kill him.

“Master!” the man yells much louder, almost like it’s meant for someone else. “Fuck—James!”

“Take it off,” I breathe, already losing my grip on my anger as I feel Hunter’s hands clasp around my wrists. He’s not afraid. Why isn’t he fucking afraid of me? “Please? Okay? Take it off. Give it back.”

“Okay,” he says calmly. One of his hands leaves my wrist. It’s lifted. I wait for a hit—he’d be within his rights. Hell, maybe it’s what I fucking deserve. He doesn’t hit me, though. He rests the hand on my cheek so softly that it hurts worse than a hit would have. “Breathe, Maison. Breathe for me.”

I suck in a waterlogged breath, my body heaving with it.

My heart is shattering.

“How could you?”

He shakes his head, looking helpless. “I didn’t know. Whatever trigger I stepped on, it wasn’t in the packets. I didn’t know, Maison.”

“Not that!” I growl, equally thankful and afraid that my anger is returning. “Him! You—god, have you been playing with him this whole time? Is he your weekday guy? Is that why you told us we can only come on the weekends?”

“Who—oh, god, no . Maison—”

“Does he fuck you?” I shout at the man hovering nearby, his eyes huge like he’s some fragile little thing that has no idea how to handle confrontation. He’s probably such a good boy. God, does Hunter call him a good boy? Does he call him darling?

Fuck.

Fuck .

I stumble back, bile rising in my throat, tears stinging my eyes.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

“I fell in love with you,” I admit, each word wavering on the edge of a sob. “How could you?”

“Oh, Maison, sweetheart, it’s not—”

“Did you fuck him while wearing my fucking sweatshirt?” I yell, my hands back in the fabric. I pull hard enough for something to tear. I use my grip to shake him. It’s not nearly as hard as it could be—as it should be—but I fucking love him, I fucking fell in love with him, and I can’t hurt him.

But I trusted him and he did this .

How was I so fucking stupid?

He stumbles into me the next time I pull at him, but he’s still not afraid.

“Why aren’t you fucking afraid of me?” I mean to yell the question, to be angry, but it comes out wobbly and desperate instead.

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I could kill you.”

“But you won’t .”

Something hot is on my face. I realize that it’s tears. Many of them. When did I start crying?

He’s shaking again, but it’s not because I’m trying to shake him. It’s because of how hard I’m trembling as I hold onto him for dear fucking life. It’s rolling through him.

“What the fuck is going on here?” a new man barks as he comes flying down the stairs.

Was he in Hunter’s room? Do the three of them do the same thing he does with us? Why do they get to go in his room when we get the guest one?

“I’m going to assume you’re Maison and I’m going to ask you to get your motherfucking hands off of him before I call the police,” the new man says in a cold, no-nonsense voice.

I could kill him seven different ways right now—four of which could be done without me having to fully let go of Hunter’s sweatshirt, two of which I could do without taking a single step, one of which I could do in a way that takes out the little shit now hiding behind him, a two-for-one deal.

The man takes a step forward, reaching into his pocket for what I assume will be his phone. I laugh, low, dark.

“Stop—don’t, just stop!” Hunter says, but it’s not to me, it’s to the man who stumbles to a stop just a few feet from us. The man that was kneeling peers over his shoulder at us. They’re looking at me like Hunter is theirs and they’ll do anything to protect him. I understand that feeling.

It hurts how much I understand that feeling.

“Does he say he loves you guys too?” I ask. I pretend I’m not crying. I pretend I’m not afraid. I pretend I’m not breaking again, my final pieces crumbling into a dust so fine no gold could piece them back together. “Does he say he’ll take care of you? D-does he—does he fucking ask you to trust him?”

Hunter moves the hand that was on my cheek to the back of my neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Maison—Maison, hey, look at me. Me, Maison. Look at me .”

I tear my gaze away from them. There’s blood on the sweatshirt. My knuckles have split back open from how hard I’m clinging to it.

There’s this noise. It’s pained. Like a wild animal that’s trapped and afraid and bleeding out.

I think it’s coming from me.

“Hey. Shh. You’re okay, Maison. I’m right here,” he murmurs, stepping closer until my hands are pressed between his chest and mine. “They’re going to leave, okay? Wells, get out.”

“I’m not going anywhere with him manhandling you like that.”

“Wells,” Hunter says calmly, and I realize the name is familiar. This is Hunter’s best friend. Which makes the man behind him his pet. The one that can cook. Jaxon, I think Hunter said his name was.

“Did you play with them?” I whisper. I have to know. I have to know if he’s been sharing himself. “Are they—did you—”

“No,” Hunter says without a single moment of hesitation. “They are my friends. Nothing more.”

“He was kneeling.” I squeeze my eyes shut, hating that I can’t get the image of him on that cushion out of my mind. “He—he was using Nolan’s cushion.”

“No, Maison. He wasn’t.” I open my eyes, ready to argue. He turns us so we’re looking toward the couch. His hand on the back of my neck tightens. “See? That one is gray. Nolan’s is blue.”

Oh.

“But why was he kneeling for you?”

“He was kneeling for Wells . He was—well, it’s not my business to explain.”

“I was sarcastic,” the man says quickly. “I—I’m having a hard time and I acted out. Master—”

“You don’t have to tell him a fucking thing, pet,” Wells says as he glares at me. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

The words feel like weapons. Not because I care about deserving Jaxon’s explanation, but because I know Wells is saying something else with them. He doesn’t think I deserve Hunter. He probably already thought that before this outburst, and now I’ve made it so much worse.

I can’t even blame him.

I don’t deserve Hunter.

I don’t deserve anything .

Because I ruin every fucking thing I touch.

“Maison?”

“I’m sorry,” I say to them. Then to Hunter, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Did I ruin it? I didn’t mean to ruin it. Please .”

“Shh.” Hunter moves until he’s right in front of me again. “You didn’t ruin it, okay? Everything is alright.”

“Hunter,” Wells warns, not liking how close we are to each other.

Hunter keeps his eyes on me as he says, “The two of you need to leave, James. I’m serious.”

“Hunter—”

“Red.” He looks away from me then, eyes on Wells. I can’t see his expression, but whatever it is has Wells’s whole demeanor changing. Or maybe that’s just the use of the safeword. “This is my boy. I get to decide how I handle this. Leave.”

Wells gives me one more look. It’s full of warning, like he can see right through me, like he knows I don’t deserve the man that just called me his boy, like he knows I’m going to ruin everything if I haven’t already.

Then he takes Jaxon under his arm and leads him to the door. The coat and shoe racks are on the opposite side of where Hunter and I are. I squeeze my eyes shut as they get ready to leave. There’s a hesitation, a moment with no movement or words, before they open the door. The air is cold as it rushes in, but I barely feel it.

Will Hunter hurt me for fucking up? Will he make me bleed? Will he forgive me after? Will he at least take Nolan back if he won’t take me?

“Look at me,” Hunter orders.

I’m too weak to fight. I open my eyes and look at him. He’s got that calm, firm expression he gets whenever he starts a scene with us. It’s the blank slate before we’ve pleased him or turned him on. Like a default mode. It’s better than looking disappointed, but I still hate it.

He’s just a dom right now. A default. Not mine. Not even Nolan’s, most likely. He’s nothing but an unattached dominant handling a bad boy.

Because I ruined it.

I ruined everything.

Why do I have to do that? Why am I like this? Why can’t I just be good?

“I just want to be good!” I whisper.

His face transforms into one of sadness.

I make him sad.

The fact that I can’t be good makes him sad.

Me too, I want to tell him. You have no idea how sad I am too.

“I’m sorry.” I suck in gasping breaths. I think he’s saying something, but everything is ringing and awful and I think I might pass out because the breaths I’m taking in don’t feel like they’re working and my legs are weak and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin it, please, I didn’t mean to, I can’t help it, I’m just bad, I’m so bad, I think I was made this way, I think I’m just bad, bad, bad and I don’t know how to stop it.

A hand suddenly tightens around my throat, bringing everything into sharp focus. I suck in a breath. It’s difficult, but only because of the grip, not because of panic. I feel my whole body go calm as the hand squeezes harder. Hunter controls it now. Controls me. Controls my very breath.

My brain suddenly feels…quiet.

Our eyes lock. His are hard, but not in an angry or disapproving way. It’s his what I say goes look. The one he gives me when I push at a boundary or Nolan tries to sweet talk his way into something.

The hand softens, just a touch. “What’s your safeword?”

Something inside of me quakes. “Red.”

“And if you can’t talk? Do you remember?”

“Two taps, anywhere against you.”

“Use them, if you need to. Do you promise?”

“Yeah. I—yeah. But…did I ruin it?” I ask, my voice barely a rasp. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” The word is loud. Firm. It’s a clear order. “No more talking. You’re going to just breathe.”

“Hunt—”

The hand flexes, fingertips pressing until my oxygen is completely cut off. My head spins, but it’s a clear kind of spin. It doesn’t separate me from the world. It makes everything feel unbelievably real . It makes me feel like I’m an actual fucking person. It makes me feel like I belong in the world around me.

“If you can’t stop talking,” he begins, all deep and dangerous, “You can stop breathing too.”

Oh .

I sag against the wall as the true realization that he has complete control washes over me. Hunter has it now. He has me. He’ll take care of everything. I’m safe. I’m free.

I’m free, I’m free, I’m free.

“I want your gun.”

I shiver. This should terrify me. It should be sending warning bells. He could be a deep-cover agent. He could be about to kill me. He could be the enemy.

Be scared and do it anyway.

I fumble my hand toward the hidden holster and remove my gun. I don’t bother trying to look at it, keeping my eyes locked with his as I thumb the safety switch to make sure it’s on, remove the magazine, and rack the top to release the single bullet already in the barrel. I offer him the pieces with both hands raised between us. He keeps his eyes on me for another moment before dropping them. His hand stays firmly wrapped around my throat as he uses his free hand to take the magazine from me and place it on the entry table. Then the gun is next. The single bullet should be on the floor somewhere, but he doesn’t bother to look for it.

His hand on my throat relaxes just enough. “Breathe.”

I suck in a breath, eyes watering with relief. Not relieved that he’s letting me breathe, but that he’s making me.

“Hunter, I—” the hand tightens again. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wall in a gentle thud. I think I could still breathe if I wanted to, but I don’t. I only want to breathe if he lets me. If he makes me.

I only want to breathe for him.

“Any other weapons?”

I whimper, blindly reaching a hand into my pocket to pull out the Gerber I keep there. He takes it from me. I hear it thud onto what I assume is the table where he placed the pieces of my gun.

I shift my weight, stepping out of my boots and kicking them away from us toward the corner where the rack is.

He loosens his grip. I suck in a breath as he asks, “Why are your boots a weapon?”

“Knives. In the soles.” I press into his hand, wanting it to squeeze again. He puts his free hand on my chest and holds me tightly against the wall, stopping me. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He squeezes again. Hot tears leak out of my closed eyes.

“Anything else?”

I shake my head the best I can with his hold on me.

“Good.” He drags his hand from my chest to cover his own hand on my throat, then along my cheek and into my hair. The grip there is much lighter than the one keeping me from breathing. “That was so good , Maison.”

Oh, god.

I sob, choked off and wrecked.

“Giving those up must have been hard. You’re vulnerable now. But you did it anyway. Such a good fucking boy, doing that for me. Thank you.”

I feel weak. Wrung out. Untethered.

He loosens his hold even more on my hair, now just stroking it. I can feel his breath on my face. He’s closer. I want to look, but I’m too afraid. What if he’s more upset than he sounds? What if he’s disappointed? What if he tells me I ruined everything after all and that I have to leave?

“What did I promise you, Maison?”

His hand relaxes. I breathe. I say, “You promised you wouldn’t let me ruin it.”

“I keep my promises. Which means you haven’t ruined a fucking thing. Do you understand?”

“Y-yeah,” I whisper, not because I believe him, but because I’m desperate enough to pretend, if he’s willing to do the same.

His hand tightens. “Look at me.”

I don’t want to.

“Look. At. Me.”

I force my eyes open, hating how raw they feel. My whole body is raw, inside and out. It’s like I’m flayed open for him. It scares me. Or maybe it scares me how much it doesn’t scare me.

His expression is calm.

It’s also—it’s pleased. The kind of pleased he gets when Nolan takes pain really well or shows his submissiveness in an unexpected way.

But Nolan isn’t here.

Hunter is pleased with me .

I don’t feel weak or wrung out anymore. I don’t feel untethered or raw. I feel like he scooped out all of the bad and poured in some much-needed good. I feel like he’s claimed me, grounded me, tied me to him in ways he doesn’t ever plan on undoing.

It feels like no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to ruin things.

“Before you showed up here tonight, you hadn’t ruined anything. Was I upset you left before we could talk? Yes. Was I upset you ignored my attempts to reach out? Yes. But I was only giving you space. I was not letting us come to an end. Which means you did not ruin this, do you understand? What happened—you getting triggered, you yelling, you leaving, all of it—didn’t ruin anything.”

I realize he’s using past tense.

I hadn’t ruined anything before I showed up here tonight. This was the final nail. This is what brought everything crumbling down.

The world is tugged out from under my feet. The tether is cut. The good inside of me turns toxic and heavy.

Panic crawls through my veins, making me itch and shake. I want to tear myself apart to escape it. The only reason I don’t is because Hunter is touching me and I’d have to tear him apart too. He doesn’t deserve that.

He doesn’t deserve me.

Is he doing this out of pity? Or because he wants Nolan so badly he’s willing to deal with me too?

“I don’t care,” I lie. It’s weak, but it’ll get better. I’m a professional. I’ll make it believable. “Fuck it. I hope I did ruin it. I hope—”

He squeezes again.

I narrow my eyes on him, bucking against his grip. He just raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Fuck you,” I manage to choke out.

He tightens the hold, closing off part of my throat along with the two arteries he’s been focusing on. His palm could crush my windpipe with just a twitch of his hand.

I stare into his eyes, trying desperately to cling to my resolve. If I end this now, it won’t hurt as badly. If I end this now, I’ll never have to worry about ruining it again.

The moment his hand relaxes and my head clears, I tell him, “You’re not the fucking boss of me.”

“Is that so?” He tilts his head as his fingers flex. It’s a light squeeze this time. Just enough to make me feel it. “Want to test that? Or are you ready to be a good boy?”

I can’t be a good boy. Why can’t you see that?

My stupid chin and lower lip wobble. I grit my teeth, my fists clenching at my sides. “Why don’t you go get Jaxon to be good for you.”

“That’s weak. Try again.”

“Fuck you. I don’t want this. I don’t want you . Fucking let me go.”

His eyes narrow, darker than I’ve ever seen them before. “ Make me .”

I growl in frustration, bucking against his hold again. He tightens both hands to pin me in place before leaning in until we’re nearly nose to nose. I hit him where I know it’ll hurt. Where it always hurts him. “You’re not my dom.”

He does the head-tilting thing again, a smile curling across his lips. “You sure?”

“Can’t take no for an answer, Hunter?”

“Not when we have a safeword instead.”

“I’m not going to use a fucking safeword because I’m not your fucking—” He cuts me off again, his hand tight.

My body buzzes, feeling floaty and warm. The calm from before is desperately trying to overtake me again. I find myself wanting to sink against him. To wrap my arms around him and beg him to never let me go. I want to be his. I want him to be mine.

The tears are back when he lets me breathe again.

“Kneeling is a limit for you. I’ll never ask you to do that. You’ll sit for me instead.”

Yeah, I will.

I’ll do anything for you.

Will I be good enough then?

No.

I’ll never be good enough.

“I’m not your fucking dog.”

“No, you’re right. You’re my kitten.” He tightens his fingers again. His other hand moves to my face. I can feel his thumb as it gently brushes tears away. He doesn’t stop, even though it’s pointless. I’m still crying. “Sit for me, sweetheart.”

I close my eyes, needing to hide from him.

“I—I don’t want to.” The words are choked, but I don’t think it’s because of his hold on me. It’s because they’re a lie. Because they’re tangled up in too much fear. Because they’re my last string before I give in.

“But will you anyway?” he asks. His voice is soft now, no longer full of calm dominance. I can hear the need in him. The aching want. The fear of rejection. “For me?”

My world wobbles.

Then it calms.

It is so damn calm .

I sink down, his hands lingering until they can’t possibly touch me anymore without him following me to the ground. His fingertips dance in my hair as all the tension inside of me seems to melt away.

There’s a sharp intake of breath. I realize belatedly it’s from him.

I answer it with a sigh of relief.

The only thought in my mind is, Oh.

Oh, oh, oh.

So, this is how it feels.

“You’re mine,” I hear him say. He’s close again, either kneeling or squatting to be face to face. I can’t look. I feel like I’m a second away from breaking apart at the seams and I know I won’t last if I look at him.

His hands find the sides of my neck, cupping them. It’s a gentle, but firm grip. His skin is warm against mine. A sudden feeling of being settled passes over me. It feels like my world shifts into his control, taking the weight of itself with it.

Everything is his to deal with now. He’ll take care of me. Take care of me and Nolan.

He’ll collect all of our pieces with careful hands, not leaving a single one behind. He’ll be the liquid gold that pours into the cracks, piecing us together until we’re whole again. Until we’re stronger than we ever were before. Until we’re beautiful. A work of art. A love story with a happy ending.

“Both of you are mine, Maison. You and Nolan. I think you have been for a while now. I think it’s time we stop pretending otherwise.” He cups my cheek. I’m helpless, unable to stop myself from looking at him. He smiles. “Don’t you?”

I can’t fight anymore.

All I ever do is fight.

I’m so tired of fighting.

I meet his eyes with mine, wanting to look into them when I say this. Wanting to see him react.

He’s so close, hovering just inches away, his hands warm on me, his knees on each side of my legs. His eyes are wide and bright with hope and fear.

He’s unbearably beautiful.

“Yes,” I whisper, watching as the word settles over him, sinks in, his eyelashes fluttering as he closes his eyes in a moment of relief, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Yours. We’re yours. And you’re—you’re…ours?”

He smiles, slow, bright, like a man just realizing he’s been handed everything he’s ever wanted. “Yes, sweetheart. I am all yours.”

It feels good, so fucking good, but I don’t let myself sink into it quite yet. I have to know one more thing first. One last fear. “What if I’m not a sub? What if I don’t like it?”

He shakes his head. “All you have to be is Maison. I just want you to be Maison and to be mine. Nothing else.”

I surge forward, crashing our lips together in a near-violent kiss. It feels like a reflection of the way I fell for him, fast and hard, hurting a little, setting my world on fire. He allows the frenzied press of lips for a few seconds before placing his hands on my cheeks and gently guiding me back. I try to fight it, too overwhelmed to even be embarrassed by the ridiculous little whine that comes out of me. He just tightens his grip and hushes me, his eyes soft and warm.

“Breathe, Maison.” He smiles again, the one from before. “I’ve got you now.”