Piece Us Together (Monstrous Survivors #3)

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Nolan

I come to two realizations after waking up in the morning.

First, Hunter’s bed is larger, which means I am not getting an adequate amount of cuddles. Maison is sprawled to the left, looking adorably rumpled and at peace, but much too far away. Hunter is even worse on my other side, curled up with his back to us, sleeping away like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

I huff and grab at Hunter’s arm, pulling until he sleepily turns toward me, fingers moving like he’s trying to figure out what’s happening through touch alone. I turn my back to him and nestle against his chest. He hums approvingly, arm wrapping tight around my waist before he relaxes back into the mattress.

Knowing that grabbing at Maison won’t work quite as well, I wiggle toward him instead. Hunter follows, grumbling, “Where y’think y’goin’?”

“Maison,” I whisper as an explanation. Hunter loosens his hold on me immediately, awake enough now to figure it out. I get my cheek on Maison’s chest. He makes a snuffling sound and brings a hand up to rest it on my head. Hunter curls back around me, closing me in between them. His hand rests on Maison’s lower stomach. Maison’s other hand covers it almost immediately, fingers twitching like he’s double-checking it’s real.

“Five more minutes,” I tell them both, happy to doze some more now that I’m being properly cuddled.

Maison makes an agreeable sound while Hunter chuckles, but no one argues.

I come to my second realization when I stand in front of the fridge, dressed in Hunter’s briefs and Maison’s oversized sweatshirt, my two boyfriends sitting at the breakfast bar behind me with matching smiles and mugs of coffee. I realize that if the three of us are going to survive, there’s one duty I’m going to have to handle myself.

“Okay, I know it’s early and we aren’t quite starting our whole negotiation thing yet…” I turn away from the fridge, frowning at Hunter. His shoulders tense and I almost feel bad for making him worry. Almost . The man has five fucking things in his fridge, okay? Five . One of them—the tub of Greek yogurt—is even expired. It’s hard to feel bad about someone who does such a thing. “I’m going on record now that I’ll be doing the grocery shopping.”

Maison snorts a laugh while Hunter just raises an eyebrow. His shoulders have softened, though, relief visible in his expression as he asks, “Is that so?”

“Definitely. How can I be expected to make anything out of ketchup, milk, two eggs, expired yogurt, and pickles?”

“Jee-sus.” Maison whistles. “That’s bad, Hunter, even for me.”

“Okay, in my defense, I had planned on living off of takeout for my holiday weekend, apart from the pie I had been promised. It was going to be takeout and Drunk History and grading papers, remember? Even the Saturday meal with my friends was supposed to be provided by them, mostly, and the stuff Jax cooked here was going to be brought with and I was going to reimburse them.” His smile slips. “And then everything happened…with us. And shopping was really the last fucking thing on my mind.”

Now I feel bad.

“Hunter…” I approach the breakfast bar, resting my stomach against it. Maison is staring down at his coffee with his head ducked low. Hunter is looking over at him, face full of guilt, as if telling his truth wasn’t fair.

“Sir,” I say next. That gets him to look at me, his eyebrows pulled tight. I lean over a little, placing my hands over his. Then I smile. “I’m sorry the three of us had such a hard few days. Really. Truly. But, sir .” He starts to smile then, picking up on my tone. I shake my head at him. “I will be doing the grocery shopping from now on.”

He laughs, his eyes warm and fond. “Yeah, darling. Okay.”

“Starting now.”

His smile slips.

Maison groans.

“It’s so early,” Maison practically whines. “And cold out.”

I settle him with a look that has him giving up his argument, but his bottom lip definitely puffs out. Hunter looks torn between amusement and distaste for my morning plans.

“You know, I’m the one in charge here, right?” he asks, eyebrow arched.

“Of course, sir.” I bat my lashes, overdoing it enough to have him smirking knowingly. “But don’t you want to make me happy? I’d be so happy if we could go shopping. We’ll stock the place full and then we can just hole up for days and be warm and naked and I’ll do whatever you ask and feed you super yummy food.”

“This is what I warned you about,” Maison informs him in a falsely serious tone. “This is the heart eyes. Watch out. Candy canes above your toilet are coming.”

Hunter sighs, but it’s soft, happy, loving. “I draw the line at candy canes in the bathroom—fake or otherwise. We can go shopping, though.”

It’s a fair enough bargain.

Besides, I’m pretty sure I can find some wiggle room on the candy cane front. There’s plenty of time before Christmas, after all.

I offer him my hand to shake, which he accepts in amusement. “Deal.”

Maison and I have been through a lot of things, but grocery shopping together hasn’t been one of them. Doing it for the first time with Hunter feels symbolic, somehow. It has me feeling all warm and fuzzy.

That lasts about as long as it takes us to finish the very first aisle.

“Stop,” I say for what’s already the third damn time, stealing yet another box out of Maison’s hands. He’s like a child in a candy store. A child who isn’t even interested in the candy, but is just curious about it. I take the box from him, glancing at it. “Do you even like pumpernickel bread?”

“How would I know if you don’t let me try it? It sounds cool. Pumpernickel. It feels like an experience I need to have.”

“You’re already experiencing pumpkin spice oatmeal and mushroom jerky,” I tell him. “And we still have—” I pause, glancing up at the tops of the aisles. “Thirteen more aisles, plus the frozen, produce, and bakery sections.”

“Hunter, he’s being mean,” Maison pouts.

Hunter gives him a look that’s a mix between a super-done-with-your-shit-dominant and a patient-man-disgustingly-in-love. “I’m never taking either of you grocery shopping ever again.”

“Aww, come on, this is romantic,” Maison counters.

“You were just complaining!”

“About him , not our shopping experience.”

“I hate both of you,” I inform them as I finally find the right kind of bread. I want to make fancy French toast tomorrow morning. This is the perfect stuff for that. I place it carefully in the small area next to the handle, not trusting them to know well enough not to toss something heavy on top of it. I’ll have to put the eggs up there too.

Neither of them seem to buy my hateful act. Which is fair, considering I’m holding Maison’s hand with my free one and have most of my weight leaned into Hunter’s side as he pushes the cart.

It’s a hard life, being in love with idiots.

“Maybe next time we should make a grocery list,” Hunter offers, his inner-dom taking over. “It’ll help us budget, too. Remember—I’m the sugar daddy coupon guy.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll pay for all of this,” I tell him as we head into the next aisle. “But a grocery list might still be a good idea. At least for the basics. Sometimes I get ideas once I’m here.”

“You don’t have to pay.” Hunter puts a hand on my arm, frowning. “I’m not broke. I’m just saying, it’s good to be smart with money.”

I look at Maison, biting my lip. He winces and decides to find something new to be interested in. Yet another box of food. This time, it’s a jar of sriracha. Fat lot of good he is.

“I’ve got a lot of money,” I tell Hunter quietly, pretty sure this isn’t the best place to have this discussion but also not wanting to start our relationship off with lies or secrets. “You can pay for other stuff, but food can be my area, okay?”

Hunter eyes me. I can practically see the wheels turning in his mind. Usually when that happens, he shuts himself down, remembering it’s not his place to ask about stuff that’s outside of our dom/sub dynamic.

Then again, that was before. Things are different now. We’re different.

He proves it by asking, “What do you do, when you’re not with me? I know you’re not in school. Do you work?”

Surprisingly, it’s Maison who asks—a little sharply—“How do you know he’s not in school?”

Hunter raises an eyebrow, though I’m not sure if it’s Maison’s question or his tone he’s responding to. “Because I work there? When we started things, I made sure there wouldn’t be an issue as far as conflict of interest. I ran his name through the system. Both of yours.”

For a moment, I can’t figure out why that has Maison looking so uncomfortable. Then I realize—Hunter isn’t supposed to know our names.

“How’d you find out his last name?” Maison asks, and this time his tone isn’t sharp, it’s dangerous.

Hunter sighs, looking away from both of us. I can’t help but think he feels a little hurt. I can’t help but see where he’s coming from, if he does.

How the hell are we going to do this? We have to tell him, don’t we? Could this really ever work any other way?

“You put them on your packets,” he says quietly. “I didn’t fucking steal them or something. I didn’t go digging in wallets. You gave them to me.”

Maison immediately relaxes. I remember then that we used our new identities for those packets. Well, my new one. Maison had his for a long time before I needed my own. It wasn’t until we moved out of the safehouse that we survivors were given ours, complete with ID cards and bank accounts.

Other than when Hunter asked for our names on those packets, I haven’t needed to even use my false identity. I’ve never been carded at the pub Carter works at and Maison drives whenever we go out. I’d almost forgotten it exists.

“Never mind,” Hunter says. I realize he’s let go of my hand. He’s gripping the cart’s handle tightly, knuckles white. “It’s not my business what either of you do when we’re not together. I get it.”

I don’t look at Maison. I’ve decided I don’t care if he doesn’t want me to say something. It’s not like I’m going to spill our secrets in the middle of the fucking grocery store, but Hunter deserves to know something for now. And more later. A lot more. Everything, probably. That’s the only way this will work, isn’t it?

“I was in college, before. Years ago. Not here.” I try to think of how to put it without sounding like I’m hiding things. Then I decide that’s stupid. He’ll see right through me anyway. So, I say it how it is. “I can’t tell you about my time since then, up until a few months ago. Not—not right now. Not here. But I don’t do anything. Now, I mean. Not college or work. I—”

“Nolan,” Maison says lowly.

I ignore him. “I have an…inheritance, of sorts. Lots of money to burn. I’d love to spend it on food, if you’ll let me.”

Hunter studies me for a moment before turning his focus on Maison, who is managing to do the whole scared-angry thing he’s a master at these days. I can see how badly Hunter wants to ask questions. So many questions. Not just about what I told him, but about what Maison isn’t saying, too.

Instead, he looks back at me and smiles. “Thank you for telling me that.”

It’s such a small thing, but I hope it’s enough.

I hope he’s patient enough to wait for the rest.

We’re almost done shopping when we hit the aisle with everything on clearance, most foods a day or so away from expiring.

“Wait— today is Saturday.”

“Very astute,” Hunter teases Maison.

“But—your friends? The dinner?”

Hunter’s smile falters. He looks away from us, focusing on a shelf of flavored rice he suddenly finds interesting. “I canceled that. Well, rescheduled. Kind of. But we get together for Christmas and Hannukah late-December, so really, it’ll likely be then.”

“Because of me?” Maison asks.

“No.” Hunter looks at him. “I didn’t cancel until last night, after we agreed to be together. I didn’t want to have to kick you guys out the very next day after making that decision, but I also didn’t want to throw you to the wolves and have you stay to meet the rest of my friends.”

“They’re that bad?” I ask with a forced laugh that sounds a lot more nervous than I intended.

“Well, considering Wells already hates me…” Maison mumbles.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hunter says, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced. For how great of a dom he is, he’s not the best liar. “He—they just need to get to know you. I figured neither of you was up for getting grilled for information quite yet.”

I look at Maison, not sure where his mind is compared to mine. He raises an eyebrow and shrugs. I shrug back and turn my gaze on Hunter. “We’re fine with it.”

He blinks. “Fine with dinner? With my friends?”

“Sure!”

“Why not?” Maison adds. “You already endured ours. I’d be shocked if your group can pull off the same level of dysfunction.”

“I wouldn’t call us dysfunctional, no.” He smiles a little ruefully. “Nosy, though. They’ll press. You’re more than welcome to turn them down, but they’ll try. I just don’t want them to upset either of you.”

Maison brushes nonexistent debris off the handle of the shopping cart. “I won’t be like I was last night. I won’t—I’ll keep my head on straight. I won’t drink, either. I’ll make a better impression this time.”

I can see a battle in Hunter’s expression, the man caught between relief and the guilt that relief brings. He places a hand over Maison’s. His expression softens before Maison ever sees what I did, nothing but love in it now. “All I want is for you to be yourself. They’ll love you. The both of you. But I want to be selfish today. Please? I just got the two of you. I want to finish shopping and go home and talk about our future and watch superhero movies and have really great sex.”

Someone gasps. We all turn to look at a scandalized young woman. She doesn’t seem scandalized in a bad way, more like someone who has read a lot of spicy romance novels and is really fucking pumped to have stumbled upon such a situation in her reality. I wonder if it matters that we’re gay. I wonder why I’m even thinking about that when Hunter just offered superhero movies— yes, Bucky, fucking finally!— and great sex.

Maison has much better priorities than me because he’s already starting to push the cart down the aisle. “We better hurry, then.”

The recipe I’m dying to make needs to go in the slow cooker for a few hours, so I have to start making it right away when we get to Hunter’s. I didn’t think ahead to ask if he even has one, but thankfully he does. It’s full of dust. I only tease him a little about that before telling him that I plan to use it often, which he seems to like the idea of a lot. I don’t mind it myself. I like the thought of making myself at home in his kitchen. In his house.

Hunter is still unpacking the bags as I start prepping ingredients. He pauses when he pulls the bottle of red wine out, frowning. “This is no good. I have a Merlot that’s supposed to be amazing, if you’d rather?”

“Why does it not surprise me that you’re a wine snob?” I tease. Then, before I can get into trouble for being a little bratty, I add, “It’s just for the recipe, so quality doesn’t matter. It’s all cooked out in the end anyway. Though, I bet that Merlot would pair amazingly with the dish later.”

“I think you’re probably right.”

“Wait, so—can we really never have sex if we have a drink? Like if we have a single glass of wine at dinner, or a beer with the football game, that’s it? No sex?”

Hunter starts folding his tote bags. “That’s actually a perfect place to start, if we want to discuss that kind of stuff right now. Some rules will absolutely change now that we’re…something more.”

“A relationship, Hunter,” Maison says quietly, picking up on how Hunter had stumbled over the wording. He still doesn’t feel secure in this. I hate that for him. I don’t know how to fix it. Not when there’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me it’s too good to be true anyway. Maison’s always been good at fixing, though, even if he spends most of his time beating himself up over the times he wasn’t able to. “We’re in a relationship now. You’re our sexy professor boyfriend. This isn’t a vague something more , okay? We’re all in.”

Hunter drops his chin, looking surprisingly affected as he exhales. I wanted relief or a huge grin, but I’m starting to think it’ll take some time for him to believe us. It’s only fair. We were established already when we added him in. There were a lot of bold, bright lines drawn that we’re just expecting him to waltz over now.

Before Maison can push the issue past a comfortable point, I swoop in to steer away from Hunter’s insecurities. “What kinds of things will change?”

This is when the relief I expected comes out, his shoulders softening as he steps into his dom shoes. “Well, like you brought up, the alcohol limit will change. I’d say I feel comfortable enough with the two of you now to trust that one drink would be okay if we kept the kink minimal. I wouldn’t do bondage or any significant pain play. I definitely wouldn’t explore limits. But yes, a drink sometimes would be okay. Though…” His discomfort comes back as his gaze drifts toward Maison. He seems to consider something before saying very carefully, “I’m not entirely sure alcohol is a good idea for you. At all.”

Maison’s jaw flexes. Oh boy.

“I’m not making it a rule,” Hunter says. It’s not quick, not like he’s backpedaling at Maison’s shift in demeanor. It’s just him continuing his thoughts, his voice remaining calm and kind. “I’m just saying it’s something you should maybe think about. I’ve never seen you happy after a drink. Can you tell me the last time you had a good night with alcohol involved?”

Maison looks away from both of us, toward the front door. I’m not sure if he’s remembering last night—him showing up here, drunk, upset, yelling and threatening and then sobbing on the floor—or if he’s thinking about running. Neither is an option I enjoy the thought of.

I glance at Hunter, heart in my throat. His arm is resting on the breakfast bar, but he lifts his hand at the wrist, a subtle “hold on” gesture. I trust him enough to wait.

“No decisions need to be made today about that. About anything, even.” Hunter moves his other hand slowly, but not hesitantly. He knows Maison enough to know he can’t go grabbing for him without warning. Especially when Maison is lost in his head. Something warm curls in me at that. He’s going to take such good care of him. Of both of us. I can’t wait.

When he has his hand on Maison’s arm, Maison’s eyes locked on to where they’re touching, he says, “Do we want to keep talking about these things now or would we like to put it on hold?”

I look at Maison, knowing the question is really for him.

He swallows before carefully putting his hand over Hunter’s. His shoulders soften the moment he does, his breath coming out a little shaky. “Can we—this is probably stupid, but can we use our words, while we talk?”

I don’t understand.

Hunter does.

“Yes, Maison. In fact, our safewords can be active at all times, if you’d like. Any yellow or red will always be respected, even if all we’re doing is sitting on the couch watching a movie.”

I hide a smile, then remember I don’t have to. There’s no reason to hide how happy things like this make me. How glad I am for him to let himself be vulnerable with Hunter. How relieved I am that Hunter understands him so well. It’s not a secret anymore. Not something to tiptoe around.

Not that Maison is looking at me, anyway. He’s currently caught in the thrall of our sexy professor dom boyfriend. It has me smiling wider.

“Then we can keep talking,” Maison says. “If it can stop when I need it to, if things get too much, then we can keep going.”

Hunter smiles. It’s pleased. Proud. I see the moment it hits Maison, nearly bowling him over with the power of it. Warmth rushes through me at the sight.

“I’d like to go get a notebook.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “I’m a nerd, I know. It makes me feel better to take notes. Do you mind?”

Maison shakes his head as I say, “No, sir.”

The moment Hunter is out of the room, Maison’s eyes snap to mine. His eyes are wide with something close to panic. I step up to the breakfast counter and put my hand over his. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s going to want to know.”

I frown. “Know?”

“ Know ,” he says, more urgently. His free hand goes to his chest. I can see the outline of his tags beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Know everything.”

“He deserves to, doesn’t he?”

“I’m not ready, Nol.”

I look at him. At the fear in his eyes. The heaving of his chest. The shake of his fingers beneath mine. I remember him looking at the door like he wanted to run. I remember how red his eyes were last night. I remember how he said he’d sobbed.

Hunter has worked magic in ways I’ve never thought possible with this beautiful, stubborn, self-sacrificing man that I love. He can’t keep doing that if Maison shuts him out. It’s not my place to say, though. We might be a unit, but Maison’s trauma is his.

“I’m not hiding my truth from him. If he doesn’t ask tonight, I won’t bring it up, but I will soon, Mais. I would never tell your part of the story, I’ll work around it, leave you out, but I’m not ashamed of what I’ve been through. I survived . I’m proud of that. I want to share that with him.”

Emotions flicker over his face before he ducks his head to hide it from me. Hunter would grab him by the chin and force him to look, but I’m not Hunter. I don’t want to be. I know myself well enough to know I can’t carry that weight. Not for long, at least. I’m not built for it. Especially not the kind of weight Maison needs help with.

“You deserve to share that,” he says quietly. “Of course. I just—it’s not like that for me.”

“You survived. I don’t care that you were an operative, you’re a survivor too.” I lean toward him, heart aching. “You survived , Mais. You’re right here. With me.”

He looks up at me. I realize I was wrong for wanting him to do that before. The pain in his eyes is so intense, I feel it echo inside of me, scraping me raw. Oh, Maison.

“Here we go,” Hunter says, entering the room again with his notebook, pen, and glasses. He’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows and loosened the buttons near his throat. It’s a gut punch, the arousal I suddenly feel mixing with the heartache of the moment. He freezes the second his eyes fall on us, his entire demeanor shifting. “What’s wrong?”

Maison straightens, his face already shifted to form a heartbreakingly convincing smile. “Nolan can’t remember the recipe.”

And—okay. See, I really want to press the issue. I really want to call him out and tell Hunter something is wrong and make Maison face whatever the hell just had him looking the way he did a minute ago.

But—“I do not forget recipes.”

“I don’t know,” he says with a teasing smirk that I hate for being real. How does he do that? Where does he stuff all of it down? What does it do, way down there in the dark? Come back as nightmares? Manifest as deep-seated fear? “Looks like you forgot this one. I don’t see any cooking.”

I eye him for a moment, still debating what to do.

It’s not my place, though. I love him. I support him. But it’s not my place. Calling him out would be calling out his trauma—or close enough to be unfair.

“I need a wine opener,” I tell Hunter.

He slowly sits back down where he was before, his eyes flitting between the two of us. “To the left of the stove, second drawer.”

I grab the bottle of wine and head there, glad it gives me an excuse to have my back to them.

There’s a long stretch of silence. The pop of the cork coming out of the bottle nearly startles me from how quiet the room is. When I glance over my shoulder, I see Hunter with his head against Maison’s temple, Maison glaring down at his wrapped hands on the counter. He says something, soft and low, and Maison’s eyes fall closed, his shoulders softening.

Hunter smiles.

I turn away from them, grinning to myself.

It’s only a minute or so before Hunter is talking, this time to the both of us. Just as I’m drizzling olive oil into the skillet on the stove, Hunter says, “I think it’d be easiest if we focused on sex first. We do sex very well.”

I laugh softly, but Maison’s is louder. It’s almost harsh with the relief that bursts out with it. I don’t have to turn to know he’s blushing. I don’t have to turn to know Hunter is making heart-eyes at the reaction.

I love them.

God, I am so unbelievably in love with them.

“Kissing is fair game,” Maison says. “In case that’s not ridiculously clear. Kiss us all you’d like. All the time, really.”

“I second that,” I say with a hand waved over my head, my other one turning the dial on the stove to the highest level. The oil needs to be hot so I can pan-sear the short ribs. “Kisses. Lots of kisses. Everywhere. All the time.”

“Yes. Everywhere,” Maison agrees. “Everywhere is good. Except for my feet. Not huge on that.”

I snort a laugh. “Because they’re ticklish, sir. Super ticklish. Just as an FYI.”

“Good to know,” Hunter says in amusement at the same time Maison squawks indignantly. “So, kissing yes, feet no.” There’s a pause. I realize why just before he speaks again. There’s just enough time for my heart to lurch, then he says much more seriously, “Maison, you said you still don’t want to bottom, yes?”

“Is that okay?” Maison asks, his voice weak.

“Anything either of you want or don’t want is okay. Always.” I stare unseeingly at the pan of oil. Little specks are starting to jump around in it. “Besides, we have a needy little hole that would love to be the center of our attention, isn’t that right, darling?”

I shiver, my cheeks heating. It’s a relief when I hear Maison’s low chuckle, though. Enough to have me able to salt and pepper the ribs without making a mess from my hands shaking.

“Darling?” Hunter presses.

“Yes, sir.”

“Two holes, really. Very needy ones,” Maison adds.

“So true. Gosh, aren’t we fucking lucky? Have ourselves a little cockwarmer wherever we go.”

I nearly burn myself transferring the ribs to the pan. This is so unfair. I should have said we needed to wait for this. All I want is to be on my knees, squirming with arousal, maybe a cock in mouth, a hand in my hair. I love to cook, but at the moment, it’s a little too close to torture.

“I want you to touch me, too,” Maison says, back to being serious, though still a light kind of serious. “No limits on that.”

“Now, let’s talk about that, though. Bottoming—to me—means that you don’t want to be penetrated by my cock. I’ve played with many tops who enjoy a plug inside them during sex, or a finger during a blow job, or getting their hole eaten out. How do you feel about things like that?”

I turn then, wanting to be there for him as much as I can. The ribs have to sear for five minutes anyway before they’re flipped.

Maison isn’t looking at either of us. He’s back to studying his hands. I watch as he slowly traces the top line of his tape with his fingertip. Hunter watches too.

“Nothing. I don’t—nothing.” He closes his eyes. I don’t know what it is about the moment, about the way his expression shifts ever so slightly. But my gut tells me he’s not with us anymore. My gut tells me he’s in the same place that haunts me sometimes—the Roarke compound. “I don’t want—I don’t want—”

“Maison,” I say, nice and clear.

His eyes snap open, wide and terrified. Then he takes a shuddering breath and everything in him relaxes. He’s back. He’s in the kitchen, with Hunter and me. He’s safe.

I can feel Hunter watching us, but I don’t look away from Maison. I don’t even blink.

“Nothing,” he says again, firmly this time. He breaks the eye contact first, looking at Hunter now. “At least not yet. I’ll let you know when it changes. When I’m ready to maybe try more.”

There are so many questions in Hunter’s head, I swear he’s vibrating with the effort to contain them all. He manages, though. “Absolutely. For now, I won’t go near the area. I want you to know that, okay? If I’m sucking your cock or kissing your body, I don’t want you to be pulled out of the moment by worrying I forgot or worrying I’m going to push it. Try to trust me, okay?”

“I trust you,” Maison says, and he makes it sound so simple, so easy, but I know Hunter sees it now. He sees just how big that is. How monumental.

Hunter puts a hand on the back of his neck, and I swear I can feel the ghost of it on my own. “I know. I won’t ever betray that. But if you get worried anyway, trust be damned, I won’t be upset or doubt you, okay? We can’t control how we react sometimes. I just want you to try.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can.” Hunter’s hand flexes. A squeeze. He’s smiling, bright with pride, and that brightness transfers, lighting Maison’s whole face up. “I can’t wait to lay you out and take you apart, you know that? I’m going to unravel you.”

Maison shudders, red visibly flooding his cheeks. He ducks his head and Hunter lets him, the man chuckling as he starts writing what we all just agreed to down on paper. I wonder if he’s going to write the unraveling part too. I wonder how hard Maison would blush seeing it on paper.

I flip the damn ribs, really regretting choosing an intensive recipe. The second they’re flipped, I’m grabbing the onion and starting to cut, not bothering with any tricks. I don’t care if my eyes water. I just want this to be finished so I can get on one—or both—of their penises. Immediately.

“Do I have to call you sir?” Maison asks.

“No. Do you want to?”

“I… don’t think so. I’ve got—there are past experiences.” Before I can even turn around in surprise, Maison hurriedly adds, “The military.”

Maybe it is the military.

I don’t think it is, but maybe.

It’s his lie—or truth—either way. Not mine.

“It won’t be a rule. If you get the urge, go ahead and call me that. If you get the urge to try some other honorific, you can do that as well. I’ll work with you on it. Follow your lead.”

“That sounds…good.”

“ That won’t be a rule,” Hunter says. “But other things will be. I have a feeling that’s where we’re going to butt heads. I want you to know that everything is negotiable except for three things. Well, four, I guess. Let’s go with four.”

Maison sounds pretty unsure, but he says, “Okay.”

“First, we respect limits. Always. It’s not a new rule, I know, but I’ve decided to add it in again. For emphasis. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Maison says.

“Agreed, sir!”

“Next, no skipping out on aftercare.”

“That one is recycled too,” Maison says teasingly.

I have a feeling I know what Hunter is going to say, smirking to myself as I dump the onion into the basin of the slow cooker and move on to the carrots.

Sure enough, Hunter says, “That was a rule for Nolan. I was never allowed to make it for you. Now? Now, you both will do aftercare. Always. No more grumbling that you can clean yourself up or you’re not thirsty or whatever else you want to say, regardless of how stubborn you’re feeling.”

“Okay,” Maison says without an ounce of hesitation. “I think— Christ , I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but I—I think it’ll be easier to accept it if it’s a rule.”

Always the soldier.

“Fair enough. Then keep that in mind for this next one.” I tense, waiting with my knife poised. My mind flashes with a hundred things it could be. “No running.” I exhale, low and shaky. I close my eyes. “No. Running. I don’t care how scared you get. How angry or sad. I don’t care if you’re panicking. You can go as far as that door, but you sit your ass down in front of it and stay right here where I can get you. Do you understand?”

I let my chin fall to my chest.

He doesn’t take as long as I thought he would, even if his response is so quiet I barely hear it over my own breathing. “Understood.”

“Promise,” I say without planning to, turning to face him. He’s already looking at me. I lock his gaze with mine. My voice wavers as I say again, “Promise me. Please.”

“I promise you.” He keeps contact with my eyes for another second, then turns to look right into Hunter’s. “I promise both of you.”

It’s a weight off my chest. One I didn’t even realize was there. I turn away from them, realizing I should have saved the onion. Now there’s no excuse for the tears threatening to spill over. At least the ribs are ready to be taken out of the skillet. The sizzling oil burns me a little. I welcome it, breathing even easier.

There’s one rule left.

Hunter says, “We communicate. I can’t get scraps. I can’t spend hours analyzing and guessing and wondering. I can’t be the partner—the sexy professor dom boyfriend—that I want to be without all the information.”

And there it is.

I cut the rest of the carrots.

I cut the shallots.

I get the measuring cups and pour the wine.

I use a can opener on the cans of tomato paste and add those too.

I measure out the brown sugar and—

“So many secrets,” Hunter says, almost to himself.

“It’s not that simple,” Maison defends.

I consider crawling into the oven. It’d be a disappointing end, considering it’s not turned on, but it’d be a decent hiding place. It’s probably not even that dirty considering the small amount of cooking Hunter seems capable of doing.

“I’m not asking for the two of you to sit down and write a detailed account of your lives. I don’t need your deepest darkest secrets right now, in the middle of cooking fucking dinner. But—for now—I need honesty when it comes to our relationship, our emotions, our thoughts. I need to know I can trust the two of you to speak up if you need to. I need to know enough to properly take care of you.”

It’s that last sentence that does it. That last sentence makes it so Maison won’t agree.

Except, Maison is a spy. An operative. He’s an excellent liar. “That’s fair.”

It’s said with just enough hesitancy to sound like a concession instead of what it is. I don’t know what I want more—for Hunter to see right through him or for Hunter to buy it.

He buys it. “So, we communicate?”

“Yes,” Maison says.

“Nolan?”

I exhale.

I won’t lie to him.

“I’ll always communicate, sir,” I say, careful not to put emphasis on the first word of that sentence.

“This next thing isn’t a rule, but it’s something I want to discuss.”

“Ominous,” Maison murmurs. “But, okay.”

“Nolan?”

“Yeah, sir?”

“Can you look at us, just for a moment?”

I put down my knife and turn. Maison gives me a careful smile while Hunter just watches me intensely. “How much guidance would you like to have, outside of sex? How much dominance?”

All of it.

Own me.

“A…lot, sir.”

He smiles, the one where wrinkles appear around his eyes and his teeth flash. “What don’t you want controlled, darling?”

That’s easier. Much easier.

“I want to be able to talk to whoever I want, whenever I want. To have privacy for my phone. And to be able to leave. To go see friends. To maybe—to maybe go to school, I think. I think I’d like it.”

“Those are all things I’d want you to have, so that’s perfect. What else?”

“Um. Clothes? Most of the time? I like being able to pick out my own clothes, but sometimes…sometimes I overthink it. Get anxious about all the options.”

“Will you tell me, when you feel that way? I would love to help.” I nibble on my bottom lip, nodding in a way I hope doesn’t come off as ridiculously eager. His smile turns into a smirk that makes me think he’s onto me. “I’m assuming you want to control the menu and groceries.”

I laugh. “God, yes.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Okay, okay. Speaking of food, though—you said in your packets there were no allergies and no relevant health issues.”

I nod slowly, not sure where he’s going with this. “Yes, sir.”

“Nolan, your frame…” he hesitates, his eyes falling to scan my body before flicking to Maison. “I think it’d be healthy for you to put on some weight.”

My face goes hot immediately. Maison tenses, something Hunter clearly picks up on. “I don’t mean to offend,” Hunter says carefully, his eyes back on me. “I just want you to be healthy. Is there—do you need help with that, darling? You know I’d never judge you if you needed that help.”

God, he’s such a good man. A good dom. Good partner. I manage a smile, because of that. Because of him.

“I want to be healthy, sir. I just look like this because…” I trail off, but I don’t let myself look at Maison. I meant what I said before—I won’t tell his story, but I’m telling mine. I keep my eyes on Hunter and tell him the truth. “Because I wasn’t allowed to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I’m getting better, now that I’m—now that I get to decide for myself. I’ve put on weight. I’m not done doing so. If you want to help with that, you can, but I’m on the job.”

Hunter’s fingers curl into fists. “Who?”

“Sir?”

“Who did that to you?”

A man named Nathan Roarke.

Benny Lafitte.

Other men.

So many men.

“They’re dead,” Maison says, his voice whisper soft, yet still somehow booming. I jolt with the force of the truth. Hunter seems just as affected, his eyes wide as he turns to look at Maison. His face is serious. Cold. Angry.

Hunter looks at him for a moment, wheels turning. Then, “Did you kill him?”

It wasn’t just one, but telling him that gives too much away. I can see the moment Maison realizes that. The moment he has to weigh the options of what to say.

He looks at me, and I realize he’s asking permission. I grab the edges of the counter behind me to keep from collapsing. I nod.

Maison looks back at Hunter. “Some of them. Not enough of them, but some of them.”

There’s a moment, a single moment, where Hunter doesn’t understand.

Then he does.

And oh, how it hurts to see that realization wash over him. To see my reality become his own.

He ducks his chin, hiding in a way I’ve never seen him do before. His eyes close.

Maison places a hand on his shoulder. I itch to walk forward, to do or say something, but I feel frozen in place.

“Are there any left?” he asks in a gravelly, thick voice.

“Not a single fucking one,” Maison promises.

Hunter sits with that for a moment, taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Then he turns, eyes flashing wide open, and grabs Maison by the back of his head. He kisses him hard. Enough to have Maison grunting, his body swaying back on impact, nearly falling right off his stool. Hunter fists his hair and kisses him deeper before pulling away and looking into his eyes. “Thank you.”

A hitched breath comes out of Maison, heavy and loud, so damn close to a sob.

I find myself nodding, a sob close to surfacing from me too.

“I can’t talk about it,” Maison tells him in a choked voice. He clings to Hunter’s wrists where he has his hands up to frame his face. “Not yet."

“He’s safe?” Hunter asks. Then, looking at me, “You’re safe now?”

“Very, sir,” I say.

Maison follows it with, “I’ll protect him with my fucking life. The both of you, Hunter.”

Hunter’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as he seems to come to the realization that I’m part of the weight on Maison’s shoulders. Both of us, now that Maison has fallen for him too.

There’s nothing we can do about that. He’ll never let that weight go. I’d never ask him to. It’s not who he is.

Hunter is perfect, though. He knows just what to say. What to do. He looks at Maison, his smile proud, loving. He cups the back of his neck and looks into his eyes. He says, “When you’re in this house, I protect you.”

Maison is predictable. His lips twitch into a smirk. “Honey, you have no idea how to protect me. You don’t even own a gun.”

Hunter’s eyebrow raises. “How do you know that?”

Maison blinks, it most likely just hitting him that he gave something away that he shouldn’t have. “I—”

“No. Not a lie. The truth, Maison.” Maison starts to look at me. Hunter grabs his chin, forcing his attention. “The. Truth.”

“Background check.”

“That doesn’t come up in a standard background check. Try again.”

“I didn’t say it was a standard check.”

Hunter takes an incredibly deep breath in through his nose, then slowly releases it. He drops his hand from Maison’s chin and looks away from him. Maison’s shoulders go up to his ears as he ducks his head.

“Is Nolan safe because of you and your gun, or is he safe because no one is coming after him anymore?”

“No one is coming,” I answer for him. I look at Maison, waiting for him to lift his gaze to meet mine. “Right?”

“Right.”

“Then I don’t need a fucking gun.”

“I don’t need you to protect me, then.”

“What if you need to be protected from yourself?”

Maison turns his face away from both of us, his chest expanding as he sucks in a breath. “Red.”

Hunter’s hands curl into fists against the counter.

“Red for everything?” Hunter asks, his voice tight with perfectly controlled emotion. “Or just that topic?”

“Talk about Nolan,” Maison says, his voice shaking with emotions completely out of his control. “Please.”

“That’s easy enough. To review, we’ve agreed you have control of your relationships, your phone, our meals, and your clothes unless you ask for help.” He pauses, waiting for me to nod in agreement. “Let’s talk about kneeling.”

He puts a hand on Maison’s arm without looking at him, knowing how Maison feels about the topic. Maison rests his hand over Hunter’s.

“I want the two of you to feel welcome here anytime. If we have plans and I’m at work, I want you here when I come home if it works with your schedules. I will always make it clear what time I’ll be here. If you’re here first, you can make yourselves comfortable. Start cooking a meal, if you’d like. Watch television. Nap. Whatever. I will always make it clear when I will be home, within a few minutes of course. I’d like you—Nolan—to be kneeling at the door for me when I come in. To be safe, I’d say start kneeling about ten minutes before I’m expected. You will set a timer though. If I am not here ten minutes past my expected time, you can get up again. I don’t ever want you just waiting, in case an emergency or something comes up and I can’t contact you.”

“That’s twenty minutes of kneeling,” Maison murmurs.

“He’s made it through movies.”

“Sitting.”

“Okay. That’s fair.” Hunter says the words softly, not condescending, but comforting. He looks at me. “Darling, how long can you kneel comfortably? Have you tested it?”

I snort a laugh. Neither of them seems amused, especially Maison. In fact, he looks close to pissed off. Which is fair, as Hunter would say. Not exactly a joking matter.

Maison makes that clear by saying, “Comfortably, Nolan. Not what you can withstand.”

Hunter does another hard exhale through his nose, his mind adding things up and not liking the conclusion. “Comfortably,” he agrees, voice hard.

“Um.” I turn away from them. I’m not hiding, I just need a minute. A minute to have my hands on ingredients and my head quiet. Because the truth? I don’t know. There was never a clock around. I could have knelt for hours. For days. No one ever told me. Sometimes the cramps would get so bad, my legs would go numb. Once, my back was so fucked up that electricity was shooting down my spine, through my legs, and a particular spasm had me pissing myself. I’d been desperate to go back to kneeling when they started punishing me for that.

“I don’t know,” I admit to the rosemary sprig between my fingers.

“Then we’ll learn. Together. Once we know, we’ll set that rule. For now, let’s just have you kneel whenever you arrive. Let yourselves in, you don’t have to knock anymore. I’ll always have a cushion beside the door. You’ll take your jacket and shoes off and kneel on it until I come and tell you to do something else.”

“What about me?” Maison asks.

Hunter grins. “You come find me. Let me know the two of you are here, if I’m elsewhere. And I want a kiss hello.”

I glance over my shoulder, biting back a smile when I catch the pink in Maison’s cheeks. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah, that’s—that’s good.”

I turn back to the meal before he can see my shit-ass grin.

“Any other times I want you to kneel, I’ll let you know. With that said, you can always bring your cushion to me if you would like to kneel without an order to. If there’s a reason I don’t want it at the time, I’ll explain that. Usually, I’ll be more than happy to have you at my feet, though.”

“Really?”

He chuckles. “Really, darling. In fact, there’s nothing you can’t ask for. There are just no guarantees you’ll get a yes. Especially your orgasms, if you’re ready to move on to that topic.”

“Oh, I’m ready for that topic,” Maison teases. “Do I get a say in that topic?”

“Hush.” I swallow a laugh at the indignant sound Maison makes at being hushed. “Nolan, I don’t want you to come without my permission. Ever. Is that a rule you’ll agree to?”

I squirm. I don’t mean to, really, it’s just— fuck . That’s a rule I’ve missed. I don’t know why. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to analyze or therapize or whatever. It’s a rule I fucking miss. And I wanted it back. And now I have it.

“Please,” I say, my stupid voice giving out a little. “Yes. Sir.”

“Can I still fuck him whenever I want?” Maison asks.

“Yes. Just don’t let him come. If he does anyway, you’ll both tell me. If I think you made him—not listening when he warned you, or something similar—you’ll both be punished.”

“You can’t hit me,” Maison says immediately.

My hand is a little shaky as I sprinkle cranberries into the slow cooker.

“Okay. That’s okay. I’ll be having you fill out another packet, now that things have changed again. Now that I can touch you. Kiss you. I want you to fill a packet out with what you’ll let me do to you. You know I’ll respect whatever limits you set.”

“How would you punish me if you can’t hit me?”

“Oh, kitten, there are a lot of ways I can punish you.”

I put the lid on the slow cooker and set the heat. We have six hours now. It feels like I’m going to burn up, like I just turned a dial on myself. I don’t even know if I’m horny or anxious. Anxiously horny, maybe? Really excited for the sex, but also really fucking worried Maison is going to blow this whole thing up trying to protect himself.

Guilt spikes in my gut as the words settle in my head. As I realize I just did what he’s always doing—blaming him for ruining things, this time before he even did it. He doesn’t ruin things. He makes things better. He makes things safe.

But there’s no denying this sits in the palms of his hands.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

He tried ruining things, when he dragged me out of here. Again, when he showed up alone. Hunter didn’t let him.

But now there’s a rule.

No running.

“What happens?” I ask, unable to turn around even though I’m done. My throat feels tight, like someone has wrapped a hand around my throat. Not someone safe. Not Hunter or Maison. Someone bad. Someone—someone—someone— “What happens if a rule is broken?”

“You’re punished, based on what you agree to in the packets.”

“No. The—” I squeeze my eyes shut, bringing a hand to my throat. Just my hand. Only my hand. No one else. No masters. No rapists. I’m going to get what I need from someone safe, someone who loves me. I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe. “If we run?”

There’s silence.

I hunch my shoulders.

“I’ll chase you,” Hunter says. I whirl around, not having expected that. Not having expected—he’s looking right at Maison because he knows, he knows I’m not the one that would run. Maison is looking right back, chest heaving. “I’ll chase you every fucking time.”

And Maison asks, “Promise?”

My heart cracks right open.

And Hunter spills gold into it. “With everything I have.”