Clayton’s head hung low; his arms trembled, sweat beading at his neck. On his back, I saw two red welts that edged dangerously close to the pale scar. My blood boiled.
I caught the cane mid-swing and yanked it away. The Dom’s jaw dropped.
“That’s not safe,” I snapped. “Look at his back—nerve damage is no joke.”
“He didn’t say yellow,” the Dom protested. “He said he liked it hard.”
“How does he safeword?” I thundered, and the Dom blanched as he followed my gaze to the small hand-held bell lying on the floor he hadn’t noticed Clayton had dropped. I threw the cane onto a table. “Scene’s over.”
Two monitors lunged forward to help, but Clayton flinched, so I waved them away. He didn’t argue when I knelt to untie his ankles then his wrists, moving slowly so I wouldn’t jar his arms. The rope had cut deep grooves into his skin.
“Can you walk?” I asked after untying his arms and removing the gag. He tried to nod but collapsed against me. I caught his weight, supporting him under one arm as he leaned in, cheek against my chest, breathing me in.
The Dom sulked off, phone already in hand. I ignored him. Clayton sagged limply. I checked the marks—swollen, red, but not yet broken. The old scar ran pale and angry beside the new strikes.
If I ever saw his old Dom…
His knees threatened to give out. “Easy, boy. I’ve got you.” His breathing rattled, sweat trickled down his spine. I wrapped an arm around his chest, careful not to touch bruised flesh, and guided him out of the crowd. Harriet slipped in behind us.
We reached the mezzanine first-aid room. I kicked the door open. The fluorescent lights buzzed. I lowered Clayton onto a cot. He curled in on himself, face buried in his arms.
“Look at me, Clayton.”
He lifted red-rimmed eyes. My chest tightened. I’d seen him hold it together before, but this was raw.
“Color?” I asked. In case he didn’t want me here.
He searched for words. “Green with you, sir. Everything else—”
I let out a breath. “Good. Roll over for me.” He obeyed with mechanical precision. I crouched and inspected the welts again. Harriet unpacked the kit.
I stroked his arm where it was unmarked. “Tell me what happened.” Clayton glanced at Harriet; she got the hint and left, but I knew she’d be backup if I needed it.
“He said he knew what he was doing. I told him about the scar, but—he wanted to test me. I dropped the bell.”
Typical new-Dom arrogance. My teeth ground together. “One more hit and—” I cut myself off. Not here. I donned gloves. “This will be cold.” He flinched but held still while I cleaned the welts. His shoulders rose, bracing, but he didn’t flinch again. The skin was intact, just angry bruises clustering too close to the old scar.
He swallowed. “I don’t want to be a problem.”
My fury blazed. At the Dom, at myself, at the whole fucked-up scenario. But mostly at the idea of Clayton thinking he was a problem. “Look at me.” He met my gaze, haunted. “You’re not the problem. He was.”
He nodded, but I could see he didn’t believe it. I pressed a cold pack gently to the side of his back, right under the scar. He gasped but didn’t pull away.
“Color?” I asked softly.
“Still green with you, sir.” His voice cracked. Another small victory.
“I’ll get ointment. Don't move.” I grabbed what I needed and returned. Clayton lay face down on the cot, trembling like he was chilled to the bone, and I pulled the blanket higher to his waist. I spread a layer of cream over the bruises, working in slow circles.
He never complained, not once. I lay the blanket gently over all of him, then perched on the edge of the cot, my hand resting on his shoulder. He shifted a little nearer to me, letting the warmth sink in.
Time blurred. I watched his breathing steady, the tremors ease. After a while, he blinked up at me.
“I’m sorry, sir. I should have said something sooner. I just wanted to do it right.”
My heart twisted. “You did nothing wrong. If a Dom can’t play safely, that’s on him,and the monitors.” But that was a conversation I would have with Benjamin when I saw him. He would never normally let that shit fly in his club.
He exhaled a shaky breath. I brushed hair from his forehead.
