I almost say ‘I’m not a dog’ but he’d have some retort for that too. My shoulders fall a little as I walk to him. Every step feels like betrayal until I reach the side of his chair. He doesn’t touch me as he keeps watching, waiting for me to obey.
My face burns as I lower myself to my knees beside him, the carpet rough through the loose sweatpants. I keep my backstraight at first because some stubborn part of me is still trying to make dignity out of obedience.
Saint returns his attention to the call. “Move the Wednesday run to Thursday and split the escort. No, not through the mill. I don’t care what Pike said. The mill’s being watched.”
I swallow again, staring at the dark wood of the desk’s cabinets looking back at me, unsure what to do next. Settling my hands in my lap, I almost turn to ask Saint what this is for when one of his hands slides into my hair.
My breath catches in my throat, and I’m grateful he’s still talking because the sound would have embarrassed me in the quiet. He just threads his fingers loosely through the curls at the back of my head while discussing routes, handoffs, payment windows, men I don’t know, and threats I only half understand. His touch is absent and absolute at the same time, as if I’ve been placed somewhere and he expects me to remain there because remaining is the instruction.
For the first few minutes, my mind fights him. I think about how humiliating this is, how wrong it should feel, how furious I’ll be later when I can stand up and put enough language around the feeling to make it resemble anger.
Saint’s fingers tighten gently in my hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me where I am.
When he tugs a little tighter, my thoughts start to liquefy.
My shoulders drop without my permission. My hands uncurl on my thighs. The noise inside my head folds inward beneath the steady weight of Saint’s hand until all the branching possibilities become one simple thing.
Stay.
No one has ever had me like this. I’ve always loved the submissive aspect of my encounters at the club but there’s never been any character to it. It’s never been more than one night that I can build on.
I used to think my need for submission was a flaw. But this… this feels like peace in a way I don’t know how to explain.
Saint’s hand dips down to my neck, squeezing lightly before moving into my hair again. A small sigh falls from my lips as my head lowers to his thigh.
The position should horrify me, and distantly, it does. I’m on my knees in an Obsidian office with my head resting against the leg of the man who claimed me by contract less than twenty-four hours ago. But beneath the humiliation, beneath the anger I know will return when I have enough room to rebuild it, something inside me settles with such sudden relief that my eyes sting.
Saint’s voice continues above me. “Then tell him the price goes up fifteen percent for making me repeat myself. If he argues, make it twenty. No, no bodies unless they force it. I want the corridor clean, not loud.”
I’m afraid of how much of me seems to move toward him but I’m also calmer than I’ve been in years.
His phone call lasts at least twenty minutes. Time becomes Saint’s voice, his hand, and the warmth of his thigh beneath my forehead. The whole day, with all its watching eyes and half-finished warnings, recedes until there is only the instruction and the strange peace of obeying it.
When Saint finally ends the call, the room goes quiet enough for me to hear my own breathing.
His hand stills in my hair before his fingers move once through my curls, slower than before, almost careful in a way that feels more dangerous than if he were rough. “Your head went quiet, didn’t it?” he asks, a bit of reverence in his voice. “I just needed you to stop fucking moving but this…” His words trail off as he gently tugs my head back, his gaze meeting mine. His other hand moves to my lips, his thumb dragging across them.
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then he just releases me completely. “Get up, Sín.”
I rise slowly, my head too light and too clear all at once. Saint watches me with an expression I can’t read, but there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there when he dragged me into the office. He reaches out and catches my chin before I can look away. “You’re going to tell me what you saw today.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“The clubhouse. Moth’s board. My men. Whatever that head of yours collected while everyone thought you were too overwhelmed to notice.”
It clicks then, that this really is all for control. It wasn’t that I was left alone. Heletme think I was so that he could see how useful I was. Just like my father.
Different, but the same.
I fold my arms in front of me. “The quarry spur is exposed,” I push out. My voice comes out steadier than I feel as Saint’s expression sharpens. “Your Wednesday run would’ve been a problem even if you moved it to Thursday. The route looks clean on paper, but the board in Moth’s office has three red marks clustered too close together near the old access road. If those are surveillance points, splitting the escort won’t fix it. It’ll just give whoever’s watching two smaller targets.”
Saint doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches me with his thumb still beneath my chin. A moment ago, he was looking at me like something he wanted to keep. Now he’s looking at me like something he can use.
Fuck.
Saint’s mouth curves faintly. “Show me.”
I glance at the map pinned under glass behind his desk. “Now?”
