Page 103 of Suite 7

The man disappears. It’s us. Candlelight. Soft music. The other diners murmuring at their own tables, close enough to remind me we’re not alone, far enough that it barely matters.

Kane settles across from me and I realize I’m nervous. Actually nervous. Like this is our first meeting instead of — what? Our tenth time together since the arrangement started?

“You’re thinking too loud,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“I’m... this is strange.”

“Strange how?”

“Good strange.” I fiddle with my napkin. “We’ve been together at Eclipse and in your dungeon. I’ve been bound and blindfolded and completely at your mercy. But sitting across a table from you at a restaurant feels more vulnerable somehow.”

He nods, like I’ve said something he was already half-thinking. “Because anyone can be physically naked. But this—” He gestures between us. “This is different.”

“Yeah.”

“Too different? We can leave if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No.” I reach across the table, cover his hand with mine. “I want this. I want to know you like this. I just... I’m nervous.”

His hand turns, fingers lacing with mine. “Me too.”

The admission surprises me. “Really?”

“Dominance is easy for me. Control is easy. But this?” He squeezes my hand. “Sitting here hoping I can be enough without the structure? Terrifying.”

“Kane.” I lean forward. “You are enough.”

Before he can respond, our waiter appears with wine, a deep red that catches the candlelight. Kane releases my hand to accept the tasting pour, but his eyes never leave mine. He tastes, nods approval, then waits until both our glasses are filled before speaking again.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” he says, picking up his glass.

“Like what?”

“Anything. Your childhood. Your dreams. Something real.”

I take a sip. Rich and smooth, cherry and oak.

“Okay. When I was eight, I wanted to be a veterinarian.”

“What changed?”

“I found a bird with a broken wing. Tried to save it. Spent three days nursing it, staying up all night, doing everything the library books said to do. It died anyway.”

His expression softens. “And you decided you couldn’t handle that kind of loss.”

“I decided I needed a career where I could fix problems that stayed fixed.” I swirl my wine, watching the legs run down the glass. “PR made sense. You craft a narrative, control the message, and if you do it right, the problem goes away. Clean. Permanent. Fixed.”

“Control,” he echoes.

“I know, I know. Ironic for someone who gets off on surrendering it.”

“Not ironic. Complementary.” He leans forward. “Two control freaks. Different methods.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“Only if we’re not paying attention.” He lifts his glass. “I’m paying attention.”

I look away. Study the candle flame. Don’t trust my face right now.