Page 22 of Suite 7

It doesn’t come.

My hips settle. My hands stop pulling against the silk. Something in my chest that has been braced since I walked through that door goes — not quiet exactly. Empty. The way a room sounds after everyone has left it.

And into that emptiness, something else arrives.

Not surrender. But his voice. Damon’s. Arriving without warning the way it always does, from somewhere I thought I’d filed it.

Look at you. An hour and you still can’t stop steering. You can’t stop managing.

My pulse spikes. The silk pulls taut against my wrists.

Surrender isn’t for women like you, Vera.

“Yellow.”

The word tears out of me.

The vibrator disappears instantly.

And I’m shaking. But not from wanting.

His hands find my thighs, both of them, warm and steady.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t—“ The words come out jagged. “I can’t do it. I keep trying and I can’t stop trying and⁠—“

I pull against the silk. Not toward him. Away. Toward anywhere that isn’t here with this thing I cannot outrun.

“I need to go. I’m sorry, I just — I need to go.”

“Vera—”

“No.” The word comes out sharp. “Don’t. Don’t Vera me, I’m telling you I can’t do this.” My voice is rising and I can hear it rising and I can’t stop it. “Damon was right. He was right about all of it and I’ve spent years pretending he wasn’t but look at me. I cannot let go for one hour. One hour, Kane, and I spent the whole thing trying to steer and redirect and manage and—“ My throat closes. “What does that tell you? That I’m terrible at this. That I’m not made for this. That everything he said was⁠—“

“Vera.”

“I said don’t⁠—“

My chest is heaving and my eyes are burning.

“I’m not made for this,” I say again. “He said someone like me couldn’t submit. And he was right. I’ve proven it tonight.”

Suddenly the silk loosens at my wrists until my arms drop heavy into my lap. Still bound, but held differently. Then his fingers find the blindfold ribbon and draw it away.

The light is low and amber.

And Kane is right in front of me.

Close. Eye level. The first thing I register is his eyes, which are the gray of early morning rather than incoming weather.

Steady. Certain. Watching me with an attention so complete it feels like being held even though he’s barely touching me.

I want to look away. I don’t.

“I want to leave,” I say.

“I know.” He doesn’t move. “You can. The door is right there and you can walk through it and I won’t stop you.” A pause. “But you called yellow, not red. So some part of you isn’t done yet.”