Page 53 of Dominion’s Collar

"He's a decorated homicide detective and an honorable, protective Dom. Useful is an understatement." His hand finds the back of my neck. The contact grounds me like the click of the collar does. "What kind of research requires a homicide detective?"

"The thorough kind."

"You're deflecting," he says.

"I'm answering."

"Those aren't the same thing." His hand stays.

The warmth of his palm against my neck competes with the chill of what Andy confirmed. I have a handful of documented connections and a death ruled accidental. Not enough for a prosecutor. I need Vivienne to go on the record.

Whatever he reads in the tension makes his hand go still. The stillness is his tell, the one I've been learning to read since the night Renata introduced us.

"We're scening tonight," he says. Not a question. Not a suggestion. A decision he made from my body before I knew I was asking.

"On the floor." His voice drops into the register that bypasses every defense I've ever built. "The St. Andrew's Cross."

My stomach drops. The private room is where the shibari happened. Private. Enclosed. The walls holding what passed between us where nobody else could see it.

The main floor is open. The main floor has witnesses.

"Color?"

"Green." The word costs me more than the last time I said it.

He rises from the booth and takes my hand. Not a request. A direction. He walks me out of the lounge and onto the main floor toward the scening area. The absurdity of this being the least vulnerable I'll feel tonight isn't lost on me.

The St. Andrew's Cross is set at the edge of the primary scening area, amber light casting long shadows across the dark flooring. Other people are in the room. A couple negotiating near the suspension rig. Two Doms talking quietly at the edge of the space. A submissive kneeling near the far wall, eyes down, waiting. Marion is visible in the lounge archway, comfortable, watching nothing in particular.

People will see me. The thought drops from somewhere abstract into the part of my brain that controls my pulse.

"Turn around."

I obey. Something cold touches my spine and I flinch before I register the blade. A small knife, quick and precise. He draws it down through the corset lacing and I hear the tiny pops of each cross giving way, one after another. The tension releases in stages, the boning loosening around my ribs. I catch a breath that goes deeper than anything the corset permitted.

He eases the corset away from my body. His knuckles brush the newly exposed skin of my back as he peels it free. The air hits bare flesh and I'm standing beside the Cross in a thong and a collar with the room behind me.

Everyone just watched Obsidian undress me with a knife. I'm not merely half naked. He made me half naked in front of them.

"The dresser keeps spare laces," he says. Matter of fact. As though that's the detail that requires addressing.

He hands the corset to a passing attendant. A leather roll is already waiting on the shelf beside the Cross. His, not the club's. He unties the cord and lays it open, and I see the instruments inside. Several handles nested in individual pockets, leather and wood and metal, each one chosen for a specific purpose I'm not experienced enough to name. This is Obsidian's personal kit. Every piece selected by a man who doesn't do anything carelessly.

I don't know what half of it does. Normally, not knowing makes me reach for the answer. Here, it makes my pulse jump. I'm placing myself in the hands of someone who knows exactly what each instrument will do to me, and for once the ignorance isn't a problem I need to solve.

He lifts the flogger from its pocket. Polished rosewood handle, turned smooth, fitted to his grip. The braided leather transitions into long black falls that spill over his fingers. The leather is supple, conditioned, and clearly used before by hands that know what they're doing.

The sight of the falls hanging against his thigh sends a pulse through my abdomen that has nothing to do with the investigation.

I don't want the corset back. Tonight it would be a barrier between the flogger and my skin, and I've never felt a flogger. Everything I've read says the first time is intense. The smart move is more protection, not less, but I want sensation not protection.

"Face the Cross." Command, not suggestion. "Arms up. Grip the handles."

I turn. The leather-wrapped X fills my field of vision. Padded leather cuffs hang below the grips. When I grip the handles, the position opens my back, my shoulders, my ribs. Everything exposed.

He buckles padded cuffs around my wrists. Protection, not restraint. My fingers grip the handles above them. Nothing is keeping me here except the command I chose to obey.

The vulnerability is total and it's different from the shibari. The rope held me in place. This is my hands holding me in place. The cuffs protect my wrists, but the choice to stay is mine at every second.