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It must be all the shit with Justine and Charlie.

But I knew that wasn’t the most likely reason. The transition of my dream had said as much.

It was Krystina.

I was terrified she would push me for a truth I couldn’t give her. And when I couldn’t give it to her, she’d walk. Or worse, she’d run.

Suppressed memories threatened to resurface.

I willed them away.

Don’t go there…

But it was hard not to. The dream was like an unwelcome punch in the face, a reminder of many childhood beatings. And how the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

I stared back at my reflection in the window. I had inherited my mother’s eyes and her dark waves. But my face mirrored my father’s, a constant reminder of how much I was like him. Bile rose in my throat.

I am not my father.

Or so I had been telling myself for years. I had read all the psychobabble online stating there was no truth to the claim that BDSM stemmed from childhood abuse. But it was hard not to question the theory when I knew who I was.

And I knew where I’d come from.

My father was an abusive asshole with no particular preference as to who his target was. My mother was the complacent fool who’d let him use us all as punching bags—it didn’t matter if it was Justine, her, or me.

I was not much different from him, and I could only justify my actions because I obtained consent. But the nagging voice of my conscience reminded me only a sadistic bastard got off from hitting women, and it didn’t matter which way the story was told. Even though I would never get a high out of blackening a woman’s eye, I did find it pleasurable to mark one with a whip.

I only share his face. I am not him.

An internal struggle began, so familiar, although I hadn’t experienced it in years. The reality of what I was and how I came to be crashed down around me, the truth dating back to the first time I had sex—young, naïve, looking to get it on with Nikki Tyson, the hottest girl in school. That first experience was a fumble of awkward adolescent limbs but went off without much of a hitch—except for my overwhelming need to smack Nikki’s behind a lovely shade of rosy red. The simple idea of doing precisely that scared the hell out of me. Ashamed of myself, I never spoke to Nikki again after that night.

At sixteen, I had already deemed myself to be unsafe.

I convinced myself of the inevitable and opted to tread a lonely path, choosing to keep away from girls altogether. I was too afraid I would one day bring physical harm to one of them, making me determined to stay the course. Until I’d met Sasha two years later, the mysterious girl with piercings and tattoos who lived down the block from me.

She was one merciless bitch.

I stared at the stormy skies, watching the lightning in the distance, remembering a time with a girl I hadn’t thought about in ages. A bittersweet smile formed on my lips.

Sasha had pursued me, despite my resistance. But my eighteen-year-old cock couldn’t keep her at bay for long. Once I caved, I could hardly believe my luck—I had met a girl who wanted her ass smacked. And more.

So much more.

Sasha had taught me about the world I had eventually adopted as my own. Because of that, I would always have an appreciation for her. She had unknowingly created an outlet I desperately needed during a time when life seemed to be spinning out of control. She showed me how to use pain and pleasure instead of allowing it to use me. She was the bottom who taught me how to top.

My time with her was twisted and had been short-lived, but she made me feel normal and put me back in control of my life and my emotions.

That’s why I am not my father. I am in control.

I pressed the button on the wall that would lower the darkening screen. As I waited for the shade to move from ceiling to floor, I considered Krystina and where things were headed with her. Sasha had always kept things between us casual, and I recognized the importance of that after she walked away. There was a reason why I always kept women at arm’s length. Keeping emotional attachments out of the equation made things safer. Easier. It was one of my rules—one that had always served me well.

I’m more than just bending them for Krystina.

I wanted to take her on as a regular sub. I wanted her for my own. I was contemplating the long term, becoming more involved with a woman and taking on the role of a true Dom in ways that went beyond the bedroom. I wanted to satisfy this compelling urge to take care of Krystina in all things.

The entire idea was a foreign concept to me, and I shuddered to think of all the things that could go wrong. She lacked the experience I would typically require of a submissive, and she continually tested my emotional limitations by challenging my every attempt at dominance. She was a spitfire who was only familiar with vanilla, and I was leading her down a very dark path.

Am I capable of keeping myself in check?