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“It should be me, though.”
“If you say so.” I turn around, knowing I’m treading carefully here. I decide to sweeten him up a little by delivering him one of the coffees where he’s now seated on a stool at the breakfast bar. Then, “How’d you find time to bloody up your knuckles again if Travis just left?”
Maison flinches, his eyes immediately dropping to the knuckles in question. I allow my gaze to do the same. My stomach turns—not from the sight, but from suppressing the urge to rush forward and fix it. That’s not my place, though. I’m not sure what this thing is that seems to be brewing between us, but whatever it is doesn’t involve me taking care of him. It’s not like he’s my master. Probably wouldn’t ever want to be, either.
I try not to let that thought hurt too bad.
“I went to the gym while Travis got his gear packed. It’s just from the heavy bag.”
“And the safehouse doesn’t have tape or boxing gloves?”
Instead of answering, Maison rises from his stool. He’s careful not to press against me as he makes his way to the sink, rolling his sleeves up. I watch as he gently washes the blood from his knuckles. When he’s finished, the water running clear, I silently hand him a dishcloth. He dabs at the cuts on each hand with a deep frown before returning to his stool.
For a moment, I think we’re just going to sit in awkward silence while I work on breakfast.
Then he says, “Sometimes I need to hurt.”
I pause with my mug halfway to my mouth. His eyes are wide with vulnerability when I meet them with my own, almost like he wishes he could take the confession back. I close the gap between us until all that’s left is the breakfast bar. I tell myself I do it because people might overhear, not because I want to be closer to him.
“Why?”
His face does something complicated. “I don’t know, exactly. It varies. Sometimes it’s like something is crawling under my skin and it feels like I might die if I don’t hurt it. Subdue it.”
“And other times?”
“Other times…” He tucks his chin down, staring at his knuckles. Now that the skin around the cuts is clean, you can see how swollen the area is, already discolored with fresh bruises. “Other times it’s because I deserve it.”
The words hurt in a way I wasn’t aware words could hurt. I’ve had words slice me open before, don’t get me wrong. Insults. Threats. Hell, a single bad boy could devastate me. But these words aren’t a sharp sting. They aren’t an open wound. They’re a slow, unfurling hurt from the inside out—a pain I didn’t realize was there until it bloomed. Like it recognizes his pain. Responds to his pain.
When I was sixteen, I stumbled upon kinky porn. Something mild. Just a tie around the guy’s wrists and some dirty talk. But the suggested video beneath it had involved a blindfold. After watching that, a video with a spreader bar and nipple clamps had been suggested. After clicking on that, I realized the icon at the top of the web page had changed. I had been transferred from the “standard” site to the “BDSM” site. I had no idea what BDSM was, but that was fixed by the end of that night.
When I was nineteen, I went to my first munch on my college campus. It was just a small get-together, people of all genders and sexualities grabbing some food and chatting about BDSM. I met a girl who called her boyfriend Master and proudly proclaimed that she was his slave. I had been appalled at first—who could ever want something like that? But the more she told me, the more I realized the dynamic seemed… beautiful. He owned her because she chose him, she gave herself to him, and in return, he would take care of her. He’d handle everything, give her everything she needed even when she didn’t know what she needed, and all she had to do was be good. It wasn’t just a light bulb moment. It was fucking fireworks exploding in my mind.
Yes. That. How do I get that?
The following week, I was drugged at a bar and woke up in the trunk of a car, bound and gagged and covered in my own piss.
I don’t know if the two things were related or if it was just a coincidence that my entering the kink community was followed by forced sexual slavery, but it felt like even if the man who took me to be sold wasn’t targeting me, the universe was. Someone knew what I wanted and it had been twisted to teach me a lesson.
By the time I belonged to a man going by the name of Nathan Roarke, I had nearly convinced myself that my situation was okay. That it wasn’t so bad. That it was just some off-brand BDSM. The rationalization only became easier once I started looking at my owner with love. It became so easy, I forgot it was rationalization at all.
I’ll never forgive myself for letting my mind blur the lines because now it feels impossible to make them clear again. It feels impossible to distinguish between what I want and what is healthy. It makes me feel disgusted with myself.
So, when Maison says he deserves to hurt? I feel intimately familiar with that feeling.
“I think you’re supposed to tell me I don’t deserve it,” he mumbles, eyebrows pulled tight as he squints at me. His lips twitch into a mocking smile. “But I get it. You see it too, right? I do deserve it.”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly, not interested in lying this time, even if it’d make him feel better. “We don’t know each other very well, Maison. I don’t know what decisions you’ve made or what you’ve done. I can tell you that I believe there are people in this world who do deserve to hurt. I can tell you that I’ve met a lot of them. I can tell you that my head is too messy right now to decide if Jake and Travis are among them.” I meet his eyes. “I can tell you that I think that I’m one of them. But I can’t tell you if you are too.”
His throat works with a hard swallow. “Why would you ever deserve to hurt, Nolan?”
I look away, shame burning inside me. “I’m not talking to you about that.”
“But you’re not going to hurt yourself, right?” he asks, sounding agonized.
I arch a brow, purposely looking at his knuckles. “Pot, kettle?”
“I…” He pauses, a sort of growl sound coming from his throat.
