Chapter 5
Chapter five
Felix
I poured myself a drink. The good bourbon, not the cheap stuff that lingered at the back of the cabinet.
The glass sweated in my hand as I wandered from one end of the kitchen to the other, counting the steps.
Seven, then nine, then back again. Like a dog in a cage. I didn’t even bother with dinner.
What the fuck was I actually doing?
Father had been dead for nearly eight years.
I’d taken his business on the verge of bankruptcy and turned it into a media powerhouse by getting rid of the old ideas and working a hundred hours a week.
And for what? To prove that I could? To prove that I had worth in the only language my father would understand?
Money? Mom didn’t care, so long as her glass of gin and tonic was never empty at whatever party she was at.
My sister Livvy didn’t care in a good way.
She’d married her childhood sweetheart, and they were blissfully happy working on child number three.
Livvy had told me to walk away and said Mom could either get a sugar daddy or a job. She didn’t care which.
But I’d been stubborn. I’d set out to prove something. To be noticed. Except the year after I’d taken over, the second stroke had killed him. His doctor had shared that if the stroke hadn’t gotten him, his liver would have finished him off.
My thoughts turned to the club, well, to Clayton. Not that they were ever far away.
I could still feel him. Clayton, the way he’d shuddered under my hands.
The raw honesty of it. Not polished, not practiced.
Just need. Desperate, open need like nobody had ever fed it before.
Most subs I’d had lately wanted rules for five minutes, got off quickly, then begged for a safe word the second things got uncomfortable.
They liked the idea. They didn’t need it.
And all the decent ones were in long-term relationships.
Clayton needed it, though. He needed someone to take his decisions away. He needed praise, structure, even the gentle touch. Maybe especially that. The way he’d gone quiet when I stroked his hair had floored me.
I could have kept him there all night, just holding on, listening to the way his breathing slowed. I hadn’t had that for a long time. Not with anyone. I’d deliberately stayed away last week so he hadn’t gotten any ideas he might be a regular. I didn’t do regular.
Fuck, I was an obnoxious prick. I put down my untouched glass and took the stairs two at a time to grab a shower. It had been two weeks. It was Friday. I could go and find a sub to scene with and finally get a certain one out of my system.
Fifty minutes later I was sitting at the bar talking to Harriet, a Dominant who had been in the scene a long time.
Her sub Charlie was kneeling by her stool on a special cushion, head resting on Harriet’s leg, eyes closed and still blissed out.
My eyes searched the room for the umpteenth time.
I hadn’t seen Clayton. I should’ve been relieved.
Just then a sub who’d been standing in front of us moved, and Harriet made a disgusted sound. I followed her gaze and froze.
Clayton.
The moment I locked onto him, everything else vanished. He hung naked, arms bound awkwardly above his head, gagged, his face turned and slack with dread. The Dom’s cane was held like a baseball bat, swinging from the wrong angle. The anticipation in that stance made my stomach churn.
“Who is that?” Harriet’s voice cut through the crowd. “Where the hell are the monitors?”
The next crack landed on Clayton’s upper back. His knees buckled; he sucked in a breath but gagged, he could make no sound. The Dom didn’t check on Clayton—he was already raising the cane for a second strike, aiming it just above his old scar.
I barreled through a circle of snickering subs. One of them let out a squeak as I brushed past; I barely noticed. The new Dom I didn’t recognize wasn’t even looking at Clayton.
Clayton’s head hung low; his arms trembled, sweat beading at his neck. On his back, I saw two red welts that edged dangerously close to the pale scar. My blood boiled.
I caught the cane mid-swing and yanked it away. The Dom’s jaw dropped.
“That’s not safe,” I snapped. “Look at his back—nerve damage is no joke.”
“He didn’t say yellow,” the Dom protested. “He said he liked it hard.”
“How does he safeword?” I thundered, and the Dom blanched as he followed my gaze to the small hand-held bell lying on the floor he hadn’t noticed Clayton had dropped. I threw the cane onto a table. “Scene’s over.”
Two monitors lunged forward to help, but Clayton flinched, so I waved them away. He didn’t argue when I knelt to untie his ankles then his wrists, moving slowly so I wouldn’t jar his arms. The rope had cut deep grooves into his skin.
“Can you walk?” I asked after untying his arms and removing the gag. He tried to nod but collapsed against me. I caught his weight, supporting him under one arm as he leaned in, cheek against my chest, breathing me in.
The Dom sulked off, phone already in hand. I ignored him. Clayton sagged limply. I checked the marks—swollen, red, but not yet broken. The old scar ran pale and angry beside the new strikes.
If I ever saw his old Dom…
His knees threatened to give out. “Easy, boy. I’ve got you.” His breathing rattled, sweat trickled down his spine. I wrapped an arm around his chest, careful not to touch bruised flesh, and guided him out of the crowd. Harriet slipped in behind us.
We reached the mezzanine first-aid room. I kicked the door open. The fluorescent lights buzzed. I lowered Clayton onto a cot. He curled in on himself, face buried in his arms.
“Look at me, Clayton.”
He lifted red-rimmed eyes. My chest tightened. I’d seen him hold it together before, but this was raw.
“Color?” I asked. In case he didn’t want me here.
He searched for words. “Green with you, sir. Everything else—”
I let out a breath. “Good. Roll over for me.” He obeyed with mechanical precision. I crouched and inspected the welts again. Harriet unpacked the kit.
I stroked his arm where it was unmarked. “Tell me what happened.” Clayton glanced at Harriet; she got the hint and left, but I knew she’d be backup if I needed it.
“He said he knew what he was doing. I told him about the scar, but—he wanted to test me. I dropped the bell.”
Typical new-Dom arrogance. My teeth ground together.
“One more hit and—” I cut myself off. Not here.
I donned gloves. “This will be cold.” He flinched but held still while I cleaned the welts.
His shoulders rose, bracing, but he didn’t flinch again.
The skin was intact, just angry bruises clustering too close to the old scar.
He swallowed. “I don’t want to be a problem.”
My fury blazed. At the Dom, at myself, at the whole fucked-up scenario. But mostly at the idea of Clayton thinking he was a problem. “Look at me.” He met my gaze, haunted. “You’re not the problem. He was.”
He nodded, but I could see he didn’t believe it. I pressed a cold pack gently to the side of his back, right under the scar. He gasped but didn’t pull away.
“Color?” I asked softly.
“Still green with you, sir.” His voice cracked. Another small victory.
“I’ll get ointment. Don't move.” I grabbed what I needed and returned. Clayton lay face down on the cot, trembling like he was chilled to the bone, and I pulled the blanket higher to his waist. I spread a layer of cream over the bruises, working in slow circles.
He never complained, not once. I lay the blanket gently over all of him, then perched on the edge of the cot, my hand resting on his shoulder. He shifted a little nearer to me, letting the warmth sink in.
Time blurred. I watched his breathing steady, the tremors ease. After a while, he blinked up at me.
“I’m sorry, sir. I should have said something sooner. I just wanted to do it right.”
My heart twisted. “You did nothing wrong. If a Dom can’t play safely, that’s on him, and the monitors.” But that was a conversation I would have with Benjamin when I saw him. He would never normally let that shit fly in his club.
He exhaled a shaky breath. I brushed hair from his forehead.
“We’ll let this settle. Then I’m driving you home.”
His eyes widened at the promise. He opened his mouth to protest—“I can get a cab”—but fell silent when he saw I was firm.
“Yes, sir,” he murmured. Relief flickered in his gaze.
When his breathing had evened out, I helped him into his clothes. He was slow, careful, still haunted. Outside, the cold hit him like a slap. He shivered, goosebumps rippling over bruised skin. I shrugged off my coat and wrapped it around him.
“Car’s this way.” He followed wordlessly.
In the car, he sat bundled in my coat, staring at the passing streetlights. I punched in the address he gave me. He didn’t speak until we were halfway home.
“Thank you, sir. For…everything.”
“You’re welcome.” I kept my tone light, but my eyes never left him.
“I didn’t mean to cause problems. I—”
That confession clutched at me. He wasn’t like the usual drama-seeking subs. He just tried so hard.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Clayton,” I repeated.
He nodded silently, gaze fixed on the dark road.
His house was out in the quiet suburbs—an empty driveway, cold windows. Inside, the lights were off. He fished a key from his pocket, hand shaking so badly I had to cover it with mine. The entry way was sparse and frozen. I flipped the switch, but nothing flickered on.
He muttered a curse. “They were working earlier.” I didn’t know what to say. A sub, fresh from a cane scene, living alone in a freezing house—this wasn’t acceptable.
“Change of plan,” I said. “You’re staying at my place tonight.”
He stared at me, stunned. “But—”
“Where’s your bedroom?” He stammered but pointed. I found a duffle in his closet and packed a few essentials: underwear, a shirt, shower supplies, shaving kit, and grabbed some meds I saw.