Chapter 6 #3
He smiles, slow and filthy and certain. “A way out of that cage in your head,” he says. “One rule at a time. One command at a time. One filthy little act of rebellion at a time. Yesterday, it was my boots. Tomorrow? We’ll see how brave you’re feeling.”
My pupils have to be huge. I can feel how wide my eyes are, how the room seems to tilt a little as the promise sinks in.
I want to tell him that this is twisted, that I don’t need any of it, that I’m fine, that I’ve always been fine.
But the words get tangled around the image of his hand on my neck and the strange feeling of peace that came right before the shame.
“We’re done for tonight,” I say suddenly, pushing to my feet so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. My folder comes up to my chest, a ridiculous shield, papers crinkling under my fingers. “Session’s over.”
He stays in his chair, head tilted back to look up at me, posture loose and relaxed, while I stand there shaking. I can feel his satisfaction like another presence in the room.
“You really think walking away ends this?” he asks.
I glare at him, heat flushing my face. “I’m not doing this with you,” I say, but there’s no weight behind it.
“You already are,” he says, tone going lazy, almost warm. “I’m not gonna touch you tonight unless you earn it. No hands on your throat, no walls at your back. Relax. You did good. You showed up, you taught, you yelled at me, and you didn’t faint. I’m impressed.”
That catches me off guard harder than any filthy line he’s thrown tonight. “You’re… impressed,” I echo, because my brain is trying to reconcile the man who casually admitted to killing with the one telling me he’s proud of me.
“Yeah,” he says. “You hold your own better than most people I know. That’s rare.”
“That’s not… You can’t just say shit like that after—” I gesture vaguely, because I can’t force myself to say the word.
“After making you kneel for me and lick my boots?” he supplies.
I wince. “Yes.”
“I can say whatever the fuck I want,” he says, smirking. “You can argue, and I’ll enjoy it. Then you’ll go home and lie awake, thinking about my hand on your throat and my voice in your ear, and the next time you kneel to pray, you’ll hear me instead of God.”
I know the only sane thing after everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours would be to turn around, open the door, walk out, and never come back.
I can block his number, ask for a TA reassignment, and find a priest with iron nerves and a strong supply of holy water.
But instead, I’m standing there glued to the floor, anger buzzing under my skin because he’s right.
He’s dragged us miles away from anything that looks academic, and I haven’t moved toward the door.
My feet are planted, spine straight, because that’s how I was trained to stand in front of authority—chin up in that brittle way that feels like defiance and desperation at the same time.
I’m arguing with him like I actually have a chance of winning, when all the evidence suggests I already handed him my throat yesterday.
“You love this,” he says, dropping his voice low in that way that makes my pulse jump even when I want to punch him. “You love fighting with me. You love being the only one who knows what I am. You love having something filthy in your life you can’t explain away with a Bible verse.”
Some awful, traitorous part of me recognizes what he’s talking about. The part of me that hasn’t prayed, because every time I try to drop to my knees for God, all I see are his boots in front of my face and my tongue moving because he said so.
The part that knows I’m the only one on campus who’s seen him with blood on his hands and felt him say “good boy” in their ear.
I let out a frustrated sound that’s closer to a growl than anything and turn for the door, shoulders tight, satchel strap biting into my palm. I get as far as the doorknob, my fingers wrapping around cool brass, when he tests me with nothing more than my own name.
“Lane.”
My hand freezes on the doorknob.
“Dang it,” I mutter, soft and miserable. It's ridiculous that all he has to do is say my name in that low, lazy drawl and my entire body locks up like he’s got fingers hooked into my spine.
“What?” I say finally, and it comes out rougher than I want.
There’s a pause, just long enough that I can picture the expression on his face without looking. That infuriating, lazy smirk. The one that says he already knows exactly what I’m doing and exactly why I haven’t opened the door yet.
“Drive safe, Brendon.”
I look back over my shoulder despite myself.
He’s still in his chair: one hand draped loose over the armrest, the other brushing along his lower lip like he’s holding back a smile he’s already enjoying too much. Then the smirk finally breaks through anyway, slow and filthy and infuriatingly satisfied.
I glare at him. He looks delighted by it.
“Screw you,” I say, and don’t give him the satisfaction of another reply. I turn and walk to my car on legs that feel both steadier than they should and weaker than I want them to be, gravel crunching under my shoes. The night is cool, quiet, and far too normal for what just happened in that house.
I get in, shut the door, and sit with both hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. The cottage glows warm behind me in the rearview mirror, deceptively ordinary.
Then it hits me.
Dominic calling me back wasn’t an impulse. It wasn’t some last little jab because he couldn’t resist. It was a test.
He wanted to see what I’d do if he tugged.
He wanted to see whether my body would obey before my brain caught up.
He wanted proof that when he reached for the line between us, I’d step over it on my own.
And I did.