Chapter 21
Brendon
Four months of being Dominic Volkov’s dirty little secret, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
By day, I’m the same Brendon Lane everyone thinks they know: my schedule is still color-coded, my notes are still immaculate, and my shirts are still pressed, neutral, and boring.
I still show up to class fifteen minutes early.
I still help undergrads untangle their mess of thesis statements.
I still call my parents every Sunday afternoon and tell them what they want to hear.
By night, I belong to a monster.
I still remember the way he kept looking at me the first time I took his fist—checking in and talking me through each new sensation—the way his voice shifted when he asked for my color, the way he paused when I said yellow, and then waited until it was green again.
Four months in, I know exactly how he takes his coffee, how he grinds his teeth when he’s concentrating on a case brief, and how his hand finds the back of my neck without even looking when he wants me closer.
I know what his voice sounds like when he is calling audibles on the field, and what it sounds like when he is in my ear. I know the difference between the smile he gives reporters, and the one he gives me across the table when I’m being a brat.
He’s never broken his word about keeping it quiet. We talk in the hallway about midterms and readings. He calls me Lane, or “Professor,” in that mocking, fond way that makes half the girls in a ten-foot radius giggle.
In interviews, he smiles that easy, practiced smile, answers every question in that calm, captain’s voice, and throws in a self-deprecating joke about his grades being saved by his “angel of a TA.”
Cute.
They don’t know that same TA spends his nights on his knees, in the cottage at the edge of town, calling that same golden boy ‘Daddy’ while he gets his soul rearranged.
Everyone else gets the golden boy; I get the Beast he actually is—teeth and blood and soft hands in the same package. I get the man who calls in disposal like it’s a normal thing, but also lifts me onto his counter to make sure I eat.
He’s coaxed things out of me I didn’t even have language for before. Fantasies I didn’t let myself acknowledge, kinks I would’ve sworn I didn’t have. The first time he made me say what I wanted from him without prompting, I went bright red and tried to hide my face in his shoulder.
He yanked my hair, made me look at him, and said, “Use your words, or you don’t get shit, Little Sin,” and somehow the words came.
Now they come easier.
“Good boy” slipped into my bones like a drug. I crave it in ways I can’t explain.
“Daddy” isn’t an accident anymore. It falls out when I’m on my knees, when I’m straddling his lap and his hand is wrapped around my throat, when he’s behind me with his mouth pressed to my ear, telling me exactly how he’s going to ruin me, then asking, “You want it?” until I stop stuttering and admit that I do.
“Beast” has become a nickname that isn’t just about anger now.
Sometimes, I use it to bait him. Sometimes, I use it when I’m being an idiot and stepping on every line he drew, just to see the way his eyes darken.
Sometimes, I say it softly, breathless and reverent against his neck when I’m too far gone to be clever; he always goes very quiet and very still.
The thing that scares me isn’t any of that. It’s how happy I am.
I am stupidly, recklessly happy. I fall asleep more easily, I don’t wake up in cold sweats about my morality as often, and the constant hum of anxiety that used to sit under my ribs has gone from a scream to a murmur.
When my phone buzzes, and it’s his name that appears, my entire body relaxes. When I see him on the field, when he scans the stands and finds me, when his mouth tips up in that private smile, it feels like something slides into place.
I’m a preacher’s kid. I’ve been told my whole life that happiness like this comes with a bill.
I haven’t prayed since I licked his boots, but I think about it every day. There’s a Bible on my shelf that used to be open more than it was closed. My cross still hangs around my neck, my fingers finding it in lectures, and in the grocery store, and in bed when I’m alone.
But the words don’t come.
The closest thing to prayer I’ve done since I met him is saying ‘oh, God’ when Dominic grazes my prostate with his fingers. The only thing that keeps me up at night now isn’t fear of damnation—it’s the absence of it.
If Hell is real, the fact that I can look at Dominic, knowing exactly what he is, and feel peace instead of horror should send me running. It doesn’t; it makes me press in closer.
I should be horrified that I call a man ‘Beast’ and ‘Daddy’ and mean it.
I should be horrified that when he snarls “open” at me, my body obeys faster than it ever has for a worship song.
I should be horrified that I get hard remembering his hand around my throat when I’m supposed to be reading case law.
Instead, I’m lying in bed at night, pressed against the cool wall, Jericho sleeping on my feet, replaying the way his voice sounded when he groaned my name and thinking I could probably live here forever.
I respect the hell out of anyone who can do the mental math on that without flinching, because I cannot.
I just try not to look too closely at the numbers.
It’s a Tuesday when everything tilts.
The administration building is almost empty when I finally close my laptop; it’s later than I meant it to be.
I had office hours, then a meeting, then three lost undergrads wandered in and begged me to look over their outlines.
I said yes, because I always say yes, and now it’s dark outside, the halls are quiet, and my brain is mush.
My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I start packing my things up.
Dominic: Practice ran late. You still on campus?
I smile, thumb flying.
Me: Just leaving. You?
Dominic: Locker room. I’ll swing by your place later. Be a good boy and eat something.
Me: Yes, Daddy.
The three dots pop up immediately, then disappear, then pop up again.
Dominic: You can’t text me that when I’m surrounded by naked teammates, you menace.
Me: Don’t drop the soap.
Dominic: Fuck you. Go home.
“Hey Lane, you heading out?” one of the other TA’s asks, poking his head into the office doorway.
“Yeah,” I say, shoving my laptop into my bag. “Just finishing up.”
“Lock the door,” he says. “Campus police were whining about undergrads hanging around the parking lot again.”
“Will do,” I promise.
I shut down, flick off the lamp, and lock the office door behind me. I’m still grinning when I push through the side door, and step into the cool evening air. The lot is mostly empty, only a few scattered cars under the harsh yellow lights.
I shove my hands in my pockets, hunch my shoulders against the wind, and head out.
My car sits under one of the flickering lights, slightly crooked in its spot because I got here late this morning. When I get closer, I see there’s a figure leaning against the driver’s side door—and my stomach drops.
“Hannah,” I say before I can stop myself.
She straightens when she sees me, arms folded over her chest, blonde hair tucked into a neat headband, coat cinched tight at the waist. The exact kind of girl my parents always pictured beside me in family photos.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out flatter than I intend.
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “Wow. Nice to see you too.”
I glance around automatically, scanning for other people, but there’s no one close enough to help if this turns into another argument. The unease that lives under my sternum shifts.
“I thought you were at your cousin’s or something,” I say, brain dredging up the last piece of information I heard about her from my mother, who still talks about Hannah like she’s a tragic heroine and not the reason I stopped trusting my own judgment for a year straight.
“I’m back,” she says. “Look, can we talk?”
I exhale slowly, the air puffing white in front of me. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” She steps closer, blocking the space between me and the driver’s door. “You’ve been dodging me for months, Brendon. You won’t answer my texts, you won’t pick up when I call, you won’t even look at me in the hallway. I deserve five minutes.”
What she deserves is a restraining order, but I know that’s not what she means.
“You got more than five minutes when you were sneaking around behind my back,” I say before I can check myself, the words sharper than my usual polite deflection.
Her eyes flash. “So we’re going to do this here,” she says. “In a parking lot. Great.”
“You cornered me in a parking lot,” I remind her. “I didn’t invite you here.”
“Well, you didn’t leave me many options,” she snaps. “You told me it was over, and then you just… shut down. You never let me explain.” She takes another step toward me, anger crumbling at the edges. “You owe me a conversation.”
The familiar weight of guilt tries to settle on my shoulders, and I shrug it off harder than I would’ve five months ago.
Dominic has been drilling this into me without even meaning to: “You don’t owe anyone access to you just because they demand it.
You don’t owe anyone your time, your energy, or your body just because they’re used to taking it—not even me. ”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I say quietly. “You cheated, Hannah. I walked in and saw you with him. That’s the explanation and the whole conversation.”
She flinches, then rallies. “You don’t know what was going on,” she says. “You never even asked.”
“I know enough,” I say. “I know it wasn’t me in your bed.”