Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Easton shifted on the bench outside Derek’s office.
His long legs bent in a ridiculous and awkward angle as he tried to keep still.
The wooden slats beneath him were polished smooth but not particularly forgiving.
He clasped his hands loosely in his lap, then untangled them to rub the pad of his thumb against the base of his index finger.
He wasn’t sure why Derek wanted to speak with him.
The note had been vague. Nothing more than a text message, asking him to swing by after lunch.
Still, something about being summoned stirred old instincts.
He sat with his spine straightened, jaw clenched, and he automatically smoothed down the front of his shirt as if he were thirteen again, waiting on the narrow bench outside the headmaster’s office at St. Thomas Aquinas Prep.
That bench, set between oak-paneled walls that smelled of lemon polish and power, had creaked with every fidget.
The air had always been cold there, crisp with judgment.
The plaque on the door had read “Discipline is Responsibility Made Visible”.
Now, he sat on a bench that was oddly similar in shape but not in spirit. This corridor was sleek woodgrain, modern lines, no plaque, no portraits of long-dead deans frowning from the walls. The space was open, sunlit, scented faintly of sage and cedar, not disinfectant and ink.
Easton stared at his hands, aware that his palms were slightly damp.
He was a grown man. A surgeon. A Dominant.
And yet his body remembered the rules drilled in at St. Thomas Aquinas, unpretentiousness, responsibility, and solidarity and also critical thinking, risk taking and resourcefulness, but only when backed by impeccable posture and perfect restraint.
The muffled sounds of the Ranch moved around him. Distant laughter came from the play yard, and the rustle of someone moving by behind the reception desk. Easton tried to focus on the sounds, but he didn’t succeed.
He was just beginning to contemplate getting up and pacing when Erika appeared from the side hallway. Clipboard in hand, she said, “Dr. Emmerson, you can head in. Master Derek’s ready for you now.”
“Thanks, Erika.” His voice came out lower than he meant, like it had to pass through too much static to reach the air.
She smiled and nudged the heavy door open for him.
Inside, Derek’s office looked much as he remembered: wood-paneled and commanding, more like a study from an old Southern estate than anything found in modern offices.
That massive mahogany desk anchored the room with quiet power, and the French doors behind it framed the bright spill of sunlight across the patio.
Leather-bound books and thick binders filled the shelves on one wall, and the faint aroma of aged leather mixed with the cleaner citrus polish scent.
Derek stood behind his desk. The owner wasn’t in full Dominant-mode but not exactly relaxed either. “Easton.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Thanks for coming.”
Easton crossed the room with even steps, slow enough to mask the tension coiled in his back. “Of course. Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Derek replied, but he didn’t sit. “This is more… consultative than corrective. Dr. Denten asked if we could all have a word.”
That’s when Easton noticed the therapist already seated near the corner couch, an open notebook on one thigh. Sam gave him a slight nod. “Good to see you again, Easton.”
“You too, Sam.” Easton took the indicated chair and glanced between them. “What’s this about?”
The pause stretched just long enough to be noticeable. Derek folded his arms across his chest with an unreadable expression, while Sam closed the notebook and folded his hands on top of it.
“It’s about Darian Merrick,” Sam broke the silence. “Wilbert’s boy, Danny. Although… right now, I’m not sure he’s ready to wear that name.”
The mention of his friend’s name sent a ripple through Easton’s chest, and he had to swallow. “Is he…?”
“He’s… um, okay.” Sam raked a hand through his hair, letting his palm rest at the back of his neck.
“-ish. But he’s struggling. Badly. He initiated therapy himself, which tells me he wants help.
But as of today, he’s still holding back.
Emotionally locked down. Like he’s afraid to let anyone close. ”
Easton exhaled, trying to breathe past the pain of hearing that.
However…
“That’s not surprising.”
“No. But there’s more.” Sam lowered his arm and leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees.
“Yesterday, while we talked, I noticed him fixating on my hands. I wasn’t sure at first if it was anxiety or avoidance.
I wrote it down and decided to ignore it but today I noticed it again.
He was staring at my hands almost longingly. ”
Derek finally moved, resting one hip against the edge of his desk. “He’s grieving. We all know that. But what Sam’s suggesting… it isn’t just talk therapy.”
Easton’s brow furrowed, unease prickling along his spine. “What do you mean?”
“We’re thinking the boy needs discipline and a guiding hand.” Sam gave a small nod. “Not as punishment, he isn’t a bad boy but as a reminder someone cares.”
“Maintenance spankings?”
“Exactly.” Sam leaned back and sighed. “I could have handled it myself, but I don’t think that’s what he needs from me.
And honestly, it’s not how I operate. I’m more of a nurturer than a disciplinarian.
I always have been. Most of my patients just need space, tools, and someone who listens.
But Darian…” He leaned forward, folding his hands over one knee. “He’s different.”
Easton stayed silent.
“There’s a tension in him,” Sam continued. “Something is wound too tight, too long.”
Easton’s jaw ticked. “Wilbert used to spank him.” He looked down at his own hands.
Big, capable hands. “Regularly. Not to correct, but to release. Danny was always the type to bottle things up until they came out sideways, usually in the form of snarky remarks, forgetting meals, or lapsing into silence. A firm hand… tears… they cracked something open. Afterward, he could talk again.”
Sam nodded, unsurprised. “That fits. Yesterday but also today, there were moments when I could see him almost wanting to say something, but he couldn’t get it out. And more than once, his eyes drifted to my hands.”
Easton’s brows drew together. “He misses being seen. Held.”
“Exactly,” Sam repeated as he let out a slow breath. “He needs someone who isn’t afraid to push and to pepper his butt. Someone he trusts enough to surrender to.”
Derek’s gaze flicked to Easton. “And that’s you, if you’re willing.”
Easton let out a breath, but the knot in his chest didn’t ease. “Even if I were willing… this isn’t something we can just spring on him.”
“Of course not,” Sam agreed. “Consent comes first. Always. That’s non-negotiable.”
Derek gave a small nod. “Which is why I plan to speak with him first. Alone. No pressure. Just a conversation to let him know he’s not in trouble, and that there’s support available if he wants it.”
Easton crossed his arms, unconsciously rubbing a thumb along the side of his forearm. “He’s still raw. I mean, grief like that… it rewires you.”
Sam’s voice was quiet. “I know. Which is why we tread carefully. But it’s also why I’m worried. He’s isolating himself, like he’s trying to vanish.”
“He used to do that, too,” Easton murmured. “Disappear into himself. Especially after an argument with his parents or a tough week at work. Wilbert would find him curled up somewhere, quiet as a mouse. Not Little, not adult. Just… retreated inside himself.”
Derek pushed away from the desk and crossed to the arched window, staring out at the fields stretching behind the lodge. “We have to offer him something more than just giving him space to spiral.”
“But,” Easton cautioned, “we also can’t overwhelm him. If I show up in that conversation, it might look like a setup. Like we’ve already decided what’s going to happen.”
Sam nodded again. “Then you stay out of the room. Let Derek talk to him, lay the groundwork. If—and only if—Danny expresses interest or gives permission, then we can go from there.”
Derek turned, his expression thoughtful. “There’s a risk either way. Wait too long, and he might retreat so far we can’t reach him. Move too fast, and we push him deeper into that shell.”
“I’d rather wait than force something,” Easton said, more to himself than anyone else. He dropped his gaze to the woodgrain of Derek’s desk. “But if he asks for me… I’ll be there.”
There was a long beat of silence, filled only by the quiet tick of the clock on the bookshelf.
Then Derek nodded. “I’ll speak to him after afternoon quiet time. We’ll see where he’s at.”
The bench was hard.
Too hard for anyone who’d done nothing wrong. But that wasn’t him. He sat stiffly, hands clenched in his lap, spine ramrod straight. Every now and then, he shifted, trying to find a less punishing angle. There wasn’t one.
I deserve it.
His eyes stayed locked on the grain in the opposite wall, tracing the dark whorls like they might lead him somewhere better.
They didn’t. He’d been summoned here. Although he didn’t know why, he had a few guesses.
None of them were good. The weight of his failure pressed against his chest like a boot.
He’d come back to the Ranch. He signed up like a good boy. Had been to Dr. Sam twice. Played nice with the horses. But he hadn’t gone near the Littles’ Wing. Not once. He’d just been going through the motions, day after day, pretending he was functioning.
But he wasn’t. Not really.
He missed the structure, the expectations and the correction. He missed the connection and the intimacy of being known and of being held accountable and still accepted.
I need my ass kicked.
The thought came out of nowhere.
But no one would do that. Not unless he asked. And asking felt impossible.
The polished double doors beside him opened with a gentle click. “Darian, come in.”
Danny flinched. The name didn’t fit. It never had. But Danny wasn’t right either.
He rose on shaky legs and followed Sadie’s Daddy inside.
Derek halted at his massive desk, one hand resting on the gleaming mahogany surface. Sam Denten sat in one of the leather chairs, posture relaxed but eyes watchful.
Danny’s gaze flicked from one man to the other. He swallowed.
“Have a seat,” Derek said, nodding toward the other chair.
Danny sat. Not slumped. Not relaxed. He perched on the edge like a schoolboy in trouble. His heart thudded against his ribs.
“You’re not in trouble.” Derek read him without effort. “This is just a conversation.”
Danny nodded mutely.
Sam spoke next, his voice gentler than Danny expected. “I’ve noticed something in our sessions. A pattern. You show up. You answer questions. You do everything right… but you don’t let go. Not really.”
Danny stared down at his hands. His traitorous hands that had trembled the last time Sam handed him a tissue. His stupid body leaned instinctively toward that calm voice and quiet strength.
“I watch your body language,” Sam continued. “It’s part of the job. You carry yourself like someone under pressure. Like you’re waiting for permission to fall apart.”
Danny didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat worked.
Sam shot him a faint smile. “My strength is listening and guiding. But I’ve been in this field a long time. Sometimes, talking alone isn’t enough. Sometimes, the body has to release before the heart can.”
Danny’s head jerked up, and his breath caught.
“We’re talking about a structured spanking,” Derek said calmly. “Not punishment. Not because you’ve done something wrong. But because you need a release. Because you need someone to take control and help you through it.”
Hope broke through like sunlight at the crack of dawn.
Spanking. Release. Control.
Tears sprang in his eyes. He nodded, then swallowed past the lump in his throat and croaked, “Yes. Please.”
“We have someone who volunteered to serve as your disciplinarian,” Derek said.
Danny blinked. “Wait, what? Not you?” He glanced at Sam before he could stop himself, mouth gone dry. “I thought…”
“No,” Sam said gently. “Someone else—a person both Master Derek and I have high regard for. Even better, a Daddy who knows you and understands the boundaries—has agreed.”
Dread and anticipation coiled together in his gut.
Derek leaned forward and pressed the intercom button. “Please send him in, Erika.”
Danny turned to the door between the two offices just as it opened.
And his world tilted.
Easton Emmerson stepped inside.
Tall. Imposing. Familiar in all the wrong and right ways.
His salt-and-pepper hair gleamed under the recessed lighting.
His tailored charcoal slacks and open-collared shirt screamed Daddy in a way that made Danny’s skin flush.
He moved with quiet confidence, closing the door behind him, dark eyes locking onto Danny with something unreadable.
It could have been concern, or curiosity. Maybe both.
Danny couldn’t breathe.
A dream come true, and a nightmare all wrapped in one gorgeous, devastating package.
Easton didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room and stood beside Derek’s desk, but when his gaze landed on Danny again, his eyes were so, so steady.
Danny wanted to shrink and stretch all at once. To bolt. To kneel.
Fuck.
He had just agreed to bare his soul—and his ass—and now the man he’d wanted since the first time he laid eyes on him was going to be the one delivering the blows.
Danny’s voice cracked when he whispered, “You?”
Easton nodded slowly. “Only if you want it.”
And God help him… he did.