Chapter 7 #2
“Pl-ple-e-ease—” The word came out broken, desperate. “Pl-please s-s-stop, please—”
Their faces were too close. Vale could see every tear gathering in those brown eyes; he could feel every shuddering breath and smell the fear-sweat and blood.
This isn’t supposed to feel like this.
Vale applied salt to the final two cuts with a shaking hand, and Kieran’s back arched again, his hips lifting again in a way that made Vale grit his teeth to prevent a sound from escaping his throat.
Enough.
Vale released Kieran’s wrists and shifted backward off his lap in one smooth motion, disturbed by the heat still pooling low in his stomach, by the way his pulse hadn’t returned to baseline, by the uncomfortable awareness of his body’s response…
Kieran collapsed forward the moment Vale’s weight lifted, both arms curled protectively against his chest, his whole body shaking.
“Play,” Vale said, but his voice came out rougher than intended.
Kieran didn’t move. He didn’t reach for the guitar. Just stayed curled forward, shaking.
“Kieran.” Vale kept his voice level. “The guitar. Play your song.”
Kieran’s head lifted slowly. His eyes were unfocused with his pupils blown wide.
“I can’t.”
Not defiance. Not resistance. Just—absence. Like something fundamental had disconnected between his mind and his ability to function.
Vale watched him for another thirty seconds, unsure of what to make of the complete shutdown. The dissociative distance in his eyes. The way he’d curled into himself like a wounded animal. The tears still streaming down his face without him seeming to notice.
He’s not accessible.
Just broken.
And Vale’s body was still processing the unwanted heat of having Kieran pinned beneath him, feeling the phantom pressure of their bodies pressed together.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Vale gathered the medical supplies, cleaned the scalpel with quick movements while Kieran remained curled forward on the edge of the couch cushion. His hands moved automatically through the cleanup process, but his mind was still trying to reconcile what had just occurred.
The methodology had been sound. The escalation had been appropriate. Four applications, increasing in intensity, designed to strip away defensive layers and access authentic emotional vulnerability. It had worked before…
But Kieran hadn’t opened up. He’d shut down completely.
And Vale had—
Vale’s jaw tightened, pushing the thought away.
He retrieved antiseptic and clean gauze, moving to sit beside Kieran. Not too close. “Let me see your arm.”
Kieran didn’t respond. He didn’t move. Vale reached for his wrist, and Kieran flinched so violently he nearly fell off the couch.
“I need to clean the wounds,” Vale said, keeping his voice level.
Kieran’s eyes focused on him slowly, like coming back from somewhere very far away. He extended his arm, the movement wooden and disconnected.
Vale cleaned the cuts. They weren’t deep—they didn’t need to be—but the salt inflamed the tissue, making them look worse than they were.
He applied antibiotic ointment and wrapped the arm in gauze, his fingertips lingering to check the edges of the bandage, to make sure the wrapping wasn’t too tight, to catalog the way Kieran’s skin felt warm despite the pallor of shock.
“Rest,” Vale said, standing. “We’ll try again later.”
Kieran didn’t acknowledge the words. He just stared at his bandaged arm like he didn’t recognize it as part of his body.
Vale sat in his study for hours, his laptop open to files on previous projects, but he couldn’t make himself take notes.
His hands still felt warm from where they’d gripped Kieran’s wrists. His thighs could still feel the pressure of having Kieran trapped beneath him. His chest still remembered the rapid-fire heartbeat he felt through two layers of cotton.
This was the methodology. A proven technique. Test the boundaries of what the project would allow with intimate touch, like he did back in the recording booth. Then access emotional vulnerability through controlled physical consequence. At no point had he ever felt arousal during the process.
But Vale’s pulse had quickened, not from exertion, but from proximity. From feeling every struggle, every breath, every helpless attempt to escape that pressed their bodies together in ways that had nothing to do with art or education.
He’d been achingly erect.
Vale pulled up his notes on the previous students, searching for any documentation of similar responses.
Nothing. Just a singular note about his last project, one of his failures, developing an unhealthy romantic attachment to him after six weeks of lessons. But Alex had been weak.
Kieran wasn’t weak.
Vale poured whiskey he didn’t drink.
It was inappropriate.
But having Kieran beneath him, feeling him struggle, hearing those breathless pleas, controlling him so completely—
Stop.
Vale forced himself to analyze the methodology failure instead of his own unexpected response.
Four cuts. More than he’d ever needed with previous students. And the result wasn’t emotional openness—it was complete dissociative shutdown.
He pulled up Kieran’s medical records, scrolling through them with new attention to specific details.
Epilepsy diagnosis at the age of two. Extensive medical testing. Countless procedures that would have involved restraint, needles, and invasive touching by strangers. His foster care records showed a dozen physical altercations, defensive injuries, and bullying.
The previous students had broken because the pain was novel. Shocking. Something their sheltered lives hadn’t prepared them for. They found authenticity because the bleeding made them abandon their pretense.
Kieran had been surviving pain—medical, physical, emotional—since he was two years old. One cut wouldn’t faze him. Two wouldn’t either. Even three, he tried to endure.
But the fourth—combined with being physically trapped, weight pinning him down, unable to escape or protect himself—that had finally been too much.
Not because of the pain.
Because of the helplessness.
Because Vale used his body to restrain him instead of leather cuffs. He pressed their bodies together in ways that were intimate and violating and impossible to contextualize any other way.
I broke him wrong.
The thought settled in Vale’s chest with uncomfortable weight.
He’s a different species entirely. And I just pruned him like he was the same as the others.
Vale stood, moving to the window where he could see the greenhouse in the distance. The roses needed attention. Pruning, fertilizing, and specific care that differed from variety to variety.
His mother had taught him young: he couldn’t treat all roses the same. Heritage varieties required different care than modern hybrids. Some needed harsh pruning to thrive, others would die from the same treatment.
You have to understand what you’re cultivating before you can shape it properly.
Vale had been treating Kieran like a conservatory rose—carefully cultivated, requiring precise pressure to bloom.
But Kieran was something else entirely. He was a rose emerging from concrete cracks—visible only in the shifted parallax.
I need a completely different approach.