Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
DOMHNALL
I’m loosening my tie the second I step inside the house, the silence hitting me like a physical force.
Usually when I get home, Anna’s playing music—something gentle, classical, or those indie folk singers she’s discovered since coming back to me.
The house breathes differently with her music—lighter, warmer.
But today there’s nothing. Just the hollow echo of my footsteps across the marble foyer and the soft tick of the grandfather clock from the study.
Of course there’s nothing. She’s at the doctor’s.
Dr. Ezra’s. The thought sends a fresh wave of irritation through me, the conversation from earlier replaying in my head.
You create family by taking care of the needy.
Dr. Ezra’s words claw at me, unwelcome and persistent. The bastard’s voice echoes in my skull like a parasite I can’t dig out.
As if thinking her name summons her, a text from Anna pings my phone.
ANNA: meet me at Carnal?
My cock hardens immediately, blood rushing south so fast I’m momentarily lightheaded. Damn woman either read my mind or therapy had her scrambling for the same escape. I lean against the wall, the cool plaster a contrast to my suddenly heated skin.
DOMHNALL: Now?
ANNA: Now.
I grin at the phone, thumbing in:
DOMHNALL: Good kitty
before taking the elevator down to the garage. The Aston Martin’s engine roars to life, pure predatory power vibrating through the steering wheel and into my bones.
Dallas traffic crawls, giving me too much time to think. About Dr. Ezra’s probing questions. About Moira and the mess I’ve made of that relationship. About four-year-old me trying to keep a crying baby alive while our mother stared blankly at the wall.
Family means something where I come from.
But what if I don’t know what family actually means? What if I’ve been playing house my whole life, desperately trying to prove I’m worth keeping around?
By the time I pull into Carnal’s private lot, I’m wound tight as a spring, desperate for the kind of release only pain and control can provide. The familiar throb of bass pulses through the asphalt as I approach the unmarked door. Kit nods at me, his eyes knowing as he lets me in without a word.
Inside, the club thrums with restrained energy. Amber spotlights catch on leather and skin, leaving the rest in shadow. The scent hits me immediately—leather, sweat, sex, and the sharp undercurrent of sanitizer that Caleb insists on. The air feels electric.
My eyes scan the room, searching for Anna. Then I spot Caleb behind the bar, his eyes meeting mine. He juts his chin toward the back wall, where the more serious equipment is set up.
My breath stops in my chest.
Because there’s my beautiful Anna, naked and shackled face-first to the St. Andrews cross, her round ass gleaming in the spotlight.
Her pale skin catches the light, making her look almost otherworldly against the black leather and metal of the cross.
Her hair falls in loose waves down her back, copper and gold under the amber lights.
“Anna,” I breathe out, rushing to her. “Are you alright, love?”
She looks over her shoulder at me, and my chest constricts at the naked vulnerability in her eyes. Something wild and desperate lives there, something I recognize from my own darkest moments.
“I want you to punish me, Sir,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “I’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. This isn’t just desire—this is desperation. The same kind that’s been clawing at me since I left Dr. Ezra’s office.
“What happened?” I demand, immediately furious. “What did that fucking doctor say to you?”
She shakes her head, the movement sending her hair sliding across her bare shoulders. “Nothing. I just need you. I’ve been a bad girl, and I need you to punish me. Please, Domhn. Play with me. Tell me what a bad little whore I am. Be your worst. I deserve it. I want it.”
And there, in the dark of her eyes as she begs me, I see something of what’s eating me alive. The need to escape into sensation. The desperate hunger for someone else to take control when your own grip on reality is slipping.
In so many ways, Anna isn’t just my interlocking puzzle piece—she’s my mirror.
We’re both running from something. Both trying to save ourselves through this twisted dance of pain and pleasure.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I’m already reaching for my shirt, tugging it off. The cool air of the club raises goosebumps across my chest.
“Nothing’s going on,” she insists, but I can taste the lie. Doesn’t she know how that drives me crazy?
Stubborn woman. I walk deliberately to the wall of implements, selecting each one with care. The flogger first—soft leather tails to warm her up. Then the paddle. And finally, the cane. I watch her eyes widen at that one.
“Tell me what’s bothering you,” I demand, landing a sharp spank on her ass. The sound cracks through the air, drawing interested glances from nearby patrons.
She gasps but shakes her head. “Nothing.”
I start with the flogger, working her flesh in a relentless figure-eight pattern, watching her skin bloom pink beneath the strokes.
Around us, the club continues its rhythmic pulse, but I’m aware of eyes on us now, drawn to the sight of Anna’s reddening flesh and the power exchange playing out before them.
“Why are you a bad little toy who deserves punishment?” I ask, switching to the paddle.
“Because I made a mess!” she cries out, her voice breaking.
I pause. “The house is spotless.”
She hesitates, searching for another lie. “In the... kitchen. Yesterday.”
I don’t give a fuck about kitchen messes. I step closer, pressing myself against her back, letting her feel my hardening cock through my slacks.
“What is this really about?” I growl into her ear. “You don’t give a shit about the kitchen, and neither do I.”
I slide my hand up to her throat, applying gentle pressure. She swallows hard against my palm.
“I made a mess,” she repeats, tears gathering in her voice. “I lost Mads. I miss her. I—I need her.”
I exhale, resting my forehead against the top of her spine. So that’s what this is about. The integration. She feels guilty about absorbing Mads back into herself. As much as they fought, of course, it would feel like a loss.
But there’s something else too. Something darker in her desperation that matches the chaos in my own head.
“Are you having difficulty with intimacy again?” I ask softly.
“No,” she snaps, twisting to glare at me over her shoulder. “I want this. This makes sense. It’s the only thing that does sometimes. Please. Punish me for the mess I’ve made.”
My heart aches for her, but she’s shown me what she needs. What we both need. By coming here and begging for punishment, she’s proved what we’ve always known—that sometimes the only way to quiet the noise in your head is to wear the pain on your skin instead.
“So you need to be punished until you can feel like a good girl again?” I ask, my voice dropping to that register that makes her shiver.
She nods, head hanging between her bound arms. “Please. Domhn. I’m a bad little cunt bitch and I need you.”
The words are so unlike her usual vocabulary—something darker, more self-loathing. It triggers something savage in me, something that recognizes her pain because it mirrors my own.
You create family by taking care of the needy.
Maybe Dr. Ezra’s right. Maybe I am just a broken little boy, desperate to prove he’s worth keeping around by fixing everyone else’s damage. But if that’s true, then Anna and I are perfect for each other—two broken people trying to save each other through the only language we both understand.
Pain. Control. Surrender.
I bring my hand down hard against her ass, and she lets out a throaty scream that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with release.
I take up the cane, trailing its rigid tip along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She shudders, breath catching when she realizes what I’ve chosen.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you scream,” I whisper, my cock hardening to the point of pain. “I’m going to make you scream until your throat is raw.”
“Yes,” she breathes, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
I grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back sharply. I lean in and drag my tongue slowly across her cheek, savoring the salt of her tears.
“I want more tears,” I murmur against her skin. “I want them running down your throat by the time I’m done with you.”
My cock strains painfully against my slacks. I reach down to free myself, my thick shaft springing out heavy and engorged. Pre-cum beads at the tip, and I smear it across her lower back, marking her.
“Count each stroke,” I order. “And beg me for more after each one. If you forget, we start over.”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispers, voice trembling.
I raise my arm and deliver the first stroke of the cane across the fleshiest part of her ass. The sound is sharp. She jerks violently against the restraints.
“One, Sir,” she gasps. “Please, give me more.”
The second stroke lands just below the first, slightly harder. A beautiful pink line blooms on her skin.
“Two, Sir. Please, give me more.”
By the fourth stroke, I let my control slip, putting my weight behind it. Thin red welts rise on her flesh immediately—perfectly parallel lines of fire across her pale skin.
“Four, Sir! Please... please, more.”
There’s nothing more beautiful than her body accepting my marks. Nothing more intoxicating than her surrender. This is what we both need—this sacred exchange where pain becomes pleasure, where surrender becomes strength.
I continue until she’s sobbing, begging incoherently, her entire body trembling. She’s lost count, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s where I want her to be—riding the knife’s edge between pain and pleasure, surrendering completely to sensation.