Chapter 6
Everly
I turn off the heat under a skillet of scrambled eggs, the warmth of the handle lingering in my hands. The clatter of dishes fills the space, and the scent of fresh coffee and the savory aroma of bacon invigorates me. Lila stands beside me, expertly flipping pancakes, her expression a mask of calm. I've started to notice that she's nowhere close to being combative in the mornings.
Winter and Sable are absent—as usual—but other workers move through the kitchen with ease.
"Let me take that," one of them says, reaching for the skillet. "You don't have to help us, Everly."
I pull back, a forced smile tugging at my lips. "It's fine, really. I like keeping busy." It's the truth, but there's an undercurrent of tension in my words. The routine feels comforting, almost normal, yet it's a fragile facade.
The kitchen door swings open, and Elia, another worker, steps in. Her posture is rigid, and her eyes are downcast.
"Everly, Xavier needs you tonight. After dinner." Her voice is a monotone, devoid of emotion.
I nod, my heartbeat quickening. Anticipation and fear tangle in my chest. "Okay, got it."
My hands continue moving, though my mind drifts away. The thought of being alone with Xavier again sends a shiver through me, excitement and dread intertwining.
I glance at Lila, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She knows what this means, and she's enjoying my discomfort.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she teases, flipping a pancake with a flourish. "It's just another session, Everly. Relax."
I force a laugh. "Easy for you to say. You've been here longer."
"True, but I remember my first time." She winks, her emerald eyes glinting. "It's a rush, isn't it? That feeling of anticipation, not knowing what he'll do next."
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I guess so."
"Come on, Everly." She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You can't tell me you're not curious. He's a mystery, and you want to unravel him."
I bite my lip, torn between my growing fascination and the fear of the unknown. "I... I just don't want to get hurt."
Lila's laughter fills the kitchen, light and carefree. "Oh, sweetheart. That's the whole point. Embrace the thrill. It's like a rollercoaster—you strap in, hold on tight, and enjoy the ride."
I can't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is!" She grins, her eyes sparkling. "Look, I know it's scary, but trust me, it's worth it. You'll see."
I nod, my heart racing. "I hope so."
"You will." She winks again, then turns back to the stove, her curls bouncing as she flips another pancake. "Now, let's finish this breakfast. We've got a long day ahead."
When the food is ready, we both dig in. The pancakes are fluffy, almost too sweet. Lila laughs at something I said, the sound bright against the quiet hum of the kitchen. Her words from earlier play on repeat in my head: Embrace the thrill. It's like a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster. That’s a terrifying image, but there’s something else there too, a spark of excitement I can't quite ignore. I pick at my eggs, their savory taste bland against the bitter tang of apprehension clinging to my tongue.
The silence stretches between us as we finish breakfast—a comfortable kind of silence—before Claire, a soft-spoken staffer, reminds me, "Everly, you should get going soon," as she loads the dishwasher.
I glance at the clock. She's right. It's time to leave for my shift at the Ember. As soon as I think about being there, guilt presses against me. I hate the growing distance between Max and me. Or rather, I hate the distance I'm opening up between us. He greets me with the same warmth every time he sees me, treating me like he treats everyone else.
But just because he acts the same doesn't mean I can.
I excuse myself and leave my dishes for Claire, waving goodbye to Lila as I leave the kitchen and get ready to go.
A short while later, the front door closes behind me, a soft thud against the quiet of the morning. Outside, the sky is awash with color, a gentle pink bleeding into a pale gold. It seems almost too vibrant for my mood.
The drive to work is short. Soon, the Ember's familiar shape appears. It's a beacon of hope here, a small building amid a sea of neglect. I grab my bag and step out, ready to start the day.
The clamor of the Ember envelops me as I push the front door open. People are already at work, bustling about sorting donations, organizing paperwork, and attending to the small children currently playing in the corner. Max waves and calls out my name.
"Everly, good of you to turn up!" His easy smile warms my chest. He moves toward me, and I force a matching smile.
"Max," I greet him. "You're early as always."
"Someone's got to make coffee." He chuckles, a light, joyful sound that feels like a challenge—why can't I be that easy and breezy? "You ready to make a difference today?"
I manage a nod, my throat tight with unshed words. I want to tell him everything, what I’ve been doing, but the thought of his reaction stops me. What would he think of me? Would he ask me why I didn't try to find another solution?
That's what I've been asking myself.
He doesn’t wait for my reply. “Well, we’d better get going. Loads to do.”
We slip into sorting cans, organizing clothing, and talking with the volunteers. It's the same as always yet feels different. Everything feels different. The sounds are louder or quieter, depending on the memories playing in my mind. It’s surreal.
A child tugs on my shirt, and I look down into a wide, bright face. Her fingers are stained in crayon, and she’s holding up a drawing. It’s a mess of color, a chaotic mix of lines, but she looks proud.
“Look what I made!” she says.
I kneel, matching her height. “It’s amazing. What is it?”
“It’s a family.” She points at random patches of color. “These are me and my brother and my mom.”
My heart clenches at her words. Family. It’s a simple concept, one I understand so completely, but now it’s a concept that tastes sour on my tongue. What would my family think of me?
I know what Talon thinks—nothing.
I offer her a genuine smile as I take her artwork. “It’s beautiful. I’m sure your mom will love it.”
Work continues, each task a distraction, a way to avoid thinking. Hours drift past. Max chats with me, his words a drone I barely register, and I nod and smile and pretend to listen. The faces of the people I help become indistinct, a haze of need and gratitude. Guilt continues its slow burn in the pit of my stomach with each kind smile, each thank you, each small act of kindness. It grows larger with every avoided glance at Max and his cheerful demeanor. My thoughts keep drifting, pulled back to Xavier, to the way he made my body glow, the sensations he coaxed from me, the feeling of control with a side of surrender.
I find myself wondering what he'll have me do tonight.
I excuse myself when I feel the flush creep up my neck. I go to the bathroom and stare at the mirror. My eyes look too bright, too alert. I lean against the wall, my body feels unsteady. It’s hard to reconcile the charitable woman staring back at me with the one that's been with Xavier, the one who experienced his pain and wanted more. This isn't me. Not the real me.
I splash water on my face, hoping to soothe my skin, to still my thoughts. But the moment passes, and I return to my station. More time goes by. I feel like I'm living in fast forward, and I can't make it stop.
After work, dinner is normal, the conversation light, but the undercurrents are heavy. In no time, it's all over. The whole day. And the moment I've been waiting for arrives.
The hallway seems longer this time, the Persian runner soft against my bare feet. My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat a drum signaling the shift in atmosphere. I stop at the dungeon door, pausing briefly, then push it open, the hinges groaning in protest.
Xavier's in the center of the room. He’s already changed, wearing only dark trousers, his bare chest a sculpted landscape of muscle and shadow. His green eyes gleam as he turns toward me, and a small smile plays at his lips. He looks beautiful. And terrible.
"Everly. You came." His voice, low and smooth, wraps around me like a velvet rope.
I nod, swallowing hard. The room is exactly as I remember, a space with cold metal fixtures and heavy leather benches, all designed for purposes I'm only beginning to explore. This time, though, the various tools unsettle me more, now that their purposes are becoming clear.
He gestures to a bench near the wall, its surface gleaming with a slick polish. "We'll have the session over here this time."
My feet move with a mind of their own. I walk toward him slowly, the space between us diminishing with each step. My palms begin to sweat.
"Take off your clothes," he instructs, his gaze locking on mine.
I do as I'm told, my hands trembling as I pull off my shirt and my pants until I’m left in only my cotton panties. I feel exposed, vulnerable under his scrutiny, yet there's a strange thrill that accompanies this feeling. I can't really understand it.
He approaches and reaches into the drawer of the workbench. He retrieves a black length of fabric and holds it out to me.
"This," he says, his voice a low drawl, "is for your eyes."
I stare at the strip of cloth, its purpose now clear. A blindfold. My heart begins to pound harder, a nervous flutter rising in my chest. This isn’t something I would have imagined myself wanting or doing.
He comes closer, his fingers brushing against my cheek as he positions the material. The edges scratch against my temple, and then, the world goes black. The absence of sight throws my other senses into overdrive. I hear my own accelerated heartbeat, the slight rustle of fabric, the faint hum of the sconces on the wall. I’m now aware of the unique odor of leather and polish mingling with a masculine scent.
"Can you hear me, Everly?" His voice, suddenly close, makes me jump.
"Yes," I respond, my own voice a shaky whisper.
He takes my hand and guides me toward the bench, its hard surface cool against my bare thighs once I'm placed there. I sit, my body stiff, and he encourages me to lie down flat.
I hear him moving around and try to sense him with my body. Then I feel it, a metal cuff, its surface cold and smooth as it fits around my ankle. I immediately feel the weight of it before he secures my ankle to the bench. He repeats the process with my other ankle, then my wrists, one by one. Now my limbs are locked securely in place, the sensation both restricting and oddly freeing.
Whether I wanted to or not, there's nothing for me to do.
His fingers graze my knee, sending a jolt through my system. "Relax, sweetheart. Let the tension flow from you."
I try to, but it's harder than it sounds. Being so vulnerable, so exposed, is something entirely different. My body feels stretched, pulled tight like a bowstring. He touches my thigh, his hand warm against my cool skin. His touch feels like electricity, making my skin prickle.
He trails his fingers up my stomach, my abdomen contracting at his unexpected contact. I gasp, a small involuntary sound that seems to please him. He circles my belly button, his touch featherlight, before moving upward. The world is now a canvas of sensation, each touch a brushstroke of pleasure and fear.
He cups my breast, the weight of his hand causing me to take another sharp intake. He rubs his thumb across my nipple, and a wave of warmth washes over me. I arch back slightly, my body opening up, reacting to every sensation he gives me. It's strange and overwhelming.
He removes his hand and moves to my shoulder, tracing the curves and contours of my body, each touch a new exploration of my boundaries. His fingers feel like fire as they explore the curve of my neck, tracing the line of my jaw, sending shivers across my skin.
I can't help but let my head fall back as he continues, and I don't fight my rising response.
I’m adrift in a sea of touch. His fingers trace the curve of my neck, and then they move to my lips. He uses his thumb to part them, and it’s far too much. I can’t stop the moan that rises from deep inside.
“Tell me what you know,” he whispers, his voice low and husky, sending another wave of sensation through me.
“What I…” My voice is small, weak, lost.
“The rules, Everly.” He runs his hand along my side, causing my body to clench. “Recite them.”
I try to focus on the words, my mind struggling to pull them from the fog of my arousal. "Address you as... Sir." I get the first rule out, but it's hard, I can hardly form words.
"Good. Continue." His touch becomes more intimate, circling my nipple, tugging lightly.
“Safe words… are red.” Another soft moan escaping me. “For stop. And... yellow is pause and… check in.”
He moves his hand downward, his fingers trailing along my stomach, dipping lower, and my legs tremble against the restraints. I hear them rattling.
“The third rule.” His voice is a rough murmur against my ear.
I have to pause to catch my nonexistent wind. This is so wrong, but it feels… I can't think.
“Remain in any… position you set without... moving.” I struggle to get the words out, stumbling at each one. “Don't speak unless… spoken to.”
His touch is relentless, teasing, pushing me further. "Almost there."
"Respect..." I begin again, trying to focus as his hand moves to the most sensitive part of me, his fingers brushing against the edge of my panties. "Respect your… authority. Disrespect will have consequences."
"And what is the fifth rule, little dove?" His voice is velvet, a smooth command that makes my body ache.
"Trust you to manage my experiences… and take care of me.” I stop breathing a second as his fingers begin to find their way beneath the fabric of my panties. I fight back a moan. “Trust you to set boundaries for my… pleasure and… pain.”
His fingers are inside now. I gasp, my hips rising off the bench. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I don't want him to stop.
He strokes me, a slow, lingering rub that makes me want to sink into the surface of the bench. I’m so hot now, my skin feels like it’s burning up. My body arches instinctively, seeking more, craving the release that feels so close.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he says, his voice a low rumble near my ear.
I can’t help the moan that escapes. It's weak, but my body is screaming for more. “Yes, Sir.”
He chuckles, a soft, warm sound that makes the heat in my core intensify. “Good girl.” He continues to stroke me, teasing the very edge of my need. Just when I think I can’t stand it anymore, he pulls back.
I whimper, my need so raw, so desperate, that I reach for him, one hand instinctively jerking out despite my restraints. I need more. I need it now.
“Easy,” he says, his voice a soft command as his hand guides mine back down. “There’s more.”
I groan, my body protesting his actions. I can feel sweat building on my skin, my body trembling with unfulfilled lust. He continues to trace patterns on my skin, each stroke a tease, a torment that has me squirming on the bench.
He moves to my face, his touch light as he frames my jaw with his fingers. “You look good like this, Everly.”
“Please,” I say, almost begging, not caring about the rules I recited moments ago.
He chuckles, and the sound sends a new wave of want through me. He leans in close, his mouth near my ear as he whispers, “You’re not going to get it just yet, little dove.”
I can hear the amusement in his tone.
He runs his tongue along the shell of my ear, and I moan again. I feel the pull between wanting to move, wanting to get free, but knowing I can’t.
His hand returns to my core, his fingers moving deep, circling and teasing, drawing another gasp from me. He finds my clit and focuses on it, rubbing firmly, and the world dissolves into a wave of sensation. I can't hold back the soft cries escaping my lips, each one feeding his power over me.
“That’s it. Just like that.”
He urges me on, his words fuel to my fire. I lift my hips, moving to the rhythm, desperate for more of that contact, that release.
His touch intensifies further, becoming more insistent, more demanding. I’m almost there, I can feel it rising, building up, each stroke more unbearable than the last.
And then, just as I reach the edge, he stops.
I whimper, my frustration a raw, agonizing knot in my belly. "Why?"
He chuckles again, a sound that is both cruel and alluring. "Because, sweetheart," he whispers, "you're not in control here. I am."
My body tightens, the frustration a coiled spring within me. "Please, Sir," I beg again, my voice a broken whisper.
He doesn't respond. His hands return to my breasts, kneading and squeezing, the sensation pulling me taut with craving. He slides his fingers along the curve of my ribcage, each brush of his skin sending small jolts of electricity through me. My hips move against the bench, an instinctive need for release, but he doesn’t grant it. He pinches my nipples, twisting them softly, and I moan, my body a riot of sensation.
"That's enough for now," he says. "We'll continue this later."
My chest rises, trying to draw in a deeper breath, but my lungs feel constricted, held captive by my unmet need. To my disappointment, he unfastens the cuffs, one by one. The removal of the restraints does nothing to alleviate my state. I sit up on the bench, my body still trembling, still wanting more, and tug the blindfold off.
He stands before me, and I feel the pull between gratitude and resentment.
“You may go,” he says.
My voice catches in the back of my throat as the words I know I'm expected to say spill out: "Thank you, Sir."
He smiles, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that sends a tremor through me. “You’re welcome, little dove.”
I rise, my movements unsteady, my legs weakened from the experience. I grab my clothes, fumbling with them, desperate to cover myself, to hide my reaction from his eyes. Though I know he already sees it—he planned it all.
I retreat from the dungeon, my body still humming with the echoes of his touch. The hallway seems to stretch, each step heavy as I seek the sanctuary of my room. But inside, there’s no peace, just an unrelenting need. I go through the motions of getting ready for bed, but when I climb into bed, sleep seems an unfathomable prospect.
And worse, without him even having to tell me, I know I'm not allowed to touch myself.