Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Rawhide Ranch lounge
Crone
Without a conscious thought, Crone walked toward the area where Derek was releasing Sadie from her bonds.
Although she melted into her Daddy’s embrace with tears streaking over her cheeks, she radiated contentment.
Her cheeky spirit might be temporarily subdued, but love shone through every gesture.
“Is there a reason Doc Quincy continues to whip a submissive who is completely disconnected from the scene?” Crone kept his voice low as he reached them, not wanting to be overheard. “Is she a patient of his?”
The redhead on the spanking bench drew his attention again.
Her positioning was textbook perfect with her spine arched as she presented herself for Master Quincy.
She was fully dressed. The barrier of her clothing troubled him.
A proper whipping demanded skin contact to draw specific emotions the scene desired.
More importantly, naked flesh offered the Dom the ability to read every subtle muscle response and every shade of pink blooming across flesh.
The leather skirt concealed too much and created too many variables.
“Not presently.” Derek’s eyes flickered as he glanced over to watch the couple. “They have a special bond. He knows what she needs. There are times when he manages to break through, but it seems tonight isn’t one of them.”
“Would he mind if I intervened?” The words surprised Crone, but his instincts screamed that there was more beneath her carefully constructed walls. If there was one thing he had learned over time, it was never to ignore those instincts and to listen to the voice inside his head.
Derek kept his eyes on the couple for a few seconds before turning to Crone. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. Come, I’ll instigate the intervention.” Without further ado, he picked up his wife and walked over.
“Master Quin,” Derek interjected softly during a short hesitation of his set. “Would you mind if Master Crone took over?”
Quincy turned to Crone and shook his hand with a smile. “Glad you’re back for a visit.” His gaze was concerned as he looked back at the sub. “I know Master Crone is an expert when it comes to unlocking subs’ demons, Derek, but I’m not sure about this. Without warning or preparation?”
“Usually, I would agree with you but look at her, Quin.” Derek gestured at the sub. “She’s completely disconnected and doesn’t even realize you stopped. How is that serving her in any way?”
Quincy sighed. “You’re right. She hasn’t been in it from the get-go.”
“Don’t worry, Quincy. I’ll introduce myself first and make sure she realizes there has been a switch.
” Crone placed his toy bag on the floor and retrieved his favored David Morgan tail whip.
It was six feet of braided perfection that sang through the air with deadly accuracy.
He’d chosen a shorter one since he had no intention of moving the sub to a Saint Andrew’s cross or a whipping post.
Draping the fall over his shoulder, he circled the spanking bench, assessing her as he went.
She was art in human form with long auburn hair cascading over one shoulder.
The deep green of the leather vest and skirt was a striking contrast against her pale skin.
A delicate yet athletic build stirred loose a seam of desire, which surprised him.
After Sarah’s death, he usually only became aroused during a scene, hardly ever from looking at a woman’s body.
The intricate pattern of a thorns and roses tattoo climbing her arm from shoulder to elbow caught his attention—beautiful art to hide the kind of pain he understood.
Crouching before her, he studied her face.
His assessment was spot-on as behind her closed lids, he detected minute tensions.
There was a slight tightening around her mouth and a barely perceptible furrow between flawlessly shaped brows.
Her body might project serenity, but her face revealed inner turmoil.
He drew a deep breath. She was beautiful in a classic sense with high cheekbones accentuating the delicate structure of her face, while full lips held a natural pout even in repose.
A dusting of freckles across her nose added an unexpected softness to her otherwise striking features.
He remained silent, patient… waiting. As a Dom, he believed the most powerful move was stillness itself. A quiet that would trigger her curiosity and force her to acknowledge the shift in energy around her.
When her eyes finally fluttered open, his breath caught at their intensity.
It was impossible not to drown in their forest-green depths.
He was struck by the shadows swirling with signs of secrets and darkness.
Even through the practiced disconnect she was still caught in, her gaze revealed a shattered, tired soul who had seen too much and endured even more.
“Oh!” she gulped, her eyes widening briefly before she quickly lowered her gaze, nibbling on her lower lip.
“No. Eyes on me, sub.” His dark growl demanded immediate obedience. She didn’t disappoint him.
“W-who are you? Where is Master Quin?”
“You mean the Dom you humiliated in front of the entire Dungeon with your disconnect? That Master Quin?”
The brilliant green of her eyes dulled with regret. Her body twisted, straining against the restraints as she searched for Quincy over one shoulder.
“I’m not the kind of Dom who repeats himself. I told you to keep your eyes on me. Do not let me have to tell you again.” She froze mid-movement as his voice dropped to a low, warning rumble.
“I don’t understand. Why... where is he? Why did he stop?” Panic edged into her tone, acting like she had seen him before, and maybe she had, but Crone knew he’d never seen her... except...
Recognition flickered through Crone’s mind as he studied her face. Those haunting green eyes had caught his attention earlier in the lounge during a brief magnetic moment before Jagger called his regard away. Now they held a raw desperation that ignited a primal need within his soul.
“Master Derek and I believe you need a different kind of Dom. One who understands how hard and far to push your boundaries until they bend. Perhaps then you’ll break free of this disconnect and truly acknowledge the needs buried inside you instead of lying here unresponsive.”
He cursed himself silently as she winced at his harsh words. His hand moved of its own accord, tucking a wayward strand of auburn hair behind her ear with unexpected gentleness.
“It’s time to let yourself feel, little one. That same yearning echoes within me. Shall we chase that elusive euphoric cloud together?”
“I… with all due respect, Sir, I don’t know you, and I only ever scene with the Doms at Rawhide Ranch.” Her voice wavered despite her visual attempt at firmness.
“My name is Master Crone, and you’re in luck.” His deep voice carried authority tempered with understanding. “I’ve just accepted a position at the Ranch. Does that ease your mind?”
“I… since Master Derek intervened with the scene, I suppose it does.” She studied him for long moments, her gaze drawn to the scar partially visible from the wave of hair falling over his forehead.
The muscles in her tattooed arm tensed visibly.
“Very well, Master Crone. We can continue with the scene.”
“That makes me very happy, little one. After watching your performance with Master Quin, I’ve decided to make two adjustments to the scene.”
Her eyes clouded as she visually retreated into herself.
Crone cupped her chin with exquisite care.
“It’s evident that you’re struggling and need to be pushed past the boundaries you’ve wrapped yourself in.
I promise I won’t harm you, but I will push and challenge those restrictions.
Only two changes, little one. Instead of a flogger, I’ll use my short-tail whip… and I want you naked.”
She recoiled as far as her bonds allowed. “No! I never go naked.” Raw panic edged her voice.
He gentled his hold, but his gaze held hers, patient and unwavering until her breathing steadied. “Tell me why?”
“I”—her eyes flickered back to his scar—“I have scars.”
Instinct drew his attention to the intricate vine tat adorning her arm and noticed an uneven ridged of scarred tissue beneath the artistry of thorns and roses.
His eyes met Derek’s, silently questioning.
Derek’s confirming nod hit him hard. This was her…
the submissive Derek wanted him to help heal.
The connection had formed naturally, without him even realizing her identity.
His jaw clenched briefly. Damn bastard, he could’ve warned me when I questioned him about her disconnect with Quincy.
“What’s your name, little one?”
“Sienna Weathers.”
He traced the concealed scar with feather-light touches while holding her gaze.
“Scars like these don’t define the person you are within, Sienna.
They tell stories of survival and speak of strength, not weakness.
” His voice deepened with raw truth. “Each mark carved into our flesh speaks of a battle won, as a testament that we refused to crack. The bastards who inflicted them never understood that. Instead of destroying us, they gave us armor, not shame.” He leaned in to brush his lips against her forehead.
She didn’t flinch but leaned into the caress.
“Your scars don’t make you less beautiful. They prove you’re unbreakable.”
His words resonated deeper within himself than he’d intended.
The scars etched into his flesh had become integral to who he was.
Not that he deliberately concealed them, but experience taught him discretion.
At clubs, he kept his shirt, vest, or jacket on.
During sex, which he always restricted to private rooms, he wore a tank top or stringer vest. The bastards had made sure his chest and stomach bore permanent reminders.
The wounds had healed, but the ink and molten silver they’d ground into the raw flesh left a network of discolored marks and silvery streaks.
His back, though... that painted the darkest chapter.
Cruel strokes had carved crisscross paths from his neck to waist, each new whipping laid over barely-healed wounds, leaving a grotesque painting in its wake.
He had learned to spare women that sight since their horror was more painful than the memories themselves.
He forced the shadows back. This moment belonged to her. Perhaps understanding the similar trauma they had suffered might be the key to healing them both.
“Maybe so, but no matter how I’ve tried, I can’t reach that level of strength.
” Her voice was lifeless, but Crone caught the subtle tremor in her hands and the way her jaw clenched against remembered pain.
Her eyes turned glacial in a stark contrast to the fire that suddenly blazed in them.
“I can’t forget…” Her fingers curled into such tight fists that her knuckles turned white with suppressed rage. “And I’ll never forgive.”
The raw hatred in those last words resonated with Crone. He recognized that tone. It was the sound of someone who had survived not just pain, but betrayal.
Derek hadn’t explained how or why she had ended up at Rawhide Ranch and Crone decided not to push for an explanation. Now wasn’t the time. Instead, he asked in a soothing voice, “Do you have more scars?”
Nodding, she once again nibbled her bottom lip.
“I assume they’re not covered by artwork?” His fingers ghosted over the ridge beneath her tattoo.
“No… there are too many of them.”
Crone’s chest tightened at the implication. Derek's matchmaking suddenly made sense.
“So, not naked,” he mused aloud, watching her closely.
“But for proper whipping technique and your own safety, I need to see your skin and body’s responses, which I can’t do when covered with leather.
Knowing the effect of every lash is the only way I can ease you into the bliss of subspace safely. ”
“I don’t want to reach subspace.” Once again panic gripped her.
As he brushed his thumb over her lips, a slight trembling was a quiet confession against his skin. “But you need to, little one, for no other reason than to offer you release, if only briefly.”
“You… you won’t push me for answers while there?”
His eyes darkened. “Never, little one. I have too much integrity to ever do that. You decide when you need me to push you further but tonight, it’ll only be to give you some peace.”
“I… maybe… maybe it won’t be such a bad idea.” Her lip suffered more abuse from her pearly teeth.
“I’m very happy to hear that.” His grip on her chin firmed slightly. “How about this? We push your skirt up over your hips and lose the panties. Would that work for you?”
“I…” Her eyes closed briefly, as if she was digging deep to draw on inner reserves. “I am willing to try, Master Crone.”
“Good girl.”
He caught the surprise crossing her face—a tiny spark of pleasure in her green eyes at his praise. A quiet satisfaction settled deep inside him. Behind those carefully built walls, her submissive nature was still intact… waiting.
The yearning in her eyes was unconscious, and he doubted she even recognized it herself. The little redhead hungered for real connection, to be truly seen.
He knew patience and gentleness would rebuild her broken trust by quietly acknowledging every small brave step she took. She needed a Master who would earn that, one careful moment at a time. He intended to be exactly that, a steady hand guiding her back from the shadows into the light.
Awareness shook him at how aligned they were. She had been struggling to come to the light for two years. Him… five. Sienna Weathers might be just what he needed—a beacon to become the man he used to be.