Chapter 24
Willow woke to find Kenny watching her, his head on his hand, looking down at her. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes steady, warm.
She turned her head and found Silas on her other side, doing the same thing. Staring at her. Unmoving. Intense.
And then her gaze caught the glow — colored lights reflecting on the wall.
The tree was lit, and she smiled before her brain caught up.
Christmas.
Kenny grinned and brushed a knuckle along her cheek. “Merry Christmas. Get a dress on and get your ass downstairs. Boone’s already down there, starting a fire.”
She sat up, and her gaze drifted to the tree with all the kinky ornaments.
A quick trip to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
There was no hair to brush, but that was okay.
She smiled at herself in the mirror, and the woman looking back was Willow, not the thing they’d reduced her to.
She couldn’t be both at the same time, but that was okay.
She was herself now, she’d be the other thing another time.
She put her white fluffy slippers on and then made her way to the hallway to open her armoire. She’d asked to be able to get into her closet a few days earlier to move the red and white dress she wanted to wear today into it, but she really wished it was big enough to hold more clothes at a time.
She tugged it on, wiggled her toasty warm toes, and went down the stairs for the first time since she’d been a voiceless thing.
She still had more processing to do, but she was absolutely certain she wanted a longer experience so she could have time to live with being less than for a few days. Fully settle into it.
By the time she made it down the stairs, the scent of fresh coffee and evergreen was already wrapping around her. The fire Boone had built crackled steadily, heat radiating into the room.
Boone was shirtless in jeans, Silas too.
Kenny walked in from the kitchen holding two mugs and handed her the tan coffee while he kept the black.
She took a sip and eyed him. He was in jeans, too, but he wore a Santa shirt complete with white faux fur at the neck and wrists, but it was unbuttoned, showing his chest and ripped abs. And he wore a Santa hat.
He looked like a pinup fantasy. Alpha Claus, ready to dole out punishment instead of presents.
Apparently, the dress code for Christmas morning was wolves in denim and not much else.
Kenny leaned in to give her a peck on the lips when she lowered her coffee mug, and then he took his hat off and settled it onto her head.
“There. Now we’re festive.”
She smiled up at him, and he looked over at the other two.
“Everyone have a seat near the tree. We’re going in order. I’ll go first, then Silas, then Boone, and then our girl.”
Willow moved toward the tree and sat on the footstool in front of Boone. She felt the heat of the fire from across the room, and the weight of three dominant gazes on her skin.
Her pulse quickened. This was Christmas, wolf-style.
Kenny went to the tree and picked up a box wrapped in glossy black paper with a crimson ribbon, and handed it to Silas.
Silas tugged the ribbon free, unfolded the paper, lifted the lid, and peeled back the velvet covering.
His expression shifted.
Willow could see what it was — an elegant, beautiful straight razor kit.
The handle was dark walnut, grain gleaming, and the spine of the blade was etched with a stylized wolf’s head.
A stropping leather lay folded beside it, along with a small bottle of blade oil, and a honing stone polished to a mirror finish.
Silas stilled. The air seemed to tighten around them.
His voice came low. “Is this… approval?”
Kenny met his gaze and nodded.
Willow blinked, looking between them. “Approval for what, Sir?”
Silas’s head turned slowly toward her. His grin was slow, wicked. “To cut you, my adorable little painwhore.”
Her breath caught in her throat and every nerve lit up from the sheer possibility. The threat in his voice, the hunger in his eyes. Her thighs clenched without permission, heat and fear colliding in her gut like a punch.
Kenny’s voice was softer than usual. “Not today, but he’s wanted to for a while. It’s my job to see everyone’s needs are met. This’ll fulfill another of his.”
She froze, her eyes fixed on the box like it might bite. Staring. It wasn’t a hard limit, and she’d heal from a steel blade, but fuck. A gift-wrapped razor under the Christmas tree, ribboned permission to slice and draw blood. She hadn’t expected that.
Silas traced a finger along the razor’s spine, slow and deliberate, and Willow could feel the shift in him — already picturing the blade slicing into her skin, sharp and unforgiving.
She imagined being bound, cut, and his nostrils flared the instant her arousal spiked again.
He looked up with a wicked smile. “Merry Christmas to me, indeed.”
He looked to Kenny, his face serious. “Thank you.”
Kenny just nodded, already turning toward the next box.
But she was still stuck on Kenny giving him permission, buying him the nice set without talking to her about it.
Negotiations had happened, now her men made the rules.
She didn’t have to be brought into the loop.
She belonged to them, and it wasn’t conditional, wasn’t pretend.
It was solidly carved into the foundation now, the exchange of power as real as it can ever get and still keep the consensual part of the consensual-non-consent line they balanced on.
She’d already had bits and pieces of her fantasy in her everyday life.
Not enough to dehumanize her, but enough to give her the structure she needed.
Enough to remind her she’s owned and someone else is in control.
Clearly, after her silent, obedient night, her men intended to take it further day-to-day, and her inner masochist rejoiced.
She couldn’t wait until Kenny’s two-week window was up so she could offer them the rest of her, without limits.
Except for maybe gross food, but she hadn’t decided for certain about that one.
Kenny returned to the tree and grabbed a much larger box this time, and heavy enough he carried it with both hands. He set it in front of Boone with a faint grunt of effort, then stood back with arms crossed, waiting.
Boone cocked an eyebrow. “You build me a damn boat, Kenny?”
“Open it and find out,” Kenny said, deadpan.
Boone made quick work of the matte green paper, looked at the picture on the box, and let out a low, appreciative whistle. “This is a fucking GHD.”
“It is,” Kenny confirmed, grinning now. “It’s workout equipment; it’s a fucking station.”
Boone looked at the picture again. “Well, fuck if it isn’t.”
Willow tilted her head to try to make sense of the image on the box. “What is it, Sir?”
Boone smiled and met her gaze. “Glute ham developer. Core work. Lower back.” He stood, eyes twinkling. “But it’s also got the right support bars and angles to strap someone in, bent over, locked down.”
Willow’s breath caught when she saw the possibilities, how she could be bent over it and connected, carabiners to her permanent cuffs, her body held in place by angles engineered for strength and control.
She squeezed her thighs together at the thought of Boone, full of testosterone from working out, ordering her over it.
Boone’s eyes went hot. “Could work as a strapping station for little fuckholes who aren’t meeting expectations, too.”
“Handy that you keep a strap hanging on the wall,” Kenny said mildly.
Fuck. Willow let out a breath, thighs clenching tighter, and muttered, “I’m seeing a disturbing pattern here.” She paused before adding, “Sirs.”
Silas gave her an unrepentant smile. “Lucky for you and that little cunt of yours, you get off on being disturbed.”
Kenny looked back to Boone. “The bolts are already in the floor. Shouldn’t take much to get it installed.”
Boone nodded. “Thank you. Seriously. This is great on so many levels.”
Kenny clapped him on the shoulder and went back for a box wrapped in parchment-colored paper, tied with thick jute cord instead of ribbon. He handed it to Willow and then crouched in front of her where she sat cross-legged on the ottoman.
She untied the cord and peeled back the paper, lifting the lid to reveal a set of architectural sketches. Inked plans, some traced in pencil with annotations in Kenny’s strong handwriting.
Her heart skipped.
“It’s an archery range, Sir,” she breathed.
“Two lanes,” Kenny said. “Proper distances. I want your input on materials for the backstop, and whether you want elevated stands for longer distances, but the layout’s ready.”
She looked at the details, targets at range and close-up, room for moving shots. Heated benches.
She ran her hand across the drawing. “This is… it’s perfect, Sir.”
“I thought so,” Kenny said. “I have most of the materials in the storage building. Once you decide on the details I’m leaving up to you, we can get started on it.”
She blinked fast, the emotion catching her by surprise. “Thank you, Sir.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I love you!”
He hugged her back, pulled away to look in her eyes. “I love you too, little hawk. Merry Christmas.”
Once Willow’s sketches had been passed around and admired, with Boone making immediate suggestions about an elevated perch and a rotating target system, Silas dryly offering to paint silhouettes of Misty and her crew, Kenny nodded toward Silas.
“Your turn.”
Silas rose smoothly, went to the tree, and selected a narrow box wrapped in wine-red foil with a braided black cord tied in a simple knot. He handed it to Kenny with a short nod and didn’t say a word as he stepped back.
Kenny raised a brow but opened the box, unfolding the tissue to reveal a bottle nestled in rich brown velvet. He pulled it out and whistled low. “Bourbon Trail Reserve?”
“Limited release,” Silas said. “The club sends two top-shelf bottles a month, sometimes barrel picks, sometimes something rare enough to sell out in a day.”