Chapter 3 #2
"I don't dance. I don't do small talk. And I leave events early without apologizing for it." He sets down his empty glass. "Fair warning, I'm not the easiest person to fake date."
"I'm getting that impression."
"And you?" He turns that assessing gaze on me. "What should I know about you?"
"I talk too much when I'm nervous. I hate being condescended to. And I have a tendency to say exactly what I'm thinking at the worst possible moments." I shrug. "My last boyfriend called it being abrasive. I call it being honest."
"Sounds like he couldn't handle you."
"No one can handle me, apparently. That's the problem."
The words come out more vulnerable than I intended. Callum studies me for a long moment, and I brace for the platitudes. You just haven't met the right person. You need to soften your edges. Men are intimidated by successful women.
Instead he says, "Maybe the problem isn't that no one can handle you. Maybe the problem is you've been letting the wrong people try."
My heart does something stupid.
"That's a very romantic thing to say for a fake relationship."
"It's an honest thing to say." He stands, and the spell fractures. "We should try to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be complicated whether we make it to the rehearsal dinner or not."
"Wait." The word escapes before I can think better of it. "You said earlier you have particular tastes. Specific needs." I watch his expression carefully. "What did you mean?"
Callum goes still in a way that's almost predatory. Like a wolf who just caught a scent.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I agreed to spend a weekend pretending to be your girlfriend without asking enough questions." I stand too, refusing to let him tower over me from that height. "And because I'm curious."
"Curiosity can be dangerous."
"So can agreeing to fake relationships with mountain men you met in bars. And yet here I am."
He's quiet, weighing something. Then he moves toward the hallway that leads deeper into the house, away from the stairs to the guest room.
"Come with me."
Every true crime documentary I've ever watched screams at me to stay put. But I follow him anyway, because apparently my survival instincts have completely short circuited.
The hallway ends at a heavy wooden door. Callum pulls a key from his pocket, and I hear the solid click of a lock disengaging.
"This isn't something I show people," he says without turning around. "But you asked, and I promised you honesty."
He opens the door and flips a switch.
The room beyond is... not what I expected. Not a murder dungeon or a creepy shrine or any of the dark scenarios my imagination conjured.
It's beautiful.
Warm lighting illuminates rich burgundy walls and polished hardwood floors. A massive four poster bed dominates one corner, but it's not a normal bed. There are attachment points built into the frame. Metal rings that glint in the soft light.
Against one wall, a tall wooden cabinet stands open, revealing an organized collection of items that make my breath catch. Leather restraints. Silk ropes in various colors. Things I recognize from late night internet searches I've never admitted to anyone.
A padded bench sits near the center of the room, its purpose unmistakable. And mounted on the far wall, a St. Andrew's Cross made of dark stained wood with leather cuffs at each point.
"This is what I meant by particular tastes." Callum's voice is low, controlled. "I'm a dominant. Have been for fifteen years. It's not a phase or a kink I indulge occasionally. It's part of who I am."
I can't speak. Can't do anything but stare at the room and try to process what I'm seeing.
"The arrangement between us doesn't have to include any of this," he continues. "We can attend the wedding, play our parts, and never discuss this room again. But you asked for honesty, and I won't hide something this significant."
I finally find my voice. "Your ex-fiancée. Did she know about this?"
"She knew. She tried to participate because she thought it would make me happy. But she didn't understand it." He pauses. "She didn't want to understand it. She saw it as something to be tolerated, not something to be shared."
"And that's why it ended?"
"That's part of why it ended. You can't build a life with someone who sees a fundamental part of you as a problem to be managed."
I walk further into the room without consciously deciding to move. My fingers trail across the edge of the padded bench, smooth leather cool under my touch.
"I've never done anything like this." The admission comes out quiet. "But I've thought about it. Read about it. Wondered what it would be like."
"What stopped you?"
"I don't know. Fear, maybe. Or never meeting anyone I trusted enough to explore it with." I turn to face him. "My last boyfriend thought I was too aggressive in bed. Too demanding. He wanted me to be softer. More passive."
"And you couldn't be."
"I didn't want to be." I straighten my shoulders. "I spent my whole life learning to fight for what I want. I'm not going to unlearn that because some man thinks I should be more ladylike while he fucks me."
Callum's eyes darken. "Being submissive isn't about being passive, Nadia. And it certainly isn't about being ladylike."
"Then what is it about?"
He closes the distance between us, and suddenly all that controlled power is right there, inches away. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"It's about trust. Surrender. Giving someone else control not because you're weak, but because you're strong enough to let go.
" His voice drops lower. "The best submissives I've known were the ones who fought the hardest. Who challenged every boundary and made me earn their submission instead of just handing it over. "
My pulse is racing. "That sounds like a lot of work for you."
"It's the only kind of work worth doing."
We're standing close enough now that I can see the individual threads of silver in his hair. Can count the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Can feel my own breath coming faster than it has any right to.
"This doesn't change our arrangement," I hear myself say. "We're still just pretending for the weekend."
"Of course."
"And I'm not agreeing to anything by being in this room."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"But." I swallow hard. "If I were curious. Hypothetically. About what this might feel like. What would that look like?"
Callum's hand comes up slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away. His fingers graze my jaw, tilting my face up toward his.
"It would look like a conversation. About what you want. What you're afraid of. What you've imagined but never had the courage to ask for." His thumb traces my lower lip, featherlight. "And then, if we both agreed, it would look like me showing you exactly how good surrender can feel."
My knees actually weaken. Like I'm in some kind of romance novel and my body has decided to follow the script.
"The storm has us trapped here anyway," I whisper. "Might as well make productive use of the time."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a maybe." I step back, putting space between us before I do something irreversible. "Ask me again in the morning. When I haven't had whiskey and no sleep and a complete breakdown of my normal decision making process."
The corner of his mouth curves up. A real smile this time, small but genuine.
"Fair enough." He moves toward the door, gesturing for me to precede him out. "Get some rest, Nadia. We'll talk more tomorrow."
I walk past him, hyperaware of how close we are in the doorway. Of how easy it would be to turn around and close the distance and find out what his mouth tastes like.
But I keep walking. Up the stairs. Into the guest room. Into the bed that's too big and too cold and too far from the room downstairs with the burgundy walls and the promises I'm not ready to make.
The storm rages on outside. Inside, a different kind of storm is just beginning.
I don't sleep much after that either. But for entirely different reasons.