Chapter 3 #2
And that, I realized, was the first true act of submission I’d made.
“Remove your clothes.”
The command sent a jolt through me.
For a split second, my body reacted before my mind did—muscle memory reaching for compliance.
I stopped myself. Breathed.
If this were obedience, it would be deliberate.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the buttons of my blouse, my breath coming in shallow bursts. I must have looked pathetic, torn between nervousness and something else entirely. Something darker. Something inevitable.
I stole a glance at him from the corner of my eye. Creed stood there, watching. Not moving. Not blinking.
Not helping.
Not intervening.
The room was warm, and I felt exposed before I had even removed a single piece of clothing.
Slowly, methodically, he began rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.
The movement wasn’t sensual. It was preparatory.
My pulse skipped. There was something almost hypnotic in the way he did it, in the way his fingers moved with purpose, with patience.
Controlled.
Always controlled.
He exposed strong forearms corded with muscle, veins shifting beneath olive-toned skin. It was such a simple act, but somehow, it held me captive.
Not a promise.
A warning.
And God help me, I couldn’t look away.
“There are two different types of spankings—one for pleasure, which you have experience.” He let the words settle before continuing.
I watched as he reached into a drawer.
A leather strap.
My throat tightened.
“And then there are spankings for disobedience,” Creed said, his voice low and measured. “For lying to me.”
Silence.
“Which you will now experience.”
“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.
The words tasted different now.
Heavier.
He stepped closer, his presence immediate and unavoidable.
“Do you understand why?”
I hesitated.
The easy answer rose first.
I pushed it down.
“I understand,” I said finally. “I broke your trust.”
His gaze sharpened, just slightly.
“Say it, correctly.”
“I broke your trust, Sir,” I corrected, my voice steadier now. “By deciding for you instead of trusting you.”
He nodded once. “Ten strokes with the strap. I—”
“Make it twenty.” The words left my mouth before I could soften them.
Not bargaining.
Choosing cost.
His gaze flickered.
“Please, Sir. I deserve twenty.”
I didn’t look away.
Didn’t beg.
Didn’t decorate it with submission.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Creed didn’t move.
This was the moment.
Not the punishment.
The decision.
“Very well.” He gave a small nod. “At any time,” he continued calmly, “you may use the safe word.”
I nodded.
Not because I planned to use it.
But because acknowledging the boundary mattered.
He studied my face, assessing and searching not for obedience, but presence.
“Before we begin,” he said, “is there anything you wish to say?”
The words collided inside me.
Apologies. Confessions. Pleas.
None of them felt like enough.
None of them felt safe.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Not just for lying. For doubting you. For trying to control fear instead of trusting you.” I swallowed. “I don’t know if I can repair what I broke. But I won’t hide from it again.”
Creed’s expression didn’t soften.
“Words are easy, Peyton.”
“I know.”
“Actions are what matter.”
He stepped back, creating space without relieving pressure.
He gestured and I assumed the position, gripping the footrail, grounding myself.
“Remember,” he said quietly, “this punishment was your choice.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Creed moved behind me.
He waited.
Long enough that my breath betrayed me.
The first strike landed softly.
Not painful.
Evaluative.
I gasped not from pain, but from awareness.
The second landed harder.
Then the third.
“Count.”
“Three,” I breathed.
The fourth followed before I could recover.
By five, the sting bloomed hot.
By seven, my thighs trembled.
“Ten,” I cried, throat raw.
He paused. His hand rested briefly on my lower back.
Not comfort.
Confirmation.
“You asked for this,” he said. “Stay with it.”
“I am.”
The next strikes came sharper. Cleaner.
No rage.
No indulgence.
Just precision.
By fifteen, tears blurred my vision.
By nineteen, my voice broke.
The final strike landed, measured, and final.
“Twenty.”
I collapsed to my knees, breath ragged, body shaking.
Creed knelt beside me.
He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t speak.
He let the moment exist.
Then he lifted me and carried me to the bed, laying me down with care.
“I want you to lie here,” he said calmly, “and think about your choices—and what trust requires.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He turned and left the room.
The silence that followed wasn’t abandonment.
It was consequence.
I lay there, body aching, heart exposed.
For the first time, obedience hadn’t been escaping.
It had been accountability.
And I understood then—
This wasn’t forgiveness.
It was the beginning of earning it.
* * *
“PEYTON.”
I gasped, my eyes snapping open. The sharp edge of his voice jolted me awake. Creed stood over me, his expression carved from stone. My stomach dropped.
No. No. No.
I had fallen asleep.
The realization hit harder than the sound of his voice. I’d failed again, quietly, without even meaning to.
His broad shoulders cast shadows against the dim lighting, his gaze drilling into mine with cold precision.
“Did I give you permission to fall asleep?”
His voice was a blade, cutting through the remnants of my groggy haze.
I sat up too quickly, heat rushing to my cheeks. “No, Sir.”
His eyes narrowed. “I gave you specific instructions to sit here and think about the consequences. Did I not?”
I licked my lips, my voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Sir.”
Creed tilted his head, studying me the way a predator sizes up its prey.
Not angry.
Evaluating.
“So, if you understood the assignment,” he continued, “why were you asleep?”
My pulse thrummed at a frantic pace. The truth pressed up hard and humiliating.
Say it!
“I wasn’t asleep,” I blurted, lying before I could stop myself. “I was in deep thought.”
The lie tasted thin the moment it left my mouth.
For a moment, I thought I saw something flickering in his gaze, a hint of amusement, a ghost of a smirk. But it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.
“Thinking about what?” he asked, his voice cool, clinical.
I swallowed. “You.”
Creed’s eyes darkened.
“And how I should have trusted you to protect me.”
The truth hung between us, heavy and unspoken for too long.
This time, I didn’t look away.
Creed stared at me, unflinching. Silent. He let the truth stand on its own. Then, without warning, he scooped me into his arms. But this time, his touch wasn’t punishing. It was careful. The contrast unsettled me more than anger would have.
I opened my mouth to explain, to plead, to offer the kind of apology I wasn’t sure would ever be enough.
“Sir, I—”
“Silence.”
The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Creed carried me into the en-suite bathroom, the air thick with steam, curling like soft tendrils of smoke. The scent of lavender filled the space, wrapping around me like a whisper.
Not comfort.
Preparation.
When had he prepared this?
While you were sleeping.
While he was deciding.
My lips parted, but the question never left my mouth because I was already sinking.
Into the water.
Into the moment.
Into the weight of what I’d done.
He lowered me into the bath with a care that sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing through me. His hands lingered only long enough to make sure I was steady. No reassurance. No forgiveness. This was not a man who had washed his hands of me.
Not yet.
The water embraced me, easing the tension in my muscles, soothing the soreness of my body, but doing nothing to quiet the remorse burning low in my chest.
I glanced up at him, my heart hammering, searching for something, anything.
Creed was unmoved.
A wall. A decision still in progress.
Then, just as quickly as he had pulled me into his orbit, he turned and walked away.
“When you’re done,” he said, his voice firm and even, “come down for dinner.”
A command.
Not a kindness.
The door closed softly behind him. The sound landed heavier than a shout. I sank lower into the bath, the warmth doing little to quiet the chaos inside me.
You don’t deserve this.
Not the care.
Not the structure.
Not the restraint.
Creed had pulled me out of Marco Vincenzo’s nightmare. Had given me safety. Freedom. A future. And I had repaid him with doubt. With secrecy. With fear disguised as protection. The guilt cut deep, sharp, and unrelenting.
I closed my eyes, breathing through the weight pressing down on my chest.
This wasn’t mercy. It was an opportunity. And if this was my last chance... I would not fail again.
* * *
THE HOUSE WAS SILENT, but not in the way that felt empty.
It was the kind of silence that paid attention... that noticed movement... that remembered.
When I emerged from the bath, the clothes I had worn earlier were gone. In their place, a neatly folded T-shirt rested on the bed, a bottle of water beside it.
I stopped short.
It was such a small thing. Such ordinary kindness. And that was what made it dangerous.
Creed had done this. Not to comfort me. To prepare me.
The thought tightened my throat, emotion pressing hard against restraint. I slid the soft fabric over my damp skin, my fingers lingering at the hem, grounding myself in its weight. The oversized shirt smelled like him, familiarity edged with warning.
The cold floor bit at my bare feet as I moved into the hallway. My stomach twisted with hunger, but it wasn’t just food I needed.
I needed orientation.
Something to tell me where I stood.
I followed the sound of running water. Creed stood at the sink, his back to me, rinsing a plate with methodical care. He wore a black T-shirt, sleeves fitted close to his arms, and jeans low on his hips. Casual, but nothing about him felt relaxed.
Even here, even now, he was contained.
He didn’t turn.
“Have a seat.”
The words were even. Neutral.
No invitation. Instruction.
I moved toward the stool, then stopped. A donut pillow rested neatly on the seat.
My breath caught.
He had noticed.
He had accounted for it.
He had decided how much care to allow.
I sat carefully, fingers curling around the edge of the counter.
“Whatever’s on the stove smells good,” I said quietly, more to fill the space than because it mattered.
“Ennis made chicken marsala.”
Creed set a plate in front of me with precise movements. I waited until he served himself before lifting my fork. The ritual mattered. I didn’t know why yet, but it did.
We ate in silence.
Not awkward.
Weighted.
The kind of silence that pressed instead of drifting.
“I didn’t know you had a house out here,” I said finally.
His fork paused. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to register. “I guess you’re not the only one who kept things to himself.”
The words landed clean.
I didn’t flinch. “I deserved that,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”
After a moment, he spoke again. “It belonged to my parents.”
The words were quieter.
Exposed.
“I grew up here.”
I watched him stare at his plate as if the answers lived there. “My room was the first one on the right.”
His jaw tightened. “When I inherited it, I thought about gutting the place. Thought if I stripped it down far enough, I wouldn’t have to remember.”
He set his fork down.
“It’s still the same.”
I hesitated, measuring the distance between truth and intrusion.
“Why keep it,” I began carefully, “if it hurts?”
His head lifted sharply. “This land has been in my family for generations,” he said, his voice firm. “You don’t abandon history because it’s inconvenient.”
The word inconvenient cracked just slightly.
I nodded. “Then you don’t run from it,” I said. “You decide what it becomes.”
He held my gaze.
Assessing.
Weighing.
“Maybe someday,” he said finally. “For now, it stays as my mother left it.”
I accepted that answer for what it was. A boundary.
“Sir, I—”
“Do you know why I didn’t respond to your message?”
My breath stilled. “No, sir.”
He studied me, searching for presence. “Because obedience offered out of fear isn’t obedience,” he said calmly. “It’s avoidance.”
The truth hit harder than reprimand.
“I didn’t know what else to give you.”
“That,” he replied, “is the only honest thing you’ve said tonight.”
I didn’t look away.
“Obedience only means something when it costs you something.”
Silence stretched.
“Tonight,” he said, “you don’t get only punishment.”
My chest tightened.
“You get instruction.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned closer. “You listen before you react,” he said. “You stay present instead of offering yourself as currency.”
“And you don’t earn trust by proving how much you can endure.”
The words settled, heavy.
“You earn it,” he finished, “by telling the truth before fear talks you out of it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Creed pushed his plate aside, leaning back slightly. “Did you get enough to eat?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” His gaze locked on mine. “Go upstairs. Get on your knees. And wait.”
My body responded before thought.
I stood. “Yes, Sir.”
I left the kitchen without looking back.
I wasn’t afraid.
I understood.
Whatever came next wouldn’t be about punishment. It would be about whether I could stay present long enough to deserve what remained between us.