Chapter 5
"Was that okay?" Aiden asks, his voice rougher than before.
I nod, unable to find words. My lips tingle where his touched mine, and I resist the urge to press my fingers against them, to preserve the sensation.
"Tell me," he says, the command gentle but unmistakable.
"Yes," I whisper. "More than okay."
A smile touches his lips—not the careful, professional smile I saw at the facility, but something warmer, more genuine. His hand slides from my hair to cup my cheek.
"This changes things," he says quietly. "You understand that?"
I nod, though I'm not entirely sure what he means. Changes things how? Between us? Within me? Both, probably.
"We need to be careful," Aiden continues. "You're still healing. I don't want to complicate that process."
Part of me wants to argue, to tell him that maybe this is exactly what my healing needs.
But another part—the careful, cautious part that survived the facility—knows he's right.
Whatever is happening between us is complicated, potentially dangerous for both of us.
The fact that he recognizes this, that he's putting boundaries in place even as desire darkens his eyes, makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
"I know," I say softly. "But I still want this. I need..." I trail off, not sure how to articulate what I'm feeling.
Aiden's thumb traces my cheekbone, his touch feather-light. "What do you need, Lana? Tell me."
The command in his voice makes it easier somehow, gives me permission to voice desires I've been afraid to acknowledge.
"I need to reclaim this part of myself," I say, the words coming slowly at first, then rushing out. "The part that wanted submission before they twisted it. I need to know it can still be beautiful. That they didn't destroy that too."
Aiden's eyes soften, his expression a mixture of understanding and something deeper that makes my heart skip. "We'll take it slow," he promises. "One step at a time."
He steps back, creating space between us that feels both necessary and painful. The loss of his touch leaves me slightly adrift, but his voice anchors me again.
"Tonight, we'll stay in this dynamic until you go to bed," he says, his voice shifting back to that commanding tone that makes my spine straighten automatically.
"I'll give you tasks. Simple ones, to start with.
You'll address me as Sir. You'll follow my instructions.
And if at any point you need to stop, you say 'red. ' Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," I reply, the words feeling right on my tongue in a way I never expected.
"Good girl." He steps back, his posture shifting subtly. His shoulders straighten, his chin lifts slightly, and suddenly he seems to take up more space in the room. "Your first task is to make us both some tea."
It's such a simple request, mundane even, but the way he says it—the quiet authority in his voice—makes it feel like more than just preparing a beverage. It feels like a gift I'm giving him, an act of service that has meaning beyond the action itself.
I move to the kitchen, aware of his eyes following me.
There's something comforting about having a clear directive, about knowing exactly what's expected of me.
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, then reach for the cups from the cabinet, selecting the nicest ones I have.
The simple act of choosing which tea to brew becomes a small meditation as I consider what he might prefer.
"Sir," I say, turning toward him. "Do you have a preference for tea?"
"Whatever you would like to serve me," he says, and somehow that makes the choice feel more significant.
I select a delicate green tea, one that requires attention to brew correctly. As I prepare it, I'm acutely aware of Aiden watching me from the doorway. There's something intimate about being observed this way—not the clinical observation of the facility, but something appreciative, attentive.
When the kettle whistles, I pour the hot water over the leaves, watching them unfurl in the clear glass teapot. The process requires patience, waiting for the perfect steep. I find myself relaxing into the ritual, my shoulders dropping, my breathing slowing.
"It's ready, Sir," I say, placing the teapot and cups on a small tray. I carry it to the coffee table and set it down carefully.
"Kneel beside me while I drink," Aiden says, settling himself on the couch.
I sink gracefully to my knees beside the couch, the carpet soft beneath me. This position feels strangely peaceful, not degrading like it did at the facility. There, kneeling meant punishment or preparation for something worse. Here, with Aiden, it feels like a choice—my choice.
He pours the tea with deliberate movements, steam curling above the delicate cups.
I watch his hands, strong and capable, handling the fragile porcelain with surprising gentleness.
Those same hands that spanked me at the facility, that guided me through the room just moments ago, that cupped my face with such care when he kissed me.
"You made this beautifully," he says after taking a sip. "Thank you."
The simple praise warms me from within, spreading through my chest like the heat from the tea. "You're welcome, Sir."