Chapter 8 #2
I step into the room, drawn toward the suspension frame.
The chains are cool under my fingers when I reach out to touch them.
The metal is smooth, well-maintained, and the carabiners have the solid weight of professional climbing gear.
I wrap my hand around one of the chains, feel its heft, imagine what it would be like to be held by something this strong.
"The safety standards here are higher than some hospitals," Will says from the doorway. "We take this seriously."
"I can tell." I let go of the chains, turn to face him. "It's not what I pictured. Any of it. I thought places like this were seedy. Dangerous. Full of predators looking for victims."
"Some are. That's why we built our own." He leans against the doorframe; arms crossed over his chest. "The community polices itself, for the most part.
People who violate consent don't last long.
Word travels. But there are always bad actors, people who use the lifestyle as cover for abuse.
The only way to protect against that is to create spaces where the rules are clear and enforced. "
"Like The Forge."
He nods.
I move toward the doorway, toward him, and stop when I reach the threshold. He's not blocking my path, just occupying space the way he always does. The way that makes rooms feel smaller and safer at the same time.
"Have you ever brought anyone here?" The question comes out before I can think better of it. "To these rooms?"
A flicker of old pain crosses his face, quickly controlled.
"Sarah." His voice is rougher than usual. "Years ago, before she got sick. We used to come here together. This room, actually, was one of her favorites."
I look back at the suspension frame, the chains, the implements on the wall. Trying to picture Will here with his wife. The woman I saw him mourn, the woman whose funeral I stood beside him at, unable to find words that mattered.
Sarah was submissive. Sarah came here, to this room, and let Will do things to her that I've only read about. Sarah had what I spent four years searching for and never found.
My chest tightens with the weight of it. Will loved a woman who wanted what I want. Who needed what I need. He built this place, in part, for her.
And now he's standing in the doorway, watching me with eyes that see too much, and I can feel the weight of everything we're not saying pressing down on both of us.
"She was lucky," I say quietly. "To have someone who understood."
"She would have said I was the lucky one." His mouth curves, just barely. "She was probably right."
The silence stretches. Neither of us moves. I'm aware of my heartbeat, the rise and fall of my breath, the distance between his body and mine that feels smaller than it should.
I step closer. The first time I've reached for anyone in years. My body tenses with the effort of not flinching back, but I hold my ground.
Will goes still. Completely, utterly still, like a man who knows that any movement might spook a wild animal. He doesn't reach for me, doesn't close the distance himself. Just watches, waiting, letting me come to him on my own terms.
Another step. Close enough now that I can see the pulse beating in his throat, the slight tension in his jaw, the controlled rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to smell him, something clean and masculine, with a hint of leather and whiskey.
I raise my hand, press my palm flat against his chest. His heart pounds beneath my fingers, faster than I expected, belying the calm of his expression. The heat of him seeps through his shirt into my skin. He's not as controlled as he looks.
His hand comes up to cover mine, warm and rough, holding it against his heart without trapping it there. The touch is gentle, deliberate, giving me every opportunity to pull away.
"What would you do," I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, "if I wasn't broken?"
His eyes meet mine, and I see it there. Want. Restraint. A war between the two that mirrors my own.
"You're not broken," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
The words land harder than I'm ready for. My throat tightens, and I have to look away before the tears can form.
"Why?" The question comes out cracked. "Why would you wait for someone like me?"
"Because you're worth waiting for." His thumb traces a slow circle on the back of my hand. "Because rushing this would ruin it. Because I spent years not feeling anything, and I'm not going to destroy the first real thing I've felt by moving too fast."
I want to lean into him. I want to press my face against his chest and let him hold me the way I've been imagining since the night he talked me through a panic attack in the stockroom.
The wanting is so strong it aches, a physical pull that starts in my chest and spreads outward until my whole body is humming with it.
But the fear is stronger. The voice in my head that sounds like Craig, whispering that I'll ruin this too, that I'll give myself to another man who'll use my submission against me, that I don't deserve what Will is offering because I couldn't even recognize abuse when I was living inside it.
I pull my hand back. Step away. Put distance between us that feels like tearing something loose.
Will lets me go. Doesn't chase, doesn't push, doesn't make me feel guilty for retreating. He just watches and waits.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm not ready. I want to be, but I'm not."
"I know." His voice is gentle. "That's why I said I'd wait."
The tears come anyway, sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed and grateful in equal measure.
"Come on," Will says. "I'll take you home."
We walk back through The Forge in silence, past the private rooms and up the stairs and through the main floor with its elegant equipment and careful lighting. Everything looks different now. Less like a museum and more like a promise.
We step out the back door of the Ironside into the night air, cool and damp, carrying the smell of the ocean from two miles west.
"I'll walk you home," Will says. It's not a question.
We take the same quiet streets we walked the night we talked on the dock, our footsteps the only sound in the sleeping town. He keeps that careful distance, still not touching me even though I can feel how much he wants to.
At Cole's porch, I turn to face him.
"Thank you," I say. "For letting me see what it's supposed to look like."
"Always."
He waits until I'm inside, until the lock clicks, before I hear his footsteps retreat down the walk.
I lean against the door in the dark, letting my heart slow.
I crossed a line tonight. Not with Will—with myself. I let myself want something without waiting for permission.
I'm not ready to act on it. I don't know if I'll ever be ready, or if the damage Craig did will keep me frozen forever, too scared to reach for something real because I couldn't tell the difference before.
But for the first time since I left Seattle, I want to try. I want to believe that maybe I don't have to bleed for it.
Will said he'd wait. And I'm starting to believe him.
The house is dark. Cole's bedroom door is closed, a line of light visible underneath. He's awake. Probably wondering where I've been, why I stayed out so late on a Monday night.
I owe him answers. Will made it clear that if this goes anywhere, Cole needs to know.
But not tonight. Tonight I need to sit with what happened, to let it settle in my bones.
I climb the stairs to the guest room, close the door, and lean against it.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number, the area code unfamiliar.
I pick it up, read the message.
I know where you are. Did you really think you could hide from me?
My hands go cold. The room shrinks.
Craig. He found a new number. He found a way through.