Chapter 30
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Emma
I wondered if he might actually die.
He certainly looked like he wanted to.
The thought slid through me, dark and almost amused, as I watched the man in front of me try—and fail—to untangle his own web of lies.
Lies I couldn’t yet name, only feel in the way his throat worked, the way fear flickered behind his eyes like a candle caught in a draft.
Ava’s unease had planted the first seed of suspicion, a dagger of anxiety buried deep in my gut.
The look on his face twisted that blade.
Now it was lodged somewhere between anger and heartbreak, turning slow, excruciating circles as I waited for the truth to bleed out of him.
A dark laugh slipped free before I could stop it. “Are you going to answer?” The sound of it was brittle, cruel. “Or will you let your silence be the answer?”
I tilted my head, letting the next words drip like venom. “If it’s the latter.” I shrugged as if I didn’t care—though my heart was already splintering, shards grinding against each other—”you can leave now.”
He reached out, one step forward.
I stepped back.
I wasn’t ready to share air with him. Not until I had answers.
His hands fell to his sides, helpless.
“I don’t…” he rasped, words cracking. “I don’t know what to say.”
Anger flared, hot and sharp and alive—relief and rage tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart.
“Then leave!” I shouted, the sound tearing from somewhere deep, somewhere raw. I turned away, retreating toward the living room, needing space—needing air that wasn’t thick with him and everything I didn’t know.
His footsteps followed, heavy and unrelenting, echoing the pounding of my own heart.
Every ounce of betrayal I’d tried to forgive—his kisses, his promises, his gentle care—now coagulated in my throat like old blood.
The pressure built behind my eyes until tears threatened, traitorous and humiliating.
A single tear slipped free before I could stop it, hot against my skin. It traced a slow, betraying path down my cheek—evidence of the weakness I tried to hold inside.
Damien stilled, expression shifting from fear to guilt.
The same look he’d worn that first night we’d met.
The same haunted remorse.
The same silent, desperate plea for forgiveness before the confession ever came.
And just like that night, it hurt to look at him.
I turned away, burying my face in my hands. The tears I’d fought so hard to contain finally broke free, spilling hot and relentless through my fingers. The cotton sleeves of my shirt soaked through as I wiped at them, desperate to erase the evidence—futile as it was.
A shuddering breath tore from my lungs. I forced another, steadying myself for the final blow—the words that would end whatever this was.
“We are—”
“I dated Elise in high school,” he blurted.
The words sliced through my sentence, trembling, broken.
I lifted my head, he stood frozen across from me—pale, wrecked, like a man awaiting execution. His weight shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, every muscle taut with restraint. Like coming closer might burn us both alive.
“That was the last woman I…” The words faltered. “Dated.”
The fury wavered, confusion threading through the wreckage. “What?”
He dragged a shaking hand over his face, turning toward the wall as if it might spare him from what came next.
“The rest of them were… submissives.”
Submissives.
The word snagged somewhere in my memory—dog-eared paperbacks, whispered recommendations, covers with shirtless men and women in silk blindfolds.
“Like… in the books?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. “That’s real? People actually—” I gestured vaguely, grasping for words that wouldn’t come.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.
“It’s real,” he said quietly. “It’s a whole community. And it’s nothing like what you’ve seen in media.”
The floor tilted beneath me.
“I’m a dominant, Emma.” The words fell heavy between us. “I was their dominant. They were my submissives.”
I’d seen the terms referenced—whispered about in novels, joked about in movies, always with a wink and a raised eyebrow. Something scandalous. Something exaggerated. Something that existed in the same category as vampires and billionaire sheikhs—entertaining fiction, nothing more.
“Okay…” I said slowly, still trying to wrap my head around the idea.
He hesitated, then added, “The terms are popular in the BDSM world.” He winced as if saying it aloud cost him something. “The dominant is the one in control within the relationship. The submissive follows the dominant’s wishes.”
Control.
The word slithered through me.
I took an instinctive step back, fear crawling up my spine on old, familiar paths.
He lifted his hands, palms open—a silent plea not to run. “It’s… not what people think it is. It isn’t about power for the sake of it. It’s about trust. About care. Structure. Boundaries.”
He paused, eyes searching my face for understanding and finding none.
“Being a dominant means I take responsibility for the person who gives me their submission. Their safety, their limits, their pleasure—all of it. I lead, but only because they’ve asked me to.
Because they trust me enough to let go.”
My heart pounded so hard I could hear it—an unsteady drum in my chest that filled the silence between us.
“I’ve never forced anyone,” he continued gently, like he could feel the panic tightening around me. “It’s not like that. It’s always consensual. Always discussed. But it can be… intense. Different from a normal relationship.”
I blinked at him, words refusing to form.
I didn’t understand.
Not really.
But the way he said it—low and aching, like confession and grief tangled together—made me want to.
“Did you love any of them?”
“No,” he whispered. “Not like—”
He stopped, closing his eyes. “I gave them what they needed. But it was never love.” The confession scraped from his throat. “I don’t think I was capable of it then.”
“And what did they need?”
“Some of them came to learn—to experience. Others already knew, but sought something deeper, something no one else could give them.” His voice gentled. “But they all had one thing in common: the need to get out of their own heads.” He sighed. “I gave them that.”
A beat of silence stretched between us, heavy and strange.
“And what did you get in return?” The question barely left my lips.
“Control. In different forms, different capacities. Every partner had their own requests, their own boundaries. But at the center of it all—it always came back to control.”
I nodded slowly, the pieces Ava had scattered yesterday morning clicking into place, one after another.
“Ava,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. My gaze lifted to his. “Why does she know? About any of this?”
His head angled.
“Ava’s been with me a long time,” he said. “She’s seen more of my life than most people ever will.”
I waited.
“She knew I had… arrangements. Dynamics,” he amended.
“Not details. Never names. But she handled logistics. Travel. Discretion. Things that touched my schedule.” His mouth tipped in a humorless almost-smile.
“If my life was going to bleed into my calendar, she needed enough context not to be blindsided.”
He laughed lightly. “Turns out she has her own story and experiences. It made the revelation easier.”
I blinked. “She’s a—”
“That’s her story to tell.” His tone was gentle but firm. “But yes. She understands the lifestyle. And she’s been with me long enough that pretending otherwise felt insulting to us both.”
I sat with that for a moment, recalibrating everything I thought I knew about the woman.
“Why do you need control?” The question finally came.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders dipping. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted.
“It’s always been something I needed to feel…
whole. My fascination started when I was a teenager—one too many suspicious clicks of a mouse, I guess—and it tumbled from there.
I found a local community group.” He hesitated, eyes distant. “It was there I met my first partner.”
I waited. Watched. Catalogued every word choice, every shift in expression, every pause between breaths.
“I was twenty,” he went on. “She was maybe in her early thirties. I’d expressed interest, and she offered to take me under her wing.”
My brows drew together. “So… you were the submissive?” The word felt strange on my tongue, almost forbidden.
He gave me a small, understanding smile. “I can see how you’d think that. But no. She was the submissive.”
I frowned. “But if the dominant is the one in control, why would she offer to teach you?”
“Well, you’ve got to learn somewhere.” His shoulders lifted in a weary shrug.
“Learn?”
“Yes. A dynamic like that takes time, energy, and knowledge. Without that foundation, it can twist into something ugly. Abuse parading under a thin title.” Steel crept into his voice, hardening beneath the careful control.
The air between us shifted. Whatever this thing was—whatever world he’d lived in—it wasn’t about sex games or cheap thrills.
“Okay.” I dragged the word out, tasting it, buying time.
“So—just to be sure I have this right. You’re a dominant.
They were your submissives. You were in…
non-typical”—I paused, searching for the right phrasing, forgetting half the terms he’d used—”relationships.
Where there was some kind of exchange of power.
Something you needed, and they gave willingly. ”
He nodded, shoulders easing by an almost imperceptible degree.
My eyes traced the lines of his face, searching for more lies.
I groaned, pointing with my chin toward the couch, a silent invitation.
He exhaled, slow and deep, then followed me into the living room.
I tucked myself into the corner of the sofa, curling my legs beneath the blanket that always lived there. The fabric was soft, grounding. Familiar. Something in this room still belonged entirely to me.
He sat opposite me—Candace’s usual spot. He held none of her grace. Her ease.
Not now.