Chapter 6
Samuel
The bar Jacob had picked was tucked between an old tailor shop and a shuttered florist on a quiet, poorly lit stretch of Midtown. There was no flashing sign. No bass-heavy music. Just a modest wooden door and a small, tarnished brass plaque engraved with a single word: Haven.
Inside, the lighting was dim and warm, cast by amber bulbs suspended low over each table. The air held the faint scent of citrus polish and aged whiskey, and the low murmur of conversation blended with the quiet clink of ice.
Jacob was already at a small table near the back, his elbow hooked over the back of his chair, his posture a chaotic sprawl.
He was slightly taller than Samuel, leaner, as if constructed from restless, sharp angles.
His skin was a shade paler, and the bridge of his nose was dusted with the same freckles Samuel had inherited from their mother, just more pronounced.
His hair was a mess of dark, unruly waves, curling defiantly at the ends. His hazel eyes flicked up the moment Samuel approached; their expression soft, warm, and too perceptive.
Jacob grinned. “Look who finally decided to show his face.”
Samuel slid into the worn leather seat across from him with a dismissive snort, shrugging out of his jacket. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
“You literally live eight blocks away, Sam.”
“It was a very localized, eight-block nightmare.”
Jacob laughed; a full-bodied sound that turned a few nearby heads.
Everything about him was unrestrained, Samuel realized.
The bouncing leg under the table. The dramatic, fluid hand gestures.
The grin that pulled too wide. Jacob had always carried a bright, magnetic chaos with him, an energy that burned through rooms rather than settling.
They ordered drinks; a neat, top-shelf whiskey for Sam, something vaguely fruity, neon-colored, and adorned with a tiny umbrella for Jacob. When their glasses arrived, his brother immediately lifted his concoction to clink forcefully against Sam’s.
“To poor life choices,” he declared.
Samuel offered a wry, thin smirk. “You consistently make far worse ones than I do.”
“Yeah, but mine are actually fun. There’s a difference.”
Samuel shook his head with mock disgust. “Remind me again why you’re drinking something the color of a radioactive glow stick?”
“It has real mango purée in it,” Jacob said, puffing his chest out slightly. “Mango is sophisticated.”
“I am not sure you know what sophisticated means.”
“It’s my personal definition. I’m redefining the lexicon.”
Samuel snorted. “Right. Alongside your highly flexible definitions of ‘punctuality’ and ‘basic hygiene.’”
Jacob placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “The betrayal I’m suffering in this fine establishment is truly unreal.”
The familiar ease between them stretched a little. Then Jacob nudged Samuel’s foot under the table with his boot. “You hear from Mom lately?” he asked, the casualness far too practiced.
Samuel’s smirk faded. “Last week.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “You?”
“God, no,” Jacob laughed, but the sound was thin. “I’m still the devil she warns her grandkids about.”
“She doesn't actually have any grandkids, Jay.”
“Not the point,” Jacob retorted, leaning back and staring at Samuel over the rim of his drink. “She’d invent them just to have someone to traumatize with cautionary tales about the prodigal son.”
Samuel huffed out a short, hollow laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Jacob’s gaze sharpened across the table, cutting in a way only a sibling could manage. “You’re still going to those Sunday dinners, aren’t you?”
Samuel’s grip tightened on the glass. He shrugged his shoulder instead of answering.
“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘please don’t start this conversation’?”
“Take a wild guess, Jacob.”
Jacob sighed, a long, weary sound, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “They haven’t changed, Sam. You know that. They’re never going to change.”
“I didn’t say they did.”
“You didn’t have to.” Jacob set his drink down on the coaster, eyes never leaving Sam's. “You come when they call. You sit there and you pretend like everything is fine.”
“It’s just easier that way,” Samuel muttered, his eyes fixed on a watermark on the table.
“Easier for who?”
Samuel didn’t answer. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the burn doing nothing to settle the cold knot in his stomach.
The silence stretched between them, thick with discomfort, before Jacob broke it, his voice quiet now, stripped of its earlier humor.
“You ever gonna stop playing by Dad’s rulebook, Sam? Ever?”
Samuel’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking along the bone. He stared down into his drink as if it held an answer.
He didn’t answer.
Jacob exhaled softly, studying him with an expression that made Samuel’s skin feel too tight; a mix of concern and resignation.
“You deserve more out of this life than just this, Samuel,” Jacob said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not sure you even know how to want anything else anymore.”
Samuel didn’t move. Didn’t allow himself a full breath. Didn’t trust himself to look up. The words weren’t spoken with cruelty. That was what made them worse, harder to deflect.
He pushed his chair back a moment later, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. “I should go. I have to go into the office early tomorrow.”
"Tomorrow is Saturday, Samuel," Jacob said, his voice thin and tired.
Samuel pretended, pointedly, that he hadn't heard him.
Jacob didn’t try to stop him. Samuel placed enough crisp bills on the table to cover both of their drinks and a generous tip, ignoring the way Jacob’s eyes followed his movements; sad, knowing, heavy with things unresolved.
Samuel didn’t say goodbye.
He turned and walked out into the cool night air, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, something sharp and jagged sitting like a shard of glass under his ribs.
Something he wasn’t ready to name.
∞∞∞
Gael
The Crimson Knot training center occupied the top floor of a converted, unmarked brick building, its entrance hidden behind a narrow, matte-black door with no signage; just a brass keyhole and a discreet camera.
Gael pressed his keycard to the hidden reader.
The electromagnetic lock disengaged with a soft click, and the door swung inward.
Warm, low lighting replaced the chill of the night. Dark wood paneled the narrow corridor, and thick Persian runners muted each step. The air smelled of leather, polished surfaces, and something cool and clean beneath it.
Gael handed his overcoat to the silent attendant behind the minimalist desk. There was no small talk. No acknowledgment beyond a brief nod.
He walked through the second set of soundproofed doors and into the main lounge.
The room opened before him in a gradient of burgundy velvet, glowing amber sconces, and the low hum of a string quartet from concealed speakers. Shadows pooled, softening the hard edges of the chairs, the side tables, the mahogany bar.
Along the left corridor, a row of private rooms stood in silent order, each marked only by a small, illuminated brass number.
Across from them, an elevated mezzanine balcony overlooked the central chamber through one-way glass.
The lighting there was brighter, revealing clean steel rings, coiled lengths of rope, padded benches, and an array of equipment arranged across the wall.
Gael stepped toward the railing, his movements quiet and assured.
Below, an experienced Dom worked with a long, unbleached hemp rope, his hands moving with steady confidence as he looped it around his partner’s forearms. The submissive stood perfectly still, breath even, posture yielding.
It was the kind of scene that usually settled something in Gael’s mind, a visual anchor for his mind.
It didn’t tonight.
Samuel Ruiz had barely looked in his direction since the incident in the office kitchen.
The boy had been visibly shaken, caught in the grip of a private memory, and the instinct to create distance afterward had been obvious.
What unsettled Gael wasn't the avoidance itself.
It was the fact that he cared about it.
Samuel was a virtual stranger. A junior associate with a sharp mind and a self-destructive tendency to overwork. Someone who should have been a name on a roster, a variable to be managed. Nothing about him, on paper or in practice, warranted this level of personal attention.
And yet the tense afternoon kept replaying itself: the tremor in Samuel’s hands as they clutched the mug, the way he’d folded inward under George's aggression, and most damningly, the moment his entire body had responded to the touch at the back of his neck; a full-system shutdown, as if a switch had been thrown.
Gael’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He had learned why mixing business with anything resembling personal pleasure was a catastrophic mistake. A line crossed once was too easy to cross a second time.
He rested his hand on the cool steel of the railing and forced his gaze to follow the scene below.
The ropework was clean, the silence between the pair steady, but his own concentration drifted.
The club’s lighting, the music, the familiar scent; none of its usual anchors shifted the low irritation that had taken root in his chest.
Not with Samuel. With himself.
Interest, of any kind beyond the professional, was a liability. Attachment, however minor, was danger. That a single, shaken breath could follow him here, into his most private sanctuary, was unacceptable.
Gael exhaled a slow, controlled breath, his eyes fixed blankly on the pair below.
He turned away from the mezzanine rail, making his way down the polished stone steps into the main lounge.
The space opened around him in gradients of shadow and amber light, the rise and fall of a cello concerto blending with the low murmur of conversation.
A cluster of familiar figures waited at the Owner’s table; a semicircle of dark wood under a pool of low, golden light.
Landen noticed him first.
“Well, look at that,” his friend drawled, his body stretched comfortably across his chair. “He’s actually alive, gentlemen. We can call off the search party.”
A quiet ripple of amusement passed through the table before Gael reached his seat.
Adrian didn’t turn his head, just gave one crisp, military nod, his posture rigid. “Evening.”
Sebastian was halfway through a stack of reports. He flicked his gaze up, his eyes cool and sharp. “You’re late. Uncharacteristically so.”
Across from them, Jaden rested his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced, his expression unnervingly still. “Gael only shows up here on week day when he’s genuinely irritated. So something must have happened.”
Gael sat in the empty chair at the head of the semicircle, giving them nothing.
Landen leaned back with a slow, foxlike smile. “Work? Or is it one of your underpaid associates being particularly idiotic this week?”
Gael didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Adrian took a measured sip of his drink; single malt, neat. “He’s not here to talk about quarterly figures.”
Sebastian set down his stack of papers, aligning the edges. “He’s here because his head won’t shut up long enough for him to do anything useful at home. The club is his reset button. Currently malfunctioning.”
Gael shot him a flat, warning look. “I’m here because I needed some fresh air.”
Jaden raised a single, skeptical brow. “You came to a BDSM club for air?”
“It’s better than the recycled office ventilation,” Gael muttered.
Landen laughed, a soft, knowing sound. “That’s dire. Even for you.”
Gael’s eyes drifted back toward the main floor, trying for a second time to let the sight center him. A young submissive knelt silently beside a leather-padded bench, head bowed. Their posture was off; too much weight on one knee, the opposite shoulder collapsed.
Something in Gael’s jaw clicked. A flicker of tension.
Landen caught it. “That bad?”
“Sloppy form,” Gael stated, his voice devoid of inflection.
Jaden followed his gaze. “He’s new, Gael. Tonight is his third training session.”
“That shouldn’t matter,” Gael replied, the edge in his tone unmistakable. “Fundamentals are non-negotiable. If you can’t hold a basic kneeling position, you have no business being on the floor.”
Adrian lowered his glass with a soft clink. “Not everyone learns at the same speed. Some require patience.”
Sebastian hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. “But Gael doesn’t do patience. He operates on immediate correction. It’s his methodology.”
Landen’s smirk widened. “And teaches that way, too. Brutally efficient.”
Another minute shift from the submissive below, a wobble, a sag of the spine, and Gael felt a fresh thread of tension pull taut through his own shoulders.
He stood up abruptly, the movement fluid but charged.
Landen blinked, his amused expression faltering. “Where are you going? You arrived.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Gael said sharply.
“Not in the mood for the club?” Sebastian asked.
“Not in the mood for any of this,” Gael clarified, his gesture encompassing the table, the lounge, the environment.
Adrian studied him for a long, silent beat. “You’re unsettled. Actually unsettled. That’s rare.”
Gael said nothing.
Jaden’s voice cut through, quieter now. “Who is he?”
Gael didn’t react. But the prolonged, heavy silence that followed answered the question.
He stepped back from the table, the carpet swallowing the sound of his retreat. The ambient music swelled, ropes creaked faintly, laughter drifted from the bar.
None of the familiar inputs cut through the static now filling his head.
This place had always functioned as his calibration chamber. It had always reset something essential.
Tonight, it didn’t.
And the reason, infuriating, simple, and undeniable, had a name.
Samuel Ruiz.