Chapter 29
Samuel
Samuel ran.
His legs pumped without thought, carrying him away from the café, away from the sunlight and the smell of coffee and the surprised look on Jacob’s face. He didn’t know where he was going. He just had to move.
The neat, tree-lined streets of the Upper East Side blurred past him.
He cut across avenues, his breath sawing in his throat, his shoes slapping hard against the pavement.
He didn’t feel the stitch in his side. He didn’t feel the sweat cooling on his neck.
He only felt the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart, a painful drumbeat against his ribs that seemed to scream run, run, run.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to buckle. He stumbled to a stop on a quiet, shaded side street, bracing his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. His vision swam. The world tilted. He looked up, blinking the sweat from his eyes.
He was standing before a church.
It was a small, old stone building, nestled between two modern brownstones.
He didn’t know it. He made a point of not knowing any churches in the city.
He avoided them, the way some people avoid the scene of an accident.
He only entered one under duress, when his mother’s pleas became impossible to ignore and he couldn’t fabricate a work emergency convincing enough to bypass her quiet, disappointed tears.
He stood there, his chest heaving, staring at the arched wooden doors. The stained-glass window above them depicted a lamb, pale and serene. His eyes, blurred with exhaustion and unshed tears, couldn’t make out the details.
Is this a sign?
The thought was pathetic, a reflex from a childhood. He didn’t believe in signs. But his feet were moving anyway, carrying him up the three shallow stone steps. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
The air was cool and still, smelling of old wood, wax, and a faint trace of incense. It was empty. Quiet. A few candles flickered in red glass jars at a side altar.
Samuel walked slowly down the center aisle, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor.
The rows of dark wooden pews stretched out on either side.
He chose one near the middle and slid in.
He leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the back of the pew in front of him and pressed his forehead against his wrists.
It was the posture of prayer, a shape his body remembered from a thousand childhood Sundays, from desperate, silent pleas in the chapel at The Hills.
He didn’t pray. He just sat, trying to catch his breath.
And then, as the adrenaline began to seep away, leaving him hollow and shaking, the memories came.
The last few months played behind his closed eyes, not in order, but in vivid, emotional flashes.
The first day at Voss & Wise, his hands trembling as he adjusted his tie in the elevator mirror. Gael’s eyes, cold and assessing, freezing him in place. The mugging, the shock of the pavement, and then Gael’s silhouette against the headlights.
The first time in Gael’s apartment, the tour, the terrible, exposing questions. The feel of the cushion under his knees. The kiss against the kitchen wall, the world dissolving into heat and shame and impossible pleasure. The soft praise in his ear. Good boy.
The Crimson Knot. The flogger rising and falling, and the peace on the submissive’s face. Gael’s low voice explaining trust, explaining surrender as a gift.
Waking up sore and marked. The quiet hug in the kitchen that had disarmed him more than any command. The easy conversation over brunch, Gael’s hand warm over his.
And then Jacob’s voice. The look on his face. The yank of his own hand. The run.
A choked sound escaped him, a sob he hadn’t meant to let out. It was followed by another. He pressed his face harder into his arms, but it was no use. The tears came, hot and silent at first, then wrenching, shoulder-shaking heaves that he muffled against the sleeve of his shirt.
He wept for the scared boy on the bus to The Hills.
He wept for the lonely man in the sterile apartment.
He wept for the fragile, impossible happiness of the morning, now lying in pieces on a café floor.
He wept because he was so tired of being afraid.
He wept because, for a little while, with Gael, he hadn’t been.
He was so far inside the storm that he didn’t feel the presence beside him. He didn’t hear the soft footsteps.
The first thing he registered was a warm, solid pressure on his back. A hand. Gentle, but firm.
He startled, his head jerking up. His vision, blurred with tears, swam for a second before focusing on the face beside him.
Jacob.
Fresh tears welled up, spilling over immediately. A new wave of anguish, this one mixed with a profound, gut-deep shame.
“How..?” Samuel croaked, the word thick and wet. He couldn’t finish.
Jacob’s hand moved from his back, coming to rest between his shoulder blades, then beginning slow, soothing circles.
“I followed you,” Jacob said, his voice quiet in the hollow space of the church.
“Damn, you are a fast runner. Who would’ve thought?
” He offered a small, tentative smile, but it faded as he took in Samuel’s ravaged face, the tremble in his shoulders.
“I’m… I’m so…” Samuel began, the old apology rising automatically.
Jacob cut him off, his voice low but fierce. “Don’t. Do not even think about it. You have nothing... you hear me? Nothing to fucking apologize for.”
Samuel blinked, a fresh tear tracking through the dust on his cheek. A frown creased his brow, an absurd flicker of propriety surfacing through the pain. “Don’t curse here.”
Jacob let out a soft, choked snort of laughter. He didn’t move his hand. Instead, he leaned his head sideways, resting his temple against Samuel’s shoulder. They stayed like that, the only sound Samuel’s slowing, hitching breaths and the distant hum of the city beyond the stone walls.
The silence stretched. The comforting weight of Jacob’s head on his shoulder was an anchor Samuel hadn’t known he needed.
“Are you really not mad?” Samuel whispered eventually, the question sounding fragile in the quiet.
Jacob lifted his head. He looked at Samuel, his eyes soft, his expression stripped of any judgment or disappointment. “No, Sam,” he said, his voice clear and certain. “No, I am not mad.”
Samuel nodded, a jerky motion. His bottom lip trembled violently, and a new spill of tears escaped, silent this time. He tried to look away, but Jacob’s gaze held him.
“You deserve to be happy, Sam.” Jacob’s voice was earnest now, edged with a quiet anger that wasn’t directed at him.
“You deserve to be you. I hate what they did to you. I hate how they hurt you, tried to change you. There was never anything wrong with you. You are perfect exactly as you are. You hear me?”
He reached up then, cupping Samuel’s face in his hands. His palms were warm. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Samuel’s.
He nodded again, unable to speak. Then he moved, leaning into Jacob, pressing his damp face into the familiar, solid curve of his brother’s neck.
He cried again, but these tears were different.
Jacob’s arms came around him, holding him tight, a steady, unwavering presence. He didn’t shush him. He just held on.
After a long time, the tears subsided into occasional shudders. Samuel’s breathing evened out. He kept his face buried, breathing in the familiar scent of his brother’s laundry soap.
“I love you,” Samuel whispered, the words muffled against Jacob’s collar, shaky but true.
Jacob’s arms tightened for a second. “I love you too, big bro.”
Samuel finally pulled back, putting a little space between them but not moving far. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, feeling a hot rush of embarrassment now that the emotional torrent had passed. He must look a wreck.
Jacob watched him, letting him compose himself. After a moment, a familiar, mischievous smirk touched his lips.
“So…” he began, drawing the word out. “That guy from the café… is he your boyfriend or something?” He leaned in slightly, his eyes glinting. “Because he’s fineeee.”
Samuel groaned, dropping his face into his hands. A laugh, watery and surprised, escaped him. “Oh dear God!”
The sound of his own laughter, in the quiet church, felt like a miracle.
∞∞∞
Samuel’s living room was quiet. The only light came from a single floor lamp, casting long, lonely shadows. He was curled on the sofa, wrapped tightly in a thick wool blanket, though he didn’t feel the cold. He felt numb.
His phone lay on the coffee table, face up. The screen was a blur of notifications. Dozens of missed calls. A string of text messages, their previews glowing against the dark wood. All from the same contact. G.
He stared at it, his thumb hovering over the screen. He should call. He should say something, explain, apologize for the spectacle, for running out, for leaving him there with the bill and his bewildered brother. But shame was a thick paste in his throat, silencing him.
Every time he imagined dialing, he saw Gael’s face in the café as Samuel fled. He saw the man from the club, the one who commanded rooms and built sanctuaries, sitting alone at a table for two, abandoned by a terrified man who couldn’t handle his brother seeing them hold hands.
He must think I’m a child. A pathetic, scared kid. He deserves someone who doesn’t panic at a bit of sunlight. Someone who doesn’t run from a problem.
The thought was a physical ache. He had been given something precious and fragile, and he had shattered it in public, in the most humiliating way possible. Gael was probably already regretting the whole mess, wondering why he’d ever bothered.