Chapter 20 Closer
Closer
The miles bled together like watercolors in rain.
Connecticut to Massachusetts, highway lights creating halos in the November drizzle. Nathan drove while I catalogued every exit, every mile marker, every minute that brought us closer to Boston. To Gabriel. To an ending I couldn't quite imagine.
Three hours in, my hands started shaking.
"Pull over," I said.
Nathan glanced at me but didn't argue. He took the next exit, finding a gas station that squatted against the darkness like a neon infection. I was out of the car before he'd fully stopped, stumbling toward the bathroom on legs that felt disconnected from my body.
The fluorescent lights were too bright. The mirror showed a stranger—hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, dried blood under my fingernails I'd missed. When had I gotten so thin? So feral? The past weeks of hunting had carved away everything unnecessary, leaving only purpose and rage.
I splashed cold water on my face, trying to quiet the thing crawling up my spine. Not fear—I'd moved beyond fear weeks ago. This was something else. Something trained into me so deeply that proximity alone could trigger it.
Anticipation.
My body was preparing for him. For Gabriel. Some sick part of my conditioning recognized that we were hunting the master and was getting ready to perform. To be good. To earn approval.
"No." The word came out harsh, directed at my reflection. "Not anymore. Never again."
But my body didn't believe me. My pulse raced with something that wasn't quite fear, wasn't quite excitement. The careful programming responding to stimuli I couldn't control.
When I emerged, Nathan was leaning against the car, watching the door. He took one look at my face and held out his hand.
"Keys," he said.
I blinked. "You're already driving."
"Motel keys. We're stopping for the night."
"We're only an hour from—"
"I know where we are." His voice was steady, but I caught the edge underneath. "And I know what's happening to you. We're stopping."
I wanted to argue, but another tremor ran through my hands. He was right. I was compromised. The closer we got to Gabriel, the more my body remembered its training. An hour might as well be three minutes—I'd be useless like this.
We found a motel twenty minutes off the highway. The kind of place that dealt in cash and didn't ask questions about bloodstains or screaming. Nathan got us a room while I sat in the car, focusing on breathing exercises that used to help before everything went to shit.
In. Hold. Out. Count to four.
But counting made me think of Gabriel's lessons. Everything makes you think of Gabriel's lessons, a voice whispered. Because everything you are came from him.
"Stop," I said aloud, then realized I was talking to myself in an empty car. Another bad sign. The spiral was starting earlier than usual.
The room was exactly what I'd expected—water-stained ceiling, carpet that had seen better decades, a bed that probably glowed under blacklight. Nathan locked the door behind us and set his bag on the dresser, movements deliberate and calm.
"Shower," he said. "Hot as you can stand it."
"I showered this morning—"
"That was before the shaking started." He turned to face me, and I saw the concern he usually kept hidden. "Before your body started remembering."
Remembering. Such a clean word for what was happening. My nervous system preparing for its creator. Every trained response warming up, ready to perform. Ready to be Daddy's good girl again.
I made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
Nathan held my hair back, not saying anything as I emptied the nothing in my stomach. When I was done, he ran the shower and helped me out of clothes that suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else.
"I can do it," I protested when he started to guide me under the water.
"I know you can." But he stayed anyway, sitting on the closed toilet lid while I stood under spray that burned away some of the crawling sensation.
"It's worse this time," I said, watching pink water swirl down the drain. Always pink these days. Always someone's blood being washed away. "The closer we get, the more my body responds. Like it knows."
"Trauma response," Nathan said. "Your nervous system recognizing the threat."
"Is that what you think it is? Fear?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "No. I think it's worse than fear."
I turned off the water and accepted the towel he handed me. "Then what?"
"Programming. The kind that goes deeper than thought. Your body preparing for someone who knew exactly how to use it."
The words hit like physical blows because they were true. Gabriel hadn't just trained my mind—he'd rewired my entire nervous system. Created responses that bypassed conscious thought. And now, hunting him, those responses were firing without input.
"I need..." I stopped, unable to finish. Need what? To not feel this. To be someone else. To burn out every synapse he'd ever touched.
"What do you need?" Nathan's voice was careful. Professional. But underneath, I heard something else. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
"I need it to stop." The words came out broken. "Just for a little while. I need my body to remember it's mine."
Something shifted in his expression. He stood, moving closer but not touching. "How?"
The laugh that escaped me was bitter. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be falling apart in a shit motel bathroom."
"Bunny." He waited until I met his eyes. "What do you need?"
I thought about lying. About pretending I was fine, that I could handle this. But we were past pretending now. Had been since the first warehouse, the first confession, the first time he'd watched me break apart and stayed anyway.
"Take it away," I whispered. "The control. The choices. Everything. Just... take it away for a while."
His jaw tightened. "You sure?"
"No." I pulled the towel tighter around myself. "But I need to not be in charge of this body right now. Need to remember it can follow other orders. Better orders."
We stood there in the harsh bathroom light, two damaged people trying to navigate trauma with more trauma. It was fucked up. We were fucked up. But fucked up was all we had.
"Okay," Nathan said finally. "Get on the bed."
The tone was different. Not the careful distance he usually maintained, but something with edges. With authority. My body responded before my mind could process, moving toward the bed on autopilot.
"Wait." He moved to his bag, pulling out items with efficient movements. Handcuffs—not the fuzzy kind from sex shops but real ones, police-grade steel. "Still sure?"
I held out my wrists in answer.
The metal was cold against my skin, familiar in ways that should have been triggering but weren't. Because this was different. This was choice. My choice to give up choice, which Gabriel had never allowed.
Nathan secured them to the headboard, checking the fit. Professional. Careful. "Color system?"
"Yeah."
"Where are you now?"
I tested the restraints, felt the limitation of movement. My body was already responding—but differently than before. This wasn't the helpless arousal of Gabriel's training. This was something else. Something that felt like relief.
"Green," I said.
"Good." He stepped back, studying me. Taking his time. Making me wait. "You said you need to remember your body can follow other orders. So let's see how well you can follow mine."
My breath caught. This was dangerous territory—using my conditioning against itself. But maybe that was what I needed. To overwrite the old programming with something new.
"Yes," I managed.
"Yes, what?"
I almost said it. Almost called him Daddy, the word trained so deep it came without thought. But I caught myself, searching for something else. Something that was ours, not Gabriel's.
"Yes, sir."
"Better." He moved closer, still not touching. "Here's how this works. You follow orders. You be good for me. And if you're very good, I'll make you forget all about him. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Then let's start simple." His fingers ghosted over my stomach, barely touching. "No moving unless I say. No sounds unless I allow them. Can you do that?"
I nodded, then caught myself. "Yes, sir."
"Quick learner."
His hand pressed flat against my stomach, warm and steady. Not moving, just... present. Grounding. I focused on the point of contact, using it to anchor myself in the present. This room. This moment. This person who wasn't Gabriel.
"Breathe," he ordered, and I realized I'd been holding my breath. "In for four, hold for four, out for four."
The counting was different when he did it. Not Gabriel's precise measurements but something more human. More real. I breathed with his count, feeling some of the tension ease.
"Good," he murmured, and the word hit different than I'd expected. Not the saccharine praise of my conditioning but something earned. Something real. "Now, tell me where you are."
"Shitty motel. Massachusetts. November." I focused on concrete details. "With you. Hunting."
"Why are you hunting?"
"To kill him. To end this."
"And why are you here, in this bed, with me?"
The question cut deeper than I'd expected. "Because I trust you."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
His hand moved, sliding up to rest over my heart. Could he feel how fast it was beating? How hard my body was working to process sensation without panic?
"I'm going to touch you," he said. "And you're going to let me. You're going to be good and still and take what I give you. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And if you need to stop?"
"Red."
"Good girl."
The words should have been triggering. Should have sent me spiraling back to collars and pink rooms and Daddy's special pet. But coming from Nathan, in that steady voice, they felt different. Reclaimed, maybe. Or just... his.
His hands mapped my body with clinical precision, noting every scar, every mark, every place that made me tense or relax. Not sexual—not yet—just learning. Cataloguing. Understanding the damage.