“That’s the plan.” I twist the bracelet absently. “And I think… I want to start writing. Not a memoir—the media circus around that would be unbearable. But maybe something that could help other women recognize the warning signs I missed.” I meet his gaze. “What about you?”
He sets down his wine glass, expression thoughtful. “It’s time for me to return to Cerberus. Ryan’s done a great job during my self-imposed exile, but I’m ready for the work again.”
“Based here?” I try to keep my tone neutral, though the thought of him leaving sends a spike of anxiety through me.
“Based wherever I want,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “And as it turns out, we’re headquartered in Seattle.”
Relief floods through me. “So you’re staying.”
“If that’s what you want.” There’s a hesitancy in his voice I rarely hear—a vulnerability that reminds me he carries his own doubts and fears. His biggest fear is that he might hurt me, but since that first time in the cabin, he hasn’t had a single PTSD flare. He says it’s me. I say it’s all the exceptional sex he’s having.
I set my wine aside and move closer, eliminating the space between us. “You’re what I want.” My hand cups his face, feeling the stubble beneath my palm. “These past six months, building a life together—it hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been right.”
His arms encircle me, drawing me against the solid warmth of his chest. “Even the hard parts?”
“Especially those,” I say softly, thinking of our early struggles—the nightmares that used to wake me, the moments when trauma intruded on healing, and the careful negotiation of boundaries and needs.
His hand slides to the nape of my neck, exerting just enough pressure to make my breath catch—that perfect balance of dominance and care that speaks directly to my deepest needs.
“And this part? Still figuring this out too?”
The subtle shift in his tone sends a shiver down my spine. In Montana, our connection had been immediate, intense, almost desperate—two broken people finding unexpected salvation in each other’s arms. Here, in the aftermath, we’ve moved more carefully, rebuilding trust and relearning intimacy without crisis as itscatalyst.
“I think we’re getting pretty good at that part.” I tilt my head to give him better access as his lips find the sensitive spot beneath my ear.
“Good enough that I can try something new tonight?” His chuckle vibrates against my skin.
“What did you have in mind?” Curiosity and heat stir low in my belly.
His fingers thread through my hair, tightening just enough to guide my gaze to his. “Something we’ve talked about but haven’t tried yet. But tonight should be about celebration, about reclaiming something for ourselves. If you want that.”
I search his face, finding only open desire and careful restraint—the hallmarks of the dominant I’ve come to trust implicitly. With Steffan, dominance was a weapon, a tool of control and punishment. With Mason, it’s an exchange, a gift freely given and received.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word carrying all the trust I’ve rebuilt over these months. “Show me.”
His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he reads the desire in my response. “Go to the bedroom.” His voice drops to that commanding tone that makes my knees weak. “Take off your clothes and kneel by the bed. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The instructions thrill me, and anticipation builds as I stand. This is nothing like the fear-based submission Steffan demanded. This is a conscious choice, freely given—the surrender of control to someone who has earned my absolute trust.
In our bedroom, I comply with his instructions, removing my clothes before kneeling beside the bed, back straight, hands resting on my thighs. The position feels natural, right—a physical manifestation of the dynamic we’ve been carefully exploring.
When Mason enters, I feel his presence before I see him—that shift in the air that accompanies his focused attention. Hemoves around me, not touching, just observing with appreciation that feels tangible on my skin.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, finally coming to stand before me. “Look at me, Willow.”
I raise my eyes, finding him changed—still in his jeans but shirtless now, his powerful upper body bearing the scars of his military service. The contrast between his clothed state and my nakedness emphasizes the power dynamic in a way that sends heat flooding through me. The bulge straining beneath his zipper shows his arousal and need.
“Tonight is about reclamation.” He reaches out and tilts my chin. “Taking back what was stolen from you—the joy of submission freely given, the pleasure of surrender on your terms.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “Do you trust me to guide you through that?”
“Yes, Sir.” The honorific comes naturally now, no longer shadowed by past abuse.
Approval warms his expression. “Good girl. Remember your safe word?”
“Snowbound,” I confirm, the word we chose together—a reminder of where we began, a symbol of moving from danger to safety.
“Use it if you need to, without hesitation,” he reminds me, as he always does. “Ready?”
At my nod, he guides me to my feet and toward the bed, arranging me as he likes—on my back, arms stretched above my head. From a drawer in the nightstand, he retrieves soft leather cuffs I haven’t seen before.
