"Will?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not treating me like I'm fragile. For telling me the truth even when it would have been easier to give me comfortable lies."
"You're not fragile, Gemma. Bruised, maybe. But not fragile."
Her expression shifts—loss or relief, maybe both—before she smooths it away. Then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her, and I'm left standing in the quiet office with the weight of everything we've said pressing down on my shoulders.
Tomorrow night. I'm going to walk her through The Forge, show her the ropes and the restraints and the private rooms where people come to shed the skins they wear in public. I'm going to stand beside her while she takes it all in, watch her face as she processes what she's seeing, answer whatever questions she has with the same honesty I've given her tonight.
And through all of it, I'm going to have to pretend that I don't want her there for myself. That I'm not already imagining what she'd look like in that space, how her breath would catch the first time she saw the suspension rig, whether her pulse would jump when she touched the leather of a well-worn flogger. I'm going to have to keep my hands at my sides and my tone steady and my mind firmly in the territory of education, not desire.
The chair creaks when I sink back into it. My hands are steady when I reach for the invoices I abandoned earlier, but my mind is elsewhere. Somewhere between the way she looked at me when I described what a Dom is and the way my chest ached when she asked about Sarah.
Gemma Holloway is Cole's sister. She's been abused in ways I'm only beginning to understand. She's still figuring out which pieces of herself are real and which ones Craig built.
She's also the first woman since Sarah got sick who's made me feel anything beyond the dull ache of absence.
I've shown The Forge to newcomers before. Explained the equipment, the protocols, the rules. Never once wondered what it would feel like to have them kneeling at my feet.
Cole is going to kill me.
8
GEMMA
The Forge doesn't look like I expected.
I'm not sure what I expected. Dungeons and chains, maybe. Dark stone walls and flickering torches. The kind of place that announces what it is, that makes no apologies for existing.
This isn't that. This is something else entirely.
Will holds the door open, letting me step through first. The hallway beyond is dim but not dark, lit by recessed fixtures that cast warm pools of light along the floor. The walls are a deep charcoal gray, and the carpet beneath my feet is thick enough to swallow the sound of my footsteps. It feels almost elegant. Like a very specific kind of honesty lives here.
"Main floor is through here." Will's voice is low, pitched for the quiet. He moves past me to lead the way, and I'm aware of every inch of distance between us. The careful space he maintains. The way he doesn't touch me, not even accidentally.
The main room opens up beyond another door, and I stop in the doorway to take it in.
It's larger than I expected. The ceiling is high, crossed by exposed beams that give the space an industrial edge, softened by the rich oxblood of the walls and the gleam of polishedwood floors. Seating areas cluster around the perimeter, leather couches and armchairs arranged for conversation or observation. The center of the room is more open, with equipment I recognize from my late-night research sessions and some I don't.
A St. Andrew's cross mounted on one wall, the wood dark and smooth with age. A padded bench with restraint points at strategic intervals. A structure that looks almost like a massage table but clearly isn't, with attachment points along the sides and an adjustable headrest. Hooks and rings set into the ceiling beams at various heights, some with chains already attached, others empty and waiting.
Everything is clean, well-maintained, obviously cared for. The leather on the bench gleams with recent conditioning. The metal fixtures shine without a spot of rust. This isn't a space that was thrown together or hidden in shame. Someone put thought into every detail, from the placement of the furniture to the quality of the hardware.
"It's beautiful." The words come out before I can stop them, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "That sounds strange, doesn't it? Calling this beautiful."
"Not strange." Will moves into the room, his posture relaxed but watchful. "A lot of people have that reaction. The ones who've only seen this world in movies expect something seedy. Underground. What they find instead is craftsmanship."
"You built this?"
"We built it. The Brotherhood. Took a while to get it right." He runs his hand along the back of one of the leather couches, a gesture that seems almost unconscious. "We wanted a space that felt safe. Where people could explore without worrying about judgment or discovery. That meant making it somewhere they'd actually want to be."
I drift further into the room, drawn toward the cross on the wall. Up close, I can see the grain of the wood, the careful sanding that's left every surface smooth to the touch. The restraints are leather, supple and well-oiled, with buckles that look like they'd release with a single motion. I trace my finger along one of the cuffs, feeling the softness of the leather, the solid weight of the hardware.
"Everything is designed for safety," Will says, coming to stand beside me. Not too close. Never too close. "Quick-release mechanisms on all the restraints. Padding where it matters. We inspect the equipment weekly, replace anything that shows wear."
"Craig had a setup in our spare bedroom." I don't know why I'm telling him this. The words just come. "It looked impressive, but half of it was cheap. The cuffs chafed. The hooks weren't properly anchored. Once a restraint gave way in the middle of a scene and I fell. Bruised my shoulder badly. He was annoyed that we had to stop."
