Emilia
“Don’t touch your face.”
I freeze, fingers hovering near my cheek, charcoal smudging the tips. Vincent doesn’t even break stride—just passes the sunroom doorway like he owns the air in every room he enters.
“Why?” I ask, because I always do.
He doesn’t look back. “You’ll mess it up,” he says, already gone.
I glance down at the sketch. It’s nowhere near finished. Too raw for ink. Too exposed for control. My hands move on their own, pulling the image from somewhere deeper than memory.
Cuffed wrists. Knees pressed to cold tile. A parted mouth. A man—him—standing over her, over me, spine curved like a question, gaze cast downward like a silent prayer.
When it’s done, my hands are trembling. My thighs press together without permission. My breath stays caught, shallow and slow, like it belongs to someone else.
Then I get up and go find him.
He’s in the living room, shirtless, sweat glinting across his chest as he knots a fresh cord onto the punching bag. Calm. Focused. Like he hasn’t been living in my head all day.
I hold the drawing out to him, silent.
He doesn’t take it.
Just looks—slow and deliberate, eyes dragging over the page like he’s reading something only he’s allowed to understand. He doesn’t compliment it. Doesn’t ask. Just flips it over and sets it down without a word.
Then: “Kneel.”
Not a suggestion. Not even a command.
I drop instantly, knees scraping against the rug as I settle into position. Back straight. Chin lifted. I feel his gaze land on me like pressure. My heart stutters.
“Crawl.”
I hesitate. Just for a second.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t gesture. He waits.
So I crawl. Each movement is slow. Measured. Humiliating in how much it doesn’t feel like punishment—how much it feels like surrender. Like worship. The carpet burns against my knees, and my skin prickles under the weight of being seen.
When I reach him, he grips my jaw, firm, steady.
“You want to show me your obedience?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“Strip. No words unless I ask for them.”
My breath catches. The robe slips off my shoulders and pools around me. I’m bare beneath it—exposed, flushed, trembling.
Vincent pulls a chair from the corner and sits, legs spread, eyes sharp.
“Hands behind your back. Knees apart. Chin up. Count to sixty. Out loud.”
I do as I’m told.
“One. Two. Three…”
His arms fold across his chest. He watches.
By thirty, my thighs are shaking.
By fifty, I’m panting.
By sixty, I’m burning.
I stay still. My body aches, my lungs fight to calm, but I don’t move.
“Good girl.”
Two words. That’s all. But they tear straight through me. I blink back the sting in my eyes.
“You’re learning,” he says.
He stands and walks around me—slow, deliberate steps that echo louder than they should. He circles me once. Then again.
“You want to float?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then you’ll do everything I say.”
The next hour feels like something sacred. A ritual. He doesn’t touch me where I crave it most. That’s not the point.
He strips me of thought until there’s nothing left but obedience.
And it feels like peace.
The fog creeps in—slow, warm. My mind loosens its grip. Subspace wraps around me like a soft cocoon. I’m empty. Grounded. Floating.
When I falter, his hand catches my elbow.
“Breathe, little one.”
I inhale. Exhale. Follow his rhythm.
I’m not scared anymore. Not angry. Not pretending. I’m just… his.
When my body gives out, he catches me.
He wraps me in a blanket, lifts me easily, and carries me to his bed. He doesn’t tie me. Doesn’t take anything more. Just lays me down like I’m made of glass.
Then he tucks my hair behind my ear and whispers, “You’re safe.”