The list reads like a biography of my marriage. Isolation from friends and family. Dismissing safewords or making you feel guilty for using them. Claiming that "real" submissives don't have limits. Using your desires as leverage. Making you feel like you owe them access to your body because they "accept" your kinks.
The screen blurs, and when I touch my face, my fingers come away wet.
For years, I thought the problem was me. I thought I wanted the wrong things, trusted the wrong instincts, needed something so twisted that I deserved whatever Craig gave me in return. He reinforced that belief every single day, in ways so subtle I didn't recognize them as abuse until I was drowning in it.
But this thread, these strangers on the internet, they're describing exactly what he did. And they're calling it what it is. Abuse—not because of what I wanted, but because of how he exploited it.
The realization seeps in slowly. Part of me wants to reject it, wants to cling to the familiar shame because at least that's something I understand. If the problem was me, then I hadcontrol. I could fix myself, change myself, become someone who didn't want these things.
But if the problem was him, then I was a victim. And being a victim means admitting I couldn't stop it. Couldn't see it. Couldn't save myself until the damage was already done.
I close the laptop and sit in the dark, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
The shame doesn't disappear. It's still there, coiled in my stomach, whispering that I should have known better, should have been stronger, should have left sooner. But there's a new feeling alongside it now. A hairline fracture in the wall I built around those four years. An opening just wide enough to let in a different possibility.
Maybe the things I want aren't the problem. Maybe the problem was the man who made me believe they were.
I don't sleep. By the time the sun starts graying the windows, my eyes are gritty and my mind feels scraped raw. I shower, dress, drink two cups of coffee that do nothing to cut through the fog. Cole notices the circles under my eyes at breakfast but doesn't comment, just slides an extra piece of toast onto my plate and pretends not to watch me pick at it.
The bar feels different when I arrive for my afternoon shift. The familiar space seems sharper somehow, every detail registering with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. The bottles lined up behind the bar. The worn wood of the tables. The leather vests hanging on hooks by the back door, the Iron Brotherhood patches catching the light.
Nash is behind the bar when I come in, setting up for the evening. He gives me an easy smile and a wave, and I return it automatically, but my attention keeps drifting. Searching. Looking for something I'm not ready to name.
Will isn't here yet. I'm both relieved and disappointed.
The back office offers its usual refuge. I settle into the chair at the side table, pull up the spreadsheet I've been working on, and try to focus on numbers that refuse to stay still. My thoughts keep sliding sideways, back to the things I read last night, back to Will's face in the moonlight as he told me about Sarah, back to the way he held himself so carefully apart from me even when every part of me wanted him closer.
He's a good man. I know that now in a way I didn't let myself know before. The question is whether knowing it matters, when I can't trust my own ability to tell the difference between good and dangerous.
Around four o'clock, the back door opens and I hear voices in the hallway. Tate's deep rumble, followed by the scrape of boxes being moved. I save my work and step out to see what's happening.
Tate is directing a delivery driver toward a door at the end of the hall, one I've noticed but never asked about. The boxes being carried are plain brown cardboard, no labels visible, and Tate's body language suggests he'd rather I wasn't watching.
"Need any help?" I offer, mostly to have something to say.
"We've got it." Tate gives me a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Supplies for the back. Nothing exciting."
The driver disappears through the door, and I catch a glimpse of the room beyond before it swings shut. Dim lighting. What looks like equipment of some kind, shapes I can't quite make out. Then the door closes and Tate is standing between me and whatever's on the other side.
"The Forge," I say, and his expression shifts. "That's what this is, isn't it? I've heard people mention it."
"It's a private club." His voice is careful, neutral. "Members only. Separate from the bar."
"What kind of club?"
The question comes out before I can stop it, and Tate's hesitation tells me everything his words don't. He's trying to figure out how much I know, how much I'm guessing, how much he should reveal to the boss's sister who's only been in town a few weeks.
"The kind that values discretion," he says after a pause. "If you want to know more, you should talk to Will."
The front door opens, and Will walks in—timing so perfect it almost seems staged. He's wearing his usual jeans and work boots, leather vest over a dark henley, and his gaze lands on me immediately. Finds me standing outside the door to The Forge, talking to Tate about things I'm not supposed to know.
Understanding passes between us in a single look. He knows what I'm asking about. He knows why I'm asking. And in that moment, standing in the dim hallway with the smell of leather and whiskey in the air, I know that he knows exactly what I spent last night researching.
Heat floods my face. The shame I thought I'd loosened comes roaring back, twice as strong, and suddenly I can't breathe in this hallway with these men and this door and everything it represents.
"Excuse me," I manage, and I'm moving before the words are fully out, pushing past Tate toward the stockroom at the end of the hall. The door closes behind me and I lean against it, pressing my palms flat against the cool wood, trying to slow my racing heart.
The stockroom smells like cardboard and stale beer, the same as it did the night Will talked me through a panic attack in this exact spot. The overhead bulb flickers, casting uneven shadows across the stacked boxes. I focus on breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count to four on the inhale, count to four on the exhale.
