“That’s the sound I was hoping for,” he said, brushing a curl out of Chloe’s face.
She looked up at him and whispered, “Thank you, Daddy Easton.”
His breath hitched, just slightly. Then he kissed her forehead and whispered back, “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Chloe wriggled in his lap like she was ready to go, and with a little help, she scampered off only limping slightly but already peeking at the puzzle table where two other Littles were giggling over mismatched animal pieces.
Easton stayed on the floor a beat longer, resting his forearms on his knees.
Jayne placed the kit down and crouched beside him.
“You know,” she asserted. “I think you might be wrong about mixing your personas and how that would work. You just don’t know if you can handle the kind that stays.”
He didn’t respond. He just watched Chloe rejoin the others and ignored the little flutter in his chest.
Chapter Six
Easton shifted on the bench outside Derek’s office. His long legs bent in a ridiculous and awkward angle as he tried to keep still. The wooden slats beneath him were polished smooth but not particularly forgiving. He clasped his hands loosely in his lap, then untangled them to rub the pad of his thumb against the base of his index finger.
He wasn’t sure why Derek wanted to speak with him. The note had been vague. Nothing more than a text message, asking him to swing by after lunch. Still, something about being summoned stirred old instincts. He sat with his spine straightened, jaw clenched, and he automatically smoothed down the front of his shirt as if he were thirteen again, waiting on the narrow bench outside the headmaster’s office at St. Thomas Aquinas Prep. That bench, set between oak-paneled walls that smelled of lemon polish and power, had creaked with every fidget. The air had always been cold there, crisp with judgment. The plaque on the door had read “Discipline is Responsibility Made Visible”.
Now, he sat on a bench that was oddly similar in shape but not in spirit. This corridor was sleek woodgrain, modern lines, no plaque, no portraits of long-dead deans frowning from thewalls. The space was open, sunlit, scented faintly of sage and cedar, not disinfectant and ink.
Easton stared at his hands, aware that his palms were slightly damp. He was a grown man. A surgeon. A Dominant. And yet his body remembered the rules drilled in at St. Thomas Aquinas, unpretentiousness, responsibility, and solidarity and also critical thinking, risk taking and resourcefulness, but only when backed by impeccable posture and perfect restraint.
The muffled sounds of the Ranch moved around him. Distant laughter came from the play yard, and the rustle of someone moving by behind the reception desk. Easton tried to focus on the sounds, but he didn’t succeed.
He was just beginning to contemplate getting up and pacing when Erika appeared from the side hallway. Clipboard in hand, she said, “Dr. Emmerson, you can head in. Master Derek’s ready for you now.”
“Thanks, Erika.” His voice came out lower than he meant, like it had to pass through too much static to reach the air.
She smiled and nudged the heavy door open for him.
Inside, Derek’s office looked much as he remembered: wood-paneled and commanding, more like a study from an old Southern estate than anything found in modern offices. That massive mahogany desk anchored the room with quiet power, and the French doors behind it framed the bright spill of sunlight across the patio. Leather-bound books and thick binders filled the shelves on one wall, and the faint aroma of aged leather mixed with the cleaner citrus polish scent.
Derek stood behind his desk. The owner wasn’t in full Dominant-mode but not exactly relaxed either. “Easton.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Thanks for coming.”
Easton crossed the room with even steps, slow enough to mask the tension coiled in his back. “Of course. Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Derek replied, but he didn’t sit. “This is more… consultative than corrective. Dr. Denten asked if we could all have a word.”
That’s when Easton noticed the therapist already seated near the corner couch, an open notebook on one thigh. Sam gave him a slight nod. “Good to see you again, Easton.”
“You too, Sam.” Easton took the indicated chair and glanced between them. “What’s this about?”
The pause stretched just long enough to be noticeable. Derek folded his arms across his chest with an unreadable expression, while Sam closed the notebook and folded his hands on top of it.
“It’s about Darian Merrick,” Sam broke the silence. “Wilbert’s boy, Danny. Although… right now, I’m not sure he’s ready to wear that name.”
The mention of his friend’s name sent a ripple through Easton’s chest, and he had to swallow. “Is he…?”
“He’s… um, okay.” Sam raked a hand through his hair, letting his palm rest at the back of his neck. “-ish. But he’s struggling. Badly. He initiated therapy himself, which tells me he wants help. But as of today, he’s still holding back. Emotionally locked down. Like he’s afraid to let anyone close.”
Easton exhaled, trying to breathe past the pain of hearing that.
However…
“That’s not surprising.”
