Instead he says, "Maybe the problem isn't that no one can handle you. Maybe the problem is you've been letting the wrong people try."
My heart does something stupid.
"That's a very romantic thing to say for a fake relationship."
"It's an honest thing to say." He stands, and the spell fractures. "We should try to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be complicated whether we make it to the rehearsal dinner or not."
"Wait." The word escapes before I can think better of it. "You said earlier you have particular tastes. Specific needs." I watch his expression carefully. "What did you mean?"
Callum goes still in a way that's almost predatory. Like a wolf who just caught a scent.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I agreed to spend a weekend pretending to be your girlfriend without asking enough questions." I stand too, refusing to let him tower over me from that height. "And because I'm curious."
"Curiosity can be dangerous."
"So can agreeing to fake relationships with mountain men you met in bars. And yet here I am."
He's quiet, weighing something. Then he moves toward the hallway that leads deeper into the house, away from the stairs to the guest room.
"Come with me."
Every true crime documentary I've ever watched screams at me to stay put. But I follow him anyway, because apparently my survival instincts have completely short circuited.
The hallway ends at a heavy wooden door. Callum pulls a key from his pocket, and I hear the solid click of a lock disengaging.
"This isn't something I show people," he says without turning around. "But you asked, and I promised you honesty."
He opens the door and flips a switch.
The room beyond is... not what I expected. Not a murder dungeon or a creepy shrine or any of the dark scenarios my imagination conjured.
It's beautiful.
Warm lighting illuminates rich burgundy walls and polished hardwood floors. A massive four poster bed dominates one corner, but it's not a normal bed. There are attachment points built into the frame. Metal rings that glint in the soft light.
Against one wall, a tall wooden cabinet stands open, revealing an organized collection of items that make my breath catch. Leather restraints. Silk ropes in various colors. Things I recognize from late night internet searches I've never admitted to anyone.
A padded bench sits near the center of the room, its purpose unmistakable. And mounted on the far wall, a St. Andrew's Cross made of dark stained wood with leather cuffs at each point.
"This is what I meant by particular tastes." Callum's voice is low, controlled. "I'm a dominant. Have been for fifteen years. It's not a phase or a kink I indulge occasionally. It's part of who I am."
I can't speak. Can't do anything but stare at the room and try to process what I'm seeing.
"The arrangement between us doesn't have to include any of this," he continues. "We can attend the wedding, play our parts, and never discuss this room again. But you asked for honesty, and I won't hide something this significant."
I finally find my voice. "Your ex-fiancée. Did she know about this?"
"She knew. She tried to participate because she thought it would make me happy. But she didn't understand it." He pauses. "She didn't want to understand it. She saw it as something to be tolerated, not something to be shared."
"And that's why it ended?"
"That's part of why it ended. You can't build a life with someone who sees a fundamental part of you as a problem to be managed."
I walk further into the room without consciously deciding to move. My fingers trail across the edge of the padded bench, smooth leather cool under my touch.
"I've never done anything like this." The admission comes out quiet. "But I've thought about it. Read about it. Wondered what it would be like."
