I walked to the window to gather my thoughts. I’d never intended to speak of this again. Never thought there’d be reason to. “As you know, a woman I was involved with died seven years ago.” I rubbed my eyes. “What you don’t know is there was a third person involved. His name is James Mercer.”
Gus’ expression shifted from frustration to sharp attention. “Meaning he was involved with you and the woman?”
“That’s right. They were my submissives for almost two years. I met them at a club in Inverness. Elise approached me first, and James came into the dynamic through her.” I stared at the fire and made myself dredge up memories I’d spent years trying to bury. “James worked in IT, network security specifically. He was good at it.”
The fire crackled. No one spoke.
“At first, everything was contained. We scened at the club and occasionally at Greymarch. But over time, they wanted more. They saw this place, this life, and they wanted to be part of it permanently. They wanted me tomarry Elise and for the three of us to live here together, with the dynamic becoming a fully merged life.”
As hard as it was, I made myself keep going. “Things changed then. James’ submission became unhealthy. His entire identity had wrapped itself around me, around pleasing me, around earning his place here. Elise started pushing for legitimacy—the title, the security, the life of a viscountess. What we had stopped nourishing them and consumed them instead.”
“You ended it.” Rafe’s tone made it clear it wasn’t a question.
“I ended it wrong.” The admission scraped me raw. “I severed the relationship the same way I handle every threat—completely and abruptly, with no transition and no aftercare for the ending itself. I just cut them off.”
Callen’s jaw tightened. He’d heard this before, but hearing it again clearly didn’t make it easier.
“Elise spiraled. It took months, but she found another dom. She started going to the Crucible—a club in London without the kind of safety measures we now maintain at the Thistle. A breath-play scene went wrong.” I met Gus’ eyes, then Rafe’s. “She died.”
“Christ,” Gus muttered.
“James blamed me. He came to Greymarch after the funeral, screaming accusations. I had him removed from the property.” I returned to my desk and took a seat. “I didn’t hear from him again and assumed he’d eventually built a new life.”
“But he didn’t,” Rafe said quietly.
“No.He didn’t.” I stared at the fire. “He was right to blame me. If I’d handled the ending differently…if I’d made sure they had support, that they weren’t isolated…”
“You can’t know that,” Rafe said.
“I know I threw two vulnerable people out of my life without a safety net, and one of them is dead.” My voice caught. “That’s what I know.”
Silence stretched between us.
“That’s why you and Callen started the Thorned Thistle.” Gus spoke slowly as the realization dawned on his face. “The rules. The safety measures. The obsessive attention to aftercare. We opened two years after she died.”
“That’s right.” I met his eyes. “Every rule we enforce exists because she walked into a place that didn’t have them.”
Rafe opened another window on the screen and typed rapidly. “I went through our archived security footageagain and looked more closely at the maintenance visits during the renovation.” He paused. “There.”
I stood and looked over his shoulder. So did Callen. The image was grainy, but clear enough. A man in coveralls, carrying a toolbox, walking through our service corridor. Dark hair. Average height. Face partially obscured by the angle of the camera.
“Can you enhance it?” Callen asked.
Rafe zoomed in. The man had turned slightly, offering a three-quarter profile as he punched in an access code.
My heart stopped.
“I think that could be him,” I said slowly, studying the familiar angle of the jaw and the way he held himself. But it had been so long. The man I’d known had been softer, younger, still finding himself.
Callen put his hand on my shoulder. “Kiernan, that’s James.”
The certainty in his voice cut through my doubt. Callen had met him a handful of times, years ago. But he’d always had an eye for faces—a skill that made him invaluable in the field.
I looked again. The slope of his shoulders. The way he tilted his head. Older, harder, but unmistakably him.
James had walked into my club, worked alongside my staff, learned every vulnerability in our systems—and I’d never known. He’d been patient. Methodical. Plotting this for years.
“Son of a bitch,” I seethed.
