"Trust me," I said. "Let me set the pace. Let me show you how good it can be when we take our time."
Her eyes searched my face. Looking for something—permission, maybe, or proof that this wasn't rejection disguised as patience.
What she found must have satisfied her.
"Okay, Daddy."
Two words. Just two words, spoken soft and certain, and they hit me like a physical blow. The wanting surged through me—fierce, desperate, almost overwhelming. It took everything I had not to flip her onto her back and give us both what we wanted.
But that wasn't the point. The point was showing her that her desires mattered, but so did the structure. The care. The particular love that came from holding back, from building anticipation, from proving that I could control myself even when every instinct screamed for more.
"Good girl," I said.
She shivered. The full-body tremor of someone responding to praise like touch.
"Tomorrow," I continued, "we find your collar. And tomorrow night—"
I let the sentence hang. Let her imagination fill in the blanks.
Her smile was slow and wicked. "Tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night."
I kissed her forehead. Her temple. The corner of her mouth.
Then I stood, lifting her with me, settling her on her feet before the temptation to do more became too strong to resist.
"Bath," I said. "Food. Sleep. In that order."
She laughed—soft and delighted, the sound of someone who'd found exactly where they belonged.
"Yes, Daddy."
And something in my chest that had been tight for years finally, finally loosened.
Chapter 11
Auralia
Theshophadnoname. Just a brass number—seventeen—and a doorbell that looked like it belonged on a private residence rather than a business. The Meatpacking District had gentrified around it, all trendy restaurants and boutique hotels, but this building remained stubbornly anonymous. Grey stone, unmarked door, the kind of place you'd walk past a thousand times without noticing.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
We'd left Ghost with a puzzle feeder and promises to return soon. The drive across the city had been quiet—Maksim's hand resting on my thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles that did nothing to calm me down. Every red light felt endless. Every block closer made the anticipation wind tighter in my chest.
Now we were here. Standing on a sidewalk in Manhattan while people walked past, completely unaware of what waited behind that unmarked door.
Maks pressed the bell.
A pause. Then a soft buzz, and the door clicked open.
His hand found the small of my back—warm through my thin sweater, steady and grounding. The touch said I've got you without words. I leaned into it as he guided me inside.
The interior was nothing like I expected.
I'd imagined something seedy. Dark corners and red lighting, the kind of place that made you feel dirty for being there. Instead, I walked into warmth. Exposed brick walls. Reclaimed wood floors. Soft lighting that felt more gallery than dungeon. Classical music played low enough to be atmosphere rather than intrusion.
Glass display cases lined the walls, their contents arranged with the care of a jewelry store. Leather in rich browns and blacks. Metal that gleamed silver and rose gold. Objects I didn't have names for, curves and textures that made my brain stutter trying to categorize them.
