“Then invite her with us,” I said with a shrug, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my mouth.
“Is that something a dominant would allow?” she teased, eyebrows arching.
I chuckled. “I’ll never keep you from seeing the people you care about, Emma. Never. If I ever try to pull some shit like that, you have my full permission to kick me in the balls.”
Her eyes lit with amusement before the laugh burst free, and she buried her face in my chest.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
She sprung from my arms, already reaching for her phone. Her fingers danced over the screen, then paused—one decisive tap sending the message.
Her phone buzzed almost instantly, and the way her whole face lit at the reply made me smile.
“She’s in.” A grin spread across her face. “Wants to meet in a couple of hours.”
“Perfect.” I pushed off the bed with a groan and walked toward the bathroom. I turned the shower on, testing the heat with the back of my hand before glancing over my shoulder.“Now, Ms. Sinclair,” I said, letting my voice drop, “would you like to join me?”
Her answering smile was wicked and slow. She rose from the bed in one graceful motion. “Always.”
***
The shower had failed her expectations.
She’d reached for me—tentative touches, searching, hungry for connection—but with the strength of a thousand warhorses, I’d declined. It would’ve been too much. Too soon.
She was still fragile, her body and mind both raw from the night before. Sex too soon after subdrop could fracture what we’d built, could turn comfort into confusion.
Instead, I’d given her something else.
Intimacy without the edge.
Unhurried kisses. Easy laughter. Words of affirmation whispered against her damp skin as I washed her, taking my time until she smelled like vanilla and sunlight—clean and sweet.
Now she sat tucked into the leather passenger seat of my car, hair loose and wild, body draped in a flowing blood-red dress I’d laid out for her, a playful pout curving her lips.
The hour-long drive passed in easy rhythm. We debated everything—music tastes, movie endings, what counted as the superior road-trip snack. I learned she listened for beats; I listened for lyrics. She claimed bards in medieval times had great words but “shit accompaniment,” and after a ten-minute argument, I surrendered with mock defeat.
By the time we pulled into the gravel lot, her laughter had faded into soft humming, my hand resting on her upper thigh.
The building rose before us—weathered and full of stories. A rusted tin sign arched over the doorway, bold black lettersspelling out Peeksville Vintage Market with a crooked arrow pointing downward. The same rust freckled the building’s frame, ivy clinging to its sides.
Out front, an eclectic sprawl of furniture waited under the bright afternoon sun—chairs that didn’t match, mirrors too ornate for their frames, the ghosts of a hundred homes waiting to be claimed again.
We stepped inside, the scent hitting me first—aged paper and varnish, like an old library buried under time. Every inch of space was occupied: stacks of mismatched furniture, old mirrors, chipped china. Narrow paths wound through the chaos like veins, leading nowhere in particular.
“Emma!” Candace called, darting around a dresser —all bounce and brightness—closing the distance in three quick steps. She was pretty—sculpted, lean, perfectly pleasant. But she lacked the brilliance that clung to Emma like perfume—the quiet gravity that drew every eye without effort.
Emma’s head turned, a smile forming as she waved.
Candace beamed back, wrapping Emma in a hug.
Pleasantries spilled, laughter light and quick—until a man appeared.
My stomach dropped. Disgust clawed its way up my throat.
Garrett.
