Her eyes clouded as she visually retreated into herself.
Crone cupped her chin with exquisite care. “It’s evident that you’re struggling and need to be pushed past the boundaries you’ve wrapped yourself in. I promise I won’t harm you, but I will push and challenge those restrictions. Only two changes, little one. Instead of a flogger, I’ll use my short-tail whip… and I want you naked.”
She recoiled as far as her bonds allowed. “No! I never go naked.” Raw panic edged her voice.
He gentled his hold, but his gaze held hers, patient and unwavering until her breathing steadied. “Tell me why?”
“I”—her eyes flickered back to his scar—“I have scars.”
Instinct drew his attention to the intricate vine tat adorning her arm and noticed an uneven ridged of scarred tissue beneath the artistry of thorns and roses. His eyes met Derek’s, silently questioning. Derek’s confirming nod hit him hard. This washer… the submissive Derek wanted him to help heal. The connection had formed naturally, without him even realizing her identity. His jaw clenched briefly.Damn bastard,he could’ve warned me when I questioned him about her disconnect with Quincy.
“What’s your name, little one?”
“Sienna Weathers.”
He traced the concealed scar with feather-light touches while holding her gaze. “Scars like these don’t define the person you are within, Sienna. They tell stories of survival and speak of strength, not weakness.” His voice deepened with raw truth. “Each mark carved into our flesh speaks of a battle won, as a testament that we refused to crack. The bastards who inflicted them never understood that. Instead of destroying us, they gave us armor, not shame.” He leaned in to brush his lips against her forehead. She didn’t flinch but leaned into the caress. “Your scars don’t make you less beautiful. They prove you’re unbreakable.”
His words resonated deeper within himself than he’d intended. The scars etched into his flesh had become integral to who he was. Not that he deliberately concealed them, but experience taught him discretion. At clubs, he kept his shirt, vest, or jacket on. During sex, which he always restricted to private rooms, he wore a tank top or stringer vest. The bastards had made sure his chest and stomach bore permanent reminders. The wounds had healed, but the ink and molten silver they’d ground into the raw flesh left a network of discolored marks and silvery streaks. His back, though... that painted the darkest chapter. Cruel strokes had carved crisscross paths from his neck to waist, each new whipping laid over barely-healed wounds, leaving a grotesque painting in its wake. He had learned to spare women that sight since their horror was more painful than the memories themselves.
He forced the shadows back. This moment belonged to her. Perhaps understanding the similar trauma they had suffered might be the key to healing them both.
“Maybe so, but no matter how I’ve tried, I can’t reach that level of strength.” Her voice was lifeless, but Crone caught the subtle tremor in her hands and the way her jaw clenched against remembered pain. Her eyes turned glacial in a stark contrast to the fire that suddenly blazed in them. “I can’t forget…” Her fingers curled into such tight fists that her knuckles turned white with suppressed rage. “And I’ll never forgive.”
The raw hatred in those last words resonated with Crone. He recognized that tone. It was the sound of someone who had survived not just pain, but betrayal.
Derek hadn’t explained how or why she had ended up at Rawhide Ranch and Crone decided not to push for an explanation. Now wasn’t the time. Instead, he asked in a soothing voice, “Do you have more scars?”
Nodding, she once again nibbled her bottom lip.
“I assume they’re not covered by artwork?” His fingers ghosted over the ridge beneath her tattoo.
“No… there are too many of them.”
Crone’s chest tightened at the implication. Derek's matchmaking suddenly made sense.
“So, not naked,” he mused aloud, watching her closely. “But for proper whipping technique and your own safety, I need to see your skin and body’s responses, which I can’t do when covered with leather. Knowing the effect of every lash is the only way I can ease you into the bliss of subspace safely.”
“I don’t want to reach subspace.” Once again panic gripped her.
As he brushed his thumb over her lips, a slight trembling was a quiet confession against his skin. “But you need to, little one, for no other reason than to offer you release, if only briefly.”
“You… you won’t push me for answers while there?”
His eyes darkened. “Never, little one. I have too much integrity to ever do that. You decide when you need me to push you further but tonight, it’ll only be to give you some peace.”
“I… maybe… maybe it won’t be such a bad idea.” Her lip suffered more abuse from her pearly teeth.
“I’m very happy to hear that.” His grip on her chin firmed slightly. “How about this? We push your skirt up over your hips and lose the panties. Would that work for you?”
“I…” Her eyes closed briefly, as if she was digging deep to draw on inner reserves. “I am willing to try, Master Crone.”
“Good girl.”
He caught the surprise crossing her face—a tiny spark of pleasure in her green eyes at his praise. A quiet satisfaction settled deep inside him. Behind those carefully built walls, her submissive nature was still intact… waiting.
The yearning in her eyes was unconscious, and he doubted she even recognized it herself. The little redhead hungered for real connection, to be truly seen.
He knew patience and gentleness would rebuild her broken trust by quietly acknowledging every small brave step she took. She needed a Master who would earn that, one careful moment at a time. He intended to be exactly that, a steady hand guiding her back from the shadows into the light.
