Breakfast with Nate and Steph goes much as I expected—with a generous amount of gasping, cussing, squeals of approval, and heckling. Nate follows me home after and guides me through the contract line by line, offering insights from his years of experience with different Doms and Dommes.

Not counting the obscenely-long checklist of limits, the bulk of the contract is concise—less than two pages of text with our names in Charlie’s writing peppered throughout. The more times I read it, the more beautiful the verbiage becomes, the more it resonates in my mind. The essence of it is a simple vow. One of trust and mutual respect between two people. Between Dominic Cross and me.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

Nate, curled up under a blanket on my bed, gives me a sleepy smile as he watches me pace. “You need to get some rest, London. Come cuddle me.”

I give him a surprised glance. “I shouldn’t. Right?”

“Pfft. Cross won’t care. He doesn’t want you flirting with other Doms.” He pauses and sighs. “No, you’re right. You should ask him how he feels about it, though. I like cuddling with you. And God knows nothing else would ever happen.”

I roll my eyes. About a month ago, after a rowdy night and way too many drinks, Nate and I shared an awkward kiss. We laughed after—mostly in relief—at the utter lack of spark. A happy side-effect of the failed experiment is now Nate occasionally stays over after work, and I don’t have nightmares when he’s here. Something about a warm, safe body next to me at night keeps my demons at bay.

I wonder if I’ll ever sleep next to Cross, and whether or not I’ll dream.

I come to a stop at the foot of the bed and shake Nate’s foot until he opens his eyes.

“What?” he groans. “Just put pillows between us if you’re worried. It’s too bright in the living room for me to sleep on the couch.”

“There’s one thing still bothering me.”

“Is this about the piss-play? I’m telling you—”

“No, no. I can’t stop thinking about what Steph said once, about Cross wanting only the 24/7 types. What if he wants that? I can’t do that, all the house-slave type stuff, being told when to eat, to shower. I need space, my own time, freedom to—”

“Whoa there!” Nate fumbles from beneath the blanket and comes to the edge of the bed, taking me by the shoulders in a firm grip. His gaze is clear of sleep and direct. “Listen. The biggest pillar we uphold is consensual. It says right in the contract that either of you can terminate the relationship at any time.”

“Right,” I confirm, nodding quickly. “You’re right. Okay.”

“London,” says Nate gravely, “Cross is super smart and perceptive, but you also can’t expect him to read your mind. You need to be honest with him about how you’re feeling. As you get to know each other, he’ll be able to anticipate your needs better and whether or not they align with his. Maybe one of you will come to realize the relationship isn’t working. It happens all the time.”

My breathing is shallow and choppy; I pull at the collar of my T-shirt, feeling confined. “You keep saying relationship, and it’s freaking me out.” I laugh shrilly. “Shit, shit. Oh God, I can’t do this.”

Nate pulls me onto the bed, wrapping an arm securely around my shoulders. “Slow down, sugarplum. That’s it, deep breaths. Now tell me what you’re so afraid of. Are you second-guessing submitting to pain? Pleasure? Or is it the emotional exposure?”

Calm and numb now, I answer, “A bit of the second one, but mostly the last.”

Staring at the bare wall opposite the bed, I see another room, another wall, this one a rich navy-blue color. I remember the day Paul and I painted it, about three months after we moved in. How we measured and bickered and laughed over which photographs to hang and where. And after, the sight that greeted us every morning for years—a collage of love and happiness. Our wedding day. Felix on the grass with his tongue hanging out. Our families, our friends… our life.

That blue wall is gone now. Maybe it’s a different color, or maybe hanging on it are someone else’s framed memories. The tokens from my past life—as far as I know—are still sitting in boxes in my parents’ garage. All those messy, beautiful years ended with a car bomb. One click. One second. Everything gone.

I drag myself from the memory and look at Nate, at his concerned face and red-rimmed eyes. We both need sleep badly, the lack no doubt contributing to my anxiety. But either way, I can’t ignore the fear gripping my body and mind. Unlike the threat of consensual, physical pain, this fear doesn’t excite me.

Deep down, in the darkest corner of my heart, the shadow of the woman I used to be lifts her head. Listening. Waiting. She senses my fear; it ignites something in her. Dread, or possibly hope.

Can I keep her hidden from Cross? What if I can’t?

Nate strokes my hair, tucking strands behind my ear. “I get it. You’re afraid he’ll see you. The real you. The you that you keep on lockdown all the time, even from me.”

The words are without judgement, but I jerk just the same. “Nate, I—”

“Don’t,” he says gently. “Trust me, London, I understand. I’ve been exactly where you are. But I won’t lie to you—whatever happened to you, whatever you went through, it’s going to come out in a scene whether you want it to or not.” He pauses. “Do you believe things happen for a reason?”

“No,” I say harshly.

His lips quirk. “I do. I think there’s a reason you and Cross are in the same place at the same time. Why you’ve had a thing for him since day one.”

I don’t even deny it. “And what’s the reason?”

He shrugs, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. “Time will tell. Be the brave, badass bitch I know you are. Maybe it’s time to set the old you free.”