The memory is a favorite—if it were a timeline-bead, it would be worn, smooth from over-handling. But I don’t care. It’s mine. I can do whatever the hell I want with it, even if it means rolling it around and playing with it until there’s nothing left. Which is doubtful. I’m not sure a blow to the head and amnesia could extract Dominic Cross from my marrow.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Charlie’s office has recently become my refuge. Much to her annoyance. But at least here I don’t have to pretend, smile and laugh with colleagues and clients like nothing’s changed. Like I can’t see him every time he moves through the crowd. Like I don’t miss him.

Not the cross, cuffs, or clamps. Not the wax, rope, whip, or flogger. Just him. His laugh, rare and contagious. His loathing of socks, obsession with Cary Grant movies, and habit of touching me. Always, anywhere, whenever we shared the same space. A hand in my hair. A foot against mine under the table. His fingers grazing mine as we passed in the back hallway of the club.

A handful of nights together and it feels like a thousand. One kiss amidst a lifetime of surrendering to pain and pleasure at his hands. It’s insanity, the hold he has over me. I’ve never even seen his dick, for fuck’s sake.

“I don’t even know what he was, you know?” I mutter at the ceiling. “We weren’t lovers. He wasn’t my boyfriend.”

Charlie looks up from paperwork. “He was your Dom, London. Sometimes that means a whole lot more than those other labels.” She sighs, pulling cat-eye glasses from her nose. “If you don’t give me details, I can’t help you. All this vague, love-sick shit is getting old. Either tell me why he called it quits, or get out of my office. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work, anyway?”

She’s still scary—but not nearly as scary as she was before this whole thing started. Or before two weeks ago, when I cried like a baby in her arms during a break the night after he ended things.

But I can’t tell her the truth, any more than I can tell Dominic the truth. There’s no way through this. No happy ending. He made sure of that two years ago. The visit from the thug on Nate’s birthday only confirmed what I already knew: I will never be free of the past.

Charlie merely frowns when I make excuses—look at the time—and head across the hallway to get dressed for work. For the first time in nearly two months, I pull out my opening night outfit. I haven’t worn it since my first time with Dominic. Since he put his first marks on me. But my body no longer shows any signs of a sadist’s barbed care. I’m exactly the same as I’ve always been.

On the outside, at least.

Another three weeks pass. I return to my pre-Cross routine. Work, eat, sleep, and withstand the nightmares. The only change has been on my days off, when I religiously attend self-defense classes at a gym in my neighborhood. As I get stronger, faster, and more agile, I experience moments of pride. And gratitude. Because of Dominic, I now know exactly what to do if someone assaults me again—and they will. The echo of that stranger’s hands on my throat lingers. He isn’t done with me yet. It wasn’t a message but a warning.

I buy mace. Hide a knife in my nightstand. Consider, then discard, the idea of purchasing a gun. I keep going, living, in the twilight.

Every night I come into work, I dread hearing that Dominic will be publicly participating. Doing an instructional scene in the Epicenter for the delight of the crowd, or worse, taking a sub into one of the playrooms. There are times, too, that what we shared feels like a dream. That nothing ever changed between us—we are barely civil, rarely in the same place at the same time.

On a Saturday night, five weeks after ultimatums and torn contracts, I arrive at work to find Nate waiting for me in the employee lounge. The look on his face—part sympathy, part frustration—tells me everything I need to know.

My heart contracts painfully.

“Charlie wants to see you,” he says softly.

I drop my purse in my locker, avoid the curious stares of others, and follow him from the room. Nate knocks twice before opening Charlie’s office door. She looks up from her desk, nodding at him before focusing her dark gaze on me. Nate slips out, closing the door silently behind him.

After a few moments of appraisal, she sighs. “You look like shit.”

I smile tiredly. “Having a hard time sleeping lately.”

“And when you were serving Cross, did you sleep?”

The question throws me. “What?”

Domme-vibe in full force, she snaps, “Answer the question.”

“Y-yes.”

Charlie nods grimly. “Listen up. You’re not working tonight—not behind the bar, at least. I’m renegotiating your employment contract on your behalf.”

I frown. “I’m lost.”

She stands, rounding the desk with a sharp smile. “I know. In three hours, at midnight, Cross is scheduled to demonstrate proper technique for caning.”

I shudder. Of all his toys, the cane is my least favorite—it delivers a vicious, all-consuming pain that cannot be quelled by pleasure. And yet… the idea of him giving that pain to someone else makes me wild with jealousy.

“Don’t like that idea, do you?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Good.” Her smile spreads. “How would you like to be the sub he canes tonight?”

My brain screeches to a halt, then shifts into overdrive. “What? No! I can’t do that to him, surprise him like that—he’ll be so pissed. Are you nuts?”

Charlie gives me a flat look. “Dominic is a professional. He might yell at you after the fact—and me, no doubt—but he’d never allow anger to affect the scene. Do you want to do it or not?”

As the idea sinks in, my heart picks up pace. “Yes, absolutely, yes. Why are you doing this for me, Charlie?”

She returns to her desk, sliding gracefully into the chair. “My reasons are my own, but I’ll say this: as much as I begrudgingly like you, London, I’m not doing this for you. Take the bag by the door on your way out. Nate will help you get ready in one of the playrooms. Don’t disappoint me. Or Dominic. Understood?”

Swallowing inane laughter, I bow my head. “Yes, madam.”