Dominic’s bedroom is my favorite place in the loft, and not just because of what happens inside its boundaries. Or the bed he had specially made for seemingly endless variations of bondage, only a fraction of which I’ve experienced. Or the reinforced hooks in the ceiling. Or the silver chains dangling on the rightmost wall beside a display of his favored whips and floggers, clamps and ropes.

Every once in a while when I walk into the room, I imagine what an average, sane, well-adjusted woman might think seeing his private domain. The shock, the budding disgust. I imagine their outrage, their righteous pseudo-feminism, and it makes me laugh. Because they don’t know what I do—never have I felt more powerful than I do when submitting to him. Power isn’t about control, like we’ve been taught all our lives. I know now that true power is freedom of choice. Freedom to trust. Freedom to own your wants, give life to desire, and embrace yourself exactly as you are.

But none of those are the main reason I love his bedroom. Oddly, I love it because it reminds me of my old room in my parents’ house, long since converted into a meditation/yoga room. But it holds a special place in my memory, as it was the first and last bedroom I decorated during my formative years. There’d never been a reason before since we moved so often, always renting in case a new opportunity for spiritual evolution presented itself to my parents.

But the summer before Paris’s senior year of high school and my junior one, they decided it was time to put down roots. Their decision may or may not have had something to do with the ultimatum Paris and I delivered: we stay in Naples, a town about an hour south of Rochester, New York, until both of us leave for college, or we ask our boyfriends to get us pregnant. On the other hand, our parents had found a close group of likeminded friends in the year we’d been there, and maybe they were tired of moving just like we were. Either way, the reason was far less important than the result—the stability we craved.

Victorious and settled for the first time, Paris and I were ecstatic to shop for paint colors, curtains, and new bedspreads. And while Paris went full-on gender-stereotype with her space, opting for a thousand shades of pink, I chose a more neutral color palette. Serene gray walls, navy curtains, and fun, bold accent pillows on my white taffeta bedspread. I spent long hours on that bed reading, journaling, or talking on the phone with friends. It was an anchor during my late teens and early twenties. A safe place. A home.

When I wake up in Dominic’s bedroom, I have the same expansive feeling. A sense of belonging and peace. And when I wake up the morning after having sex with him for the first time, I feel it tenfold. There’s no judgement here, where parted navy curtains bathe the pale walls with warm, golden light. In this bed where cream-colored sheets are soft against my naked skin, and heat radiates onto my back from a warm, big body.

Stretching and yawning, I roll over to face the man who, over the last months, painstakingly extracted the poison from my deepest wounds, restarting my dormant heart.

He’s awake. Sleep-eyed and smiling. “Come here.”

I scoot under his lifted arm, burrowing into his chest. His heart thumps, steady and slow, beneath my ear. “I could stay here forever,” I say into his skin.

“Mmm. Me too. But if we stay here, I won’t be able to bring you breakfast in bed.”

I pull away and point to the door. “You’re free to go.”

With a small chuckle, Dominic sits up. Instead of standing, however, he pivots and tackles me flat to the bed. I put up a decent fight, but I’m laughing and don’t actually want to escape. My hands are stretched over my head, my legs pinned beneath his. The weight and heat of his body on mine, the morning sun on his grinning face, the ease and lightness of the moment…

“Am I dreaming?” I whisper.

His smile softens, eyes molten chocolate and brimming with the same feeling that’s overwhelming me. “I meant what I said, London, even if you said it under duress. I love you. I love your guardedness, your pride, your intelligence, and your ridiculous sense of humor. I love your insane childhood stories, and the fact your feet are always freezing.”

My face hurts from smiling. “Oh, really? Maybe you just run hot.”

He nuzzles my nose with his. “Do you know what else I love?”

“My ass?”

“Yes. I love spanking it, squeezing it, marking it, putting toys in it, and hopefully sometime soon putting my—”

“Wow!”

He laughs and kisses me soundly. “But that’s not what I was going to say. What I love most is how hard you fought not to love me back. But I knew you did. I just didn’t know which part of you—London, or the mask you wear—would win the fight. Do you want to know when I figured it out?”

My head spins. “When?”

He releases my hands to cup my face. “When you wouldn’t tell me what that asshole at the club said to you, because you thought you were protecting me.”

Every ounce of the peace inside me coalesces and dims, robbed of life. I stiffen. “Dominic, you don’t—”

He puts a finger on my lips, not backing down. The light in his eyes is fierce—more fierce than I’ve ever seen it. A barely-leashed predator lurks close to the surface. If I didn’t know he would never hurt me, I might feel more afraid. As it is, I’m only afraid of his next words.

“I understand far more than you think. For example, I know the creep from the club works for the Russian mob, but wasn’t sent by Ivan Reznikov.”

“Stop,” I gasp.

Dominic ignores my plea. “Turns out he was on loan to someone far more powerful. And far more dangerous. The name Rudolph Schultz mean anything to you? Former Director of Homeland Security, currently a senator in the state of New York?”

My heart whacks my ribs with bruising force. Adrenaline floods my body. I push up and wiggle, but he’s too heavy. “Dominic, please. Let me up.”

He lets me move to sitting but doesn’t release me, cradling me against his chest. Slowly over the course of minutes, his embrace and steady heartbeat counteract my panic attack.

“That’s it. Breathe with me.” He strokes my spine with a steady hand, anchoring me to the present. The world outside is dark, foreign and terrifying, but a small part of me understands I’m still okay. Still alive. Right here, right now, I’m safe.

“Tell me, London. Please. No matter what it is, I’ll protect you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Too late.

My voice emerges brittle and robotic. “He’ll kill my family. My parents. My sister. Niece.”

His embrace tightens, hands stilling. “Schultz?”

There’s surprise in his voice, but not much of it. After all, he’s someone who knows how violent the world is. And because of his brother and ex-wife, I imagine he also knows just how corrupting power can be. The thing with Schultz, though—that I found out far too late—is that he wasn’t corrupted. He was always corrupt. But so, so good at pretending he wasn’t. So good at it, in fact, that I think he might actually believe himself irreproachable.

He’s a fucking psychopath.

“Tell me,” begs Dominic.

I take a breath that sears my lungs with fear. And with freedom. “It started with a golf game.”