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“No,” Mistress Faith said, arms crossed casually over her stomach. She looked every inch the Domme, and was unmoved by his panic.

“She’s my best friend.”

“Then you’ll do well because she trusts you. Some of the other assigned groupings are going to struggle with the issue of trust.”

“She trusts me to not… Do this… To her.” He waved the envelope wildly around the tack room.

The all-club meeting—which turned out to be a mild scolding followed by the announcement of the checklist game—had taken place in the large barn which was now called the Conclave. Calling it a barn implied worn wood and straw, but like everything at Las Palmas, the Conclave was elegant and refined. Horse stalls still lined one side of the main floor. Above them, a loft with ample seating looked down over the open space, which was the only indoor space large enough to hold everyone.

Nathan had made sure he was seated in the loft during the meeting so he wouldn’t accidentally catch sight of Tara, who would have been kneeling with the other subs on the ground floor.

The walls of the tack room where he and Mistress Faith stood were lined with equipment—bridles, crops, and whips all perfectly normal items to have in a barn tack room, except the bridles were sized for people.

“You’re making a decision for her,” Mistress Faith said. “If you’re truly her friend, you’ll tell her that you’re her partner.” The older woman raised her brows. “Unless you object to scening with her.”

“Of course I object. She’s my?—”

“Best friend. Yes, you’ve said that. Tell me, why do you object.”

He swallowed the words because she’s my best friend! since that clearly wasn’t getting him anywhere. “She’s important to me. She’s one of the only...”

He rocked back on his heels.

“Oh no, now I’m curious. What were you going to say?”

Nathan gritted his teeth. “She’s one of the only people in the world I really care about.”

Mistress Faith raised a brow. “Then it seems all the more important that you discuss this with her, and not make a decision for her.”

Nathan shook his head.

“You knew she was a member, yes?”

“I did, but we don’t talk about it. We don’t come on the same weekends, not since we first saw each other and realized.”

Mistress Faith arched a brow. “Tell me that you’ve never imagined having Tara submit to you.”

“No, never,” he insisted.

“Interesting. I believe you. You truly don’t find her attractive, either sexually, as a submissive, or both.”

“What? No! That’s not what I said.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Then you’re saying that you don’t actually respect or value submissives?” There was a cold warning note in Mistress Faith’s voice.

“What?! No! No.” He knew he was getting railroaded, but shit if he could seem to course correct.

“Is there some latent misogyny at play, Mr. Joyce? A woman who submits to you isn’t worthy of being your friend?”

Nathan stared at her, horrified at her words, and baffled how this conversation had gone so terribly wrong.

“I know submission is a gift.” He spoke slowly to make sure he didn’t misspeak. “I respect the hell out of anyone who’s able to give that kind of trust.”

“Ah, you don’t trust easily, do you?”

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