Page 86 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I lift a hand to free that abused bit of flesh, then stop myself.Don’t touch someone else’s sub—a rule etched into me by centuries of discipline in the shadows of dungeons and desire. I know this dance, these boundaries. It doesn’t matter that we’rebonded or that my blood runs through her veins like a second heartbeat. In this moment, she’s Tomas’ to guide.

The Alpha lowers himself onto the loveseat opposite us. The furniture seems too small for him, his presence stretching beyond its edges. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and begins unbuttoning the cuffs of his chambray shirt. The slow reveal of his forearms—a deliberate gesture of preparation—snags my attention. I search for a trace of my bite, even though I know it’s long healed. My monster stirs, a possessive growl rumbling from the depths of my mind.

I send him an image of Sunday bent over the Alpha’s knee, his palm descending in controlled, measured strikes. My monster shoots me an indignant scowl before slinking back into the shadows of my thoughts. Not gone—just brooding. Making peace with the idea of what’s to come.

Tomas’ dark eyes pin me in place. “Sunday tells me you’d like to observe her punishment.”

“I would,” I say, voice steady even as my pulse betrays me.

“As a rule, I wouldn’t allow that. She needs to focus on the scene, on me—not on managing your reactions. She’s already upset and this will be… difficult.” Tomas leans back slightly, his shoulders rolling as if settling deeper into his role. “Convince me you’ll make this better for her, and you can stay.”

He’s asking for more than justification; he’s asking if I can stay and watch while he punishes my fully bonded mate—with my instincts screaming to protect her, can I let him take the lead.

He wants to know if I can trust him not just with her body, but with her heart—and with mine.

It’s a test of faith, of restraint, of whether I can surrender control without unraveling. This isn’t just about discipline; it’s about reinforcing the bonds between us. It’s about proving that trust runs deeper than instinct, that connection outlasts pride. I gather my thoughts, corralling the chaos into order.

“She needs to know that my care for her doesn’t falter, even in moments of correction. That I trust you with her, and that we stand as a united front—that her dominants are aligned in celebrating her achievements and administering corrections when they’re warranted.”

His expression shifts as he weighs the value of a united front.

Sensing a thawing in his resolve, I press on “I also want her to understand that nothing about my love for her, or our bond, is diminished by what she needs from you.”

Sunday releases a shuddering breath beside me, and Tomas catches it. He studies her for a moment, evaluating her emotional state. Then he nods—the slightest tilt of his head—an Alpha’s concession.

“Very well,” he rumbles, “you can stay. But if I sense you’re becoming a distraction, youwillleave.” His gaze pins me in place. “Understood?”

I incline my head, “Understood.”

His focus shifts back to Sunday, the weight of his care settling over her like a protective cloak.

“Then let’s begin.” Tomas’ voice drops into that steady, commanding register that leaves no room for doubt. “First, remove your clothing to whatever level you’re comfortable with.”

Her breath hitches, and I feel a pulse of hesitation through our bond. But beneath that, anticipation simmers—dark and sweet, laced with a hint of desire that blooms like the memory of warmed honey on my tongue.

She stands, her hands drifting to the hem of her dress, fingers trembling as she lifts it over her head. The colorful cotton pools at her feet.

Cool air kisses her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs. With a graceful twist, she steps out of her panties, then reaches between her breasts to unclasp her bra. Thegarment slips away with a shimmy of her shoulders, leaving her bare.

She gathers the pieces of clothing, folding them carefully and placing them on a nearby shelf—tucking away her defenses, piece by piece.

A blush spreads down her cheeks and neck, but she doesn’t hide. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, and she stands, vulnerable yet determined. She meets Tomas’ gaze, awaiting his command.

His eyes sweep over her—slowly. There’s no cruelty, only unyielding focus. He takes in every detail, acknowledging her bravery and trust.

“Now,” he says, his voice a low rumble, “assume Apology.”

She lowers herself to the floor in a single fluid movement. “Knees apart. Feet straight. Ankles uncrossed.”

She adjusts, spreading her thighs wide, the position leaving her open, laid bare in every possible way. The room stills—nothing exists but her quiet resilience and the steady power of his guidance.

“Bow forward,” Tomas continues. “I want your chest low, your back arched. Let your forehead kiss the floor.”

Sunday obeys, folding herself down until her chest brushes the cheery rug and her forehead rests against the cool floorboards. Her arms extend in front of her, palms flat, fingers splayed. The curve of her spine leaves her buttocks high, the blush of her submission painting her skin.

My breath catches again, not just in appreciation of her beauty, but of the trust she places in him.In us.Her calm resolve humbles me, a reminder that vulnerability takes a kind of courage I’ve rarely let myself embrace.

“Eyes closed,” he says softly. “Stay exactly like that.”

---