Page 88 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Her voice is soft but sure. “Red means stop. Yellow means pause and check in. Green means everything is okay.”

His eyes search her face, seeking any flicker of doubt, any shadow of fear that needs soothing. Finding none, he nods. “We’ll begin with five warm-up strikes.”

Tomas rises to his feet fluidly, the shift catching Sunday off guard. Her eyes widen, confusion displacing her resolve as she watches him stand.

She hesitates, then rises, hands pressing into the floor for balance, muscles stiff from the prolonged stretch in apology. As she straightens, her gaze drifts, the pull of instinct and habit clear through the bond.

He shakes his head, a soft, knowing laugh escaping him. “Not my lap, Trouble. Not tonight.” His voice is almost rueful; this won’t be fun for either of them.

Tomas lifts a hand, gesturing to the sofa, his voice all velvet command. “Bend over the arm of the sofa, please. Hands clasped behind your back.”

His gaze softens, but his voice remains firm, a thread of warning woven through his next words. “And if you come without permission… you’ll be very sore indeed.”

She hesitates only a heartbeat before moving into position. The curve of the sofa supports her hips, arching her back into a perfect display of vulnerability. Her hands come together, fingers lacing tight, the motion both grounding her and exposing her further.

Tomas steps closer. His gaze sweeps over her, cataloging every trembling breath, every line of her body offered up to his discipline.

“Good.” he murmurs, “Stay exactly like that.”

I feel Sunday begin to slip away from me as she takes her position. Or perhaps ‘slip away’ is too broad. It’s more likeshe’s sinking into Tomas’ care, her anxiety unwinding, thread by thread when it should be at its tightest.

The bond hums with her shifting emotions, and I feel it all—the nervous flutter in her chest, the tremor of almost giddy anticipation beneath her skin. Just as Tomas raises his hand, her entire being softens, like a sigh exhaled into the safety he offers.

And here I stand, on the periphery. Fully bonded as we are, I could choose to experience every strike as she does. I could blur the edges of her pain, taking on some of it for myself, or mute it entirely. The power sits there, ready to be wielded—a whispered temptation that slithers around my resolve, daring me to reach for it.

But I would never disrespect her trust in Tomas’ guidance or undermine his authority. This is their moment, their dance of correction and care. To steal even an ounce of her pain would diminish the lesson she’s chosen to accept.

The first strike lands with a sharp crack, slicing through the air like a whip. My monster surges forward, fangs scraping the edges of my mind, a snarl locked behind my teeth. Pain isn’t my preferred language. I don’t enjoy doling it out or receiving it.

It prickles under my skin, and makes my fingers curl into fists so tight they ache.

Her breath whooshes out on impact, her body jolting forward, the graceful curve of her spine momentarily disrupted. Her legs twitch, a fleeting dance of reflexive motion, but her arms remain clasped behind her back—a testament to her resolve.

She swallows, I hear her heartbeat kicking into a canter and then she blurts out, “One, thank you, Alpha.”

The bond trembles, a delicate thread vibrating with her effort to shield us all from the onslaught of sensation. Eyes narrowed, my monster inspects it, wary, measuring every ripple of sensation flowing between us. He’s willing to tolerate her discomfort, to let her endure what she must. But the instant thatdiscomfort tips into distress, the moment her composure cracks or fear clouds her resolve, he’ll shatter my composure in turn.

Her breath steadies, a surprising calm unfurling within her. Tension seeps from her limbs, the edges of her anxiety smoothing out as if surrendering to this moment offers her solace rather than fear. My monster settles back, eyes glinting with begrudging patience, baffled by how vulnerability seems to ground her when it should undo her.

Tomas’ hand rises again, his control absolute. The air thickens, every heartbeat stretching into an eternity. Tomas’ hand hovers, deliberately, as though measuring the weight of the next lesson.

The second crack splits the silence.

Her body absorbs it, and her voice comes quicker this time. “Two, thank you, Alpha.”

By the fifth strike, her skin blossoms into a deep crimson, a rich red spreading across her cheeks like the blush of ripe apples. Her body trembles. Yet her arms stay locked behind her back, her submission unbroken.

Tomas’ hand falls, and the sharp crack of the strike vibrates through the air. Sunday’s breath shudders out, and the scent of her tears threads through the room, twisting something tight in my chest.

The scent is impossibly sweet, a crystalline note of pure sugar making me needy. It rises above Tomas’ musky satisfaction, wrapping around me and burrowing deep into the bond.

She’s not drifting into bliss; she’s enduring. Each strike is a drop of penance, a step deeper into surrender, and her body feels every inch of the journey. Her tears are the evidence—raw, delicate, beautiful in their fragility and potent.

It’s a fuck or fight feeling and it’s hitting both of us.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, the soft vibration jarring against the charged stillness of the room. I glance at the screen.

Little Cat

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