Page 89 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I hate this. But also… she’s probably being really cute right now, isn’t she?

Gray

Painfully cute. And yeah, emphasis on painful.

Ben

You’re both awful. Let me know when it’s over. I’ll be ready with cuddles and snacks.

Little Cat

Same. And if Tomas breaks her, I’m breaking him.

Gray

Relax, he’s being careful. But yeah… she’s beautiful, even when she’s apologizing through her tears.

I tense but don’t jump at the sound of another swat. Sunday’s soft voice rises. “Six, thank you, Alpha.” She’s doing well and Tomas isn’t allowing his obvious affection for her to soften this lesson. He’s a good Dom.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, my eyes fixed on her trembling form. Her head is turned to the side, silvery tracks glistening on her cheeks, eyes squeezed shut.

The tenth strike lands. Her voice trembles. “Green, Alpha.” The words are wet, breaking on a soft hitch, like she’s barely holding herself together.

She doesn’t say“Ten, thank you, Alpha.”Just“Green.”Words, torn from somewhere deep inside her. It’s all she can manage. I know how far under she must be, how words feel foreign when you’re that deep. It’s why Tomas makes her to count—to keep her from slipping away, to force her tostayin this moment.

He waits a beat, his eyes scanning every trembling inch of her. Will he stop the scene?Gods forbid,will he start over?

Instead, he rests a hand on her lower back. “Thank you for checking in.” His touch is firm, pulling her back into her body. “Are you ready to continue?”

Tomas knows exactly where she is. The warmth of his hand grounds her, brushing the frayed edges of her resolve.

“Yes, Alpha.”

The strikes continue, each one landing with precision. By the time Tomas reaches fourteen, Sunday is sobbing—soft, jerky hiccups shake her frame. The sharp edge of pain has likely dulled—her ass numb by now—but the tears still fall in a relentless deluge.

She isn’t crying from pain anymore. This is something deeper, rawer. A dam breaking inside her. Her feelings are too tangled to contain, spilling out in ragged gasps and broken sobs.

Tomas pauses, his hand hovering, eyes assessing her trembling form with a calm that feels like solid ground beneath a crashing wave. “Your color?”

She shudders, the sobs thickening her voice, but her answer is clear. “Green, Alpha.”

Even through this storm of emotion, she’s anchored, held by the structure of his dominance. It’s not the physical pain unraveling her; it’s the release. The shedding of guilt. The catharsis of letting go.

My monster growls low, uneasy at the sight of her anguish. His claws flex, testing the edges of my restraint, but I hold firm. Thisis what she needs. Tomas knows it. I know it. And instinctively, we understand that Sunday knows it too.

The Alpha’s gaze softens just a fraction. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t soothe. He lets her cry, lets the storm surge through her, unimpeded. His hand remains steady, his presence unshakable—he’s the eye of the hurricane she’s been lost to.

We’re all here with her—waiting and holding ourselves together. And when it’s over, we’ll pull her back into warmth, into safety—cuddles, snacks, and all.

Fifteen lands and her ass is a riot of red, mottling into deeper hues that promise lasting marks. My monster roars beneath my skin with a visceral surge of protectiveness. A possessive certainty settles over me—I’ll be rubbing my blood into that bruised skin later, healing what’s mine. But my monster wants to tend to hernow.

“I’m okay,” she calls out, breathless. “Relax, darlin’.” She’s comforting me, even as she shudders with pain.

Tomas stills. The quiet sharpens, the air thickening with unspoken correction. His fingers curl as he stares down at her.

“Sunday,” he says, each word deliberate, “who are you here with right now?”

She swallows, sensing her error. “You, Alpha.”

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