Page 14 of Windlass

Angie’s posture curled inward defensively. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. I’ve looked it up.”

Angie raised her head. Mischief glinted behind the sheen of tears. Mischief, and a curiosity that Stevie was probably just imagining. “You’ve researched kink? What kinds?”

Being fair-skinned had its occasional downsides, white privilege notwithstanding—blushing like a stoplight chief among them. “That is none of your beeswax, Angela Rhodes.”

“Come on.” Angie’s coaxing tone held an edge of flirtation that really wasn’t appropriate, given the context, and which also ignited the usual fire in Stevie’s blood. She’d done her research, and she had paid the price. It had proved impossible not to picture Angie with her arms bound behind her—

Angie was upset. Angie needed her. Angie didnotneed to deal with Stevie’s baggage.

“Enough to know it’s about consent, and there are boundaries.”

“What I doisconsensual, like I’ve said—”

“Okay, yes, but you’re using it as self-harm.”

Angie opened her mouth to argue. Stevie waited. Angie shut her mouth. Frowned. Opened it again. Her teeth were lovely and white against her dark lips.

“That’s . . . maybe . . . fair.” When Angie looked away from Stevie, a tear slid down her lashes to land on her leggings.

“Which is why you need my help?” Stevie prompted.

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Angie hugged a pillow to her chest and looked Stevie directly in the eye. “You can distract me in better ways.”

Yes, she certainly could.Don’t be a creep. Angie didn’t mean it that way.

Anything was better than listening to Angie use Lana to punish herself. She’d take up sword swallowing if that’s what it took.

To lighten the mood for Angie’s sake—and hers if she was being honest, for neither of them did well with prolonged serious conversations—she asked, “How ’bout a taser? Oh wait—you might be into that.”

Angie snorted with surprised laughter, a good sign. Tension eased from Stevie’s shoulders.

“Basically, you need redirection training. I get it, I think. What would actually distract you?”

“I’m not sure. Hanging out with you helps.”

“Wait, because I make you feel better, or because my puns are as good as self-harm?”

“I will throw this pillow at you,” said Angie. “When I’m with you . . .”

Stevie waited patiently, which was difficult. There were so many ways Angie could finish that sentence.

“I mean the puns are terrible,” Angie said, “but I love puns.”

“That’s called masochism.” And that had not been what Angie was going to say. She’d bet her life on it. Only an ass would press her now, though, in this moment of obvious vulnerability.

“What if . . .” She turned Angie’s words over in her head. Spending time with Stevie helped Angie—for whatever reason. That was all well and good, but Stevie had been around Sunday, and Angie had chosen Lana. “What if you don’twantto hang out with me?”

“That’s literally never happened.”

Stevie stared at her until Angie flushed with understanding. “Iwantedto hang out with you. That was the—I mean—” Angie huffed in frustration.

“I can’t make you hang out with me instead.”

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