Page 84 of Pieces of Us

“Don’t you, though?” he asks, his pen back in his hand.

I look away from him, my fingers idly going to my throat where my collar should be. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Can you try for me?”

“I—well, I told myself stories a lot. The biggest story was being in love with Travis. Master Roarke. I liked to pretend that I was his special slave, but that he had the house use me too because he wanted to reward his guys with the very best slave. I liked to pretend that when I was getting hurt, it was for him, not for whoever was hurting me. And at night, after it was all over, I’d close my eyes as I lay in bed and pretend he was behind me, holding me, stroking me, telling me how much he loved me. I’d shut my eyes in the shower and pretend he was washing me lovingly.” I drop my hand from my throat. “I miss that. I miss the pretend life I built for myself. I miss belonging to someone who loved me and cherished me like a prized pet. Someone who needed me so badly they had to keep me as their slave.”

A single tear falls down my cheek, hot and accusing. I frantically swipe at it. Another replaces it within seconds.

“Was that a fantasy you had before you were taken, or something you developed as a coping mechanism?”

I look at him. I have to. This is it. This is the one thing I’ve never been able to admit. Not even to Carter when we had our heart-to-heart about kink. “I wanted it before. I mean, I wanted to be someone’s submissive before. Never to that extreme, but… a lot of it lined up with what I had fantasized about. It was like someone took my hopes for my future and twisted them into this mirror image.” I laugh shakily. More tears fall down my cheeks. I don’t bother wiping them this time. “I used to think that someone saw me at a kink event and stole me because of it. Or that the universe was punishing me for wanting shit that was so fucked up.”

“Is it fucked up?” he asks, tilting his head in curiosity. “Do you believe consensual kink is fucked up, Nolan?”

I shake my head. “No. I—no. I mean—okay, I logically know it’s not, I do. But it’s so tangled up in what I’ve been through, anytime I let myself think about it being okay, I feel sick with the shame of it.”

“Anytime you think about it being okay, or anytime you think about it being okay for you?”

I already know that answer. Carter and Travis are happily involved in a healthy kink dynamic. So are Jake and Casey, though nowhere near like Carter and Travis. Those two have even found a kink community in Carter’s town and have started going to events. Whenever that topic comes up, I feel a pang of longing in my chest, but never shame or disgust.

“For me,” I whisper.

“Because of what you went through?”

“No.” I look away again, my heart racing. No, right? Because Carter and Casey went through the same kind of shit and it’s right for them. “I don’t know why it’s different for me.”

“Because of Maison?” he asks, his voice so damn soft. He must know that Maison is the glue in all of this. The gold paint filling my cracks. The thing making my life beautiful even with all the broken pieces. “Do you feel ashamed because you think Maison will feel that way when he finds out?”

A sob catches in my throat. It’s part-agony, part-relief. I hadn’t realized that was why until he said it. I had no idea it was Maison. What does that mean for us?

“Because I notice when you talk about the dream, you put a lot of emphasis on the man—whether a guard or Maison—taking responsibility for the kink. They take the choice away from you, not to strip you of your freedom, but to free you of having to choose it yourself.” He leans forward. “Is Maison ashamed in your dream?”

“No.”

“What is he?”

I close my eyes, picturing dream-Maison. It makes me smile and ache at the same time because he’s everything I want, everything I need, but he’s not fucking real. “He’s proud. Happy. In love. Turned on.”

“And you’re so sure Maison won’t be the same in real life?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, shaking my head. “But I can’t see it. Some of the things he’s said, or the way he’s reacted to other survivors being kinky…”

“What’s the worst that could happen, Nolan?”

“He could be disgusted and break off whatever this is between us.”

He frowns at me. “I don’t believe that. That’s not the man Maison is. Actually ask yourself, what’s the worst that could happen? Really.”

I finger the thread on my sleeve, thinking of our night together. Baby, talk to me. Whatever you need, I’m going to give it to you.

“He’d do it,” I whisper. “He’d do it, even if he hated it. For me.”

“Do you think you’d be able to tell?”

I think of Maison. He really is talented at hiding pieces of himself, of playing pretend, but never with me. Even that first day in the kitchen, I saw through him. A single look into his eyes or a shift of tone in his voice or even the sight of bloody knuckles, and I’d know. I’ve always been able to read him like a book. I see every piece of Maison Beckett, even the broken ones. Maybe especially the broken ones.

“Yes,” I tell Dr. Singh. “I’d be able to tell.”

---