Page 71 of Wings
My throat tightened with emotion. "I know. That's why I'm shaking."
"Good shaking or bad shaking?"
"Good," I assured him quickly. "Like before a roller coaster. Or before jumping into deep water. That kind of shaking."
He smiled, the expression softening his features in a way that made my heart skip. "My brave girl. Always jumping even when you're scared."
"Easier when I know you'll catch me."
"Always," he promised, sealing it with a kiss that was gentle enough not to smudge my lip gloss but firm enough to ground me completely.
When he pulled back, he offered me his arm with old-fashioned formality that made me smile despite my nerves. "Shall we, Miss Santos?"
I slipped my hand through his elbow, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric. "Lead the way, Mr. Moreno."
The walk through the clubhouse felt different tonight. Members we passed nodded with more gravity than usual, like they knew something significant was happening. The usual chaos was muted, respectful. Even the music from the main room seemed quieter.
The meeting room door stood open, warm light spilling into the hallway. As we approached, I could smell candles—vanilla and something deeper, maybe sandalwood. My steps faltered slightly, the reality of what we were about to do hitting fresh.
"Breathe, baby girl," Gabe murmured, his hand covering mine on his arm. "I've got you."
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stepped through the doorway into our future.
Tyson was waiting for us, his usual casual energy replaced by something more ceremonial. He'd paired his leather cut with a crisp dress shirt, the juxtaposition somehow perfect for what we were about to do—club business meets sacred ritual.
"Kiara. Wings." He nodded to each of us formally before taking his seat at the head of the table. Reading glasses appeared from his vest pocket, and suddenly he transformed into someone I'd never seen before—a guide, a witness, a keeper of sacred contracts. “Although Wings isn’t yet a fully patched member, I thought it would be best to officiate.” He smiled. “And between you and me, I’ve got a feeling it won’t be too long until Wings is a full brother.”
I glanced at Gabe and saw a smile play on his lips, just for a second. He pulled out my chair before taking his own, our hands finding each other on the table between us. The leather was cool under my palm, but Gabe's fingers were warm, steady, anchoring.
"This is a sacred trust you're entering," Tyson began, his voice carrying weight I'd never heard from him before. "The contract we're reviewing isn't just words on paper—it's the foundation of your power exchange."
The words sent a shiver through me. Power exchange. Such a clinical term for something that felt like breathing, like coming home, like finding pieces of myself I hadn't known were missing.
Tyson opened the leather folder before him with deliberate care, revealing pages of careful text. My heart rate kicked up seeing it all laid out so formally. This was real. Binding in ways that went beyond the law.
"We'll start with the fundamentals," he continued, sliding the first pages toward us. "Wings, as the Dominant in this dynamic, these are your responsibilities."
I leaned forward despite myself, needing to see the words that defined what Gabe had already been giving me. The list was comprehensive: Protection (physical, emotional, financial). Guidance (structure, growth, support). Care (aftercare, daily needs, medical decisions in emergencies). Consistency (rules maintained, promises kept, availability for scheduled check-ins).
"Initial each section as we review," Tyson instructed, producing a fountain pen that looked antique, substantial. "This indicates understanding and agreement."
Gabe's hand was steady as he initialed each line, but I caught the way his jaw tightened with determination. He was taking this seriously, each initial a promise, a vow, a commitment written in expensive ink.
"These aren't just suggestions," Tyson explained as Gabe worked. "This document creates accountability. Failing these responsibilities without communication or valid reason constitutes breach of contract."
"I understand," Gabe said quietly, finally looking up from the pages. "I'm not just agreeing to try. I'm promising to deliver."
"Good." Tyson's approval was brief but meaningful. He turned the page, sliding the next section toward me. "Kiara, these are your rights within the dynamic. Non-negotiable, unchangeable without mutual consent and a formal amendment process."
My hands trembled slightly as I accepted the pen. The weight of it felt significant, like holding my own agency in physical form. The list of rights blurred slightly before I blinked it clear:
Right to safeword at any time, for any reason, without punishment or questioning. Right to hard limits, reviewed monthly but only changeable by my initiation. Right to aftercare following any scene, punishment, or intense dynamic exchange. Right to respect in all settings, vanilla or otherwise. Right to renegotiate, to grow, to change my mind about specific activities.
"Oh," I breathed, seeing it spelled out so clearly. These weren't just things Gabe had told me, promises made in intimate moments. These were my rights, protected and witnessed.
"Initial here," Tyson guided gently. "And here. This section is particularly important—it details your right to end the dynamic at any time, with a two-week transition period for practical matters but immediate cessation of power exchange if desired."
An escape clause. Not because either of us expected to use it, but because its very existence meant I was choosing this freely. The pen moved across the page, my initials looking small but certain next to each provision.
