Page 195 of Carrick
“You with me?” I murmured, stepping close. Her nod was small, hesitant. “Color?”
She breathed in slow and shaky. “Green,” she said. “Still green.”
I stepped back. And let it begin. The first stroke landed between her shoulder blades—more sting than slap, a warning wrapped in fire. She gasped. The second stroke angled lower, across her ribs.
Third—thighs.
Fourth—just beneath her ass, catching the tender skin already reddened from the paddle.
Each stroke built on the one before. Each landed with intention, a cruel kiss delivered in rhythm. And with each one, she shook. But not from fear. From release. From unraveling.
I watched her breath stagger, her head fall. Her knees trembled. And I praised her through every inch of it. “That’s it, Bellamy. You’re doing so fucking well. You were born to take pain like this. Look at you—body shaking, eyes wet, and you’re still here. You’re not weak. You’re alive. You’re fire wrapped in skin.”
She sobbed, quiet at first, barely more than a breath caught in her throat. I gave her one more—across her lower back.
She screamed. The sound was real. Raw. The kind of sound that doesn’t come from the body. It comes from the soul. “Rayden—” she choked, barely able to say his name.
I froze. My chest cracked open. Her knees gave out, sagging against the restraints. She didn’t safeword. She didn’t call for me to stop. She just broke.
“Rayden—Rayden, please—” her voice pitched higher, wild with grief, “Don’t go! Don’t leave me again! I can’t—I can’t?—”
My throat tightened, a sharp pressure in my chest that wouldn’t ease. She wasn’t here anymore. She was somewhere else—on a phone, or in a hallway, or maybe holding a photograph and realizing it would never be more than a memory.
“Rayden—please,” she wailed. “Come back! I’ll do anything! I’ll be good! I’ll behave, just please—” She screamed again. Louder. Ragged. “GIVE HIM BACK!” she howled. “Please! please! I’ll do anything, just?—”
Another sob tore from her. Then another. Her whole body bucked against the cuffs like she could claw her way free. Like she needed to run, but her legs no longer worked. And it wrecked me.
I dropped the flogger without a second thought. I moved to her quickly—undoing the top restraints, catching her before she could crumple. Her arms came down heavy and limp, her hands useless. She wasn’t sobbing anymore. She was wailing. Ugly, broken, shaking cries. The kind of sound that tears the world in half. The kind you never forget.
I pulled her back against my chest, her feet still strapped, her body collapsed into me. She convulsed with grief, screams muffled against my neck, and I didn’t stop her. I held her through every second of it. Every plea. Every breathless cry.
“Please, Rayden,” she wept, almost too soft to hear now. “I’m sorry! I should’ve made you leave. I should’ve made you come with me. I should’ve done something—I was supposed to protect you! I was supposed to protect you!”
My arms tightened around her. My heart fucking shattered in my chest. Because I couldn’t fix this. I could give her pain. I could give her control. I could give her myself. But I couldn’t give her what she wanted most.
I couldn’t bring her brother back.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, voice breaking. “You’re not alone. You hear me, Bellamy? I’ve got you.”
She kept crying. Kept shaking. Kept saying his name like it was a prayer she hadn’t finished yet. And I let her. I let her grieve in my arms, her body wrecked, her soul torn open.
Because this—this was what she came here for. Not to be fixed. Not to be seen, but to fall apart without shame. To be held while she broke. And fuck me, I was proud of her. That she let me see it. She didn’t run. She trusted me with the ugliest, most human thing she’d ever carried.
I kissed her shoulder. Her temple. Whispered again: “You’re safe, baby. You’re safe now.” And I held her through the storm. Until she sagged in my arms, silent and spent.
She sagged against me like her bones had turned to ash, her breath coming in slow, stuttering waves that still shook her ribs. I held her there, arms tight around her body, whispering steady words into the tangled mess of her hair, feeling the way each one seemed to sink into her like warmth through cold skin.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured again, not knowing how many times I’d already said it.
She whispered, “Thank you, Sir.” Soft. Almost broken. The kind of broken that meant healing had finally started.
I cradled the back of her head and pressed my forehead to hers. “You did it,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”
I unfastened her ankle restraints gently, not wanting to cause her any more undue discomfort. Once she was free of them, I slipped my arms beneath her knees and back and lifted her from the cross as if she were made of glass.
She didn’t speak again. Didn’t cry. Just let herself be carried. And I carried her like she was mine. Because tonight, for this moment, she was. Her weight hit me like the end of a beautiful dirge—full-body, heavy, breathless. Her arms didn’t lift. Her legs didn’t lock. She sagged into my chest like the only thing holding her together had been tension—and now it was gone.
I wrapped my arms around her, tight, bracing her against me, and held on. And then she let out a quiet sob. Not violent anymore. Not railing against the world. Just grief, small and sharp and devastation.
