Page 82 of Red Flagged
I woketo the weight of Callum… and everything else emotionally.
His body was wrapped around me like a second skin. His breath warmed the nape of my neck, slow and steady. One arm cinched tight around my ribs, fingers curled over my side as if he’d fallen asleep mid-promise. His thigh pressed between mine. A shackle made of love.
I didn’t move. I wasn't even sure if I could. My body was sore in all the worst ways. Not just bruised and fucked-out. Not the kind of ache I could wear like a badge. This was… deeper, hollow. My limbs felt waterlogged and heavy. My spine throbbed from the beating it had taken from my car. My stomach cramped with a sharp, bloated pressure that warned me it was far from over. Every breath felt like it came at a cost.
The sheets were damp with sweat. Or blood. I wasn’t sure, and honestly, I didn’t want to look.
Everything was hazy and slow, like wading through molasses. My brain still slurred from the Vicodin I’d taken God knows how long ago. My eyes burned. My tongue felt like sandpaper. I was stuck somewhere between sleep and waking, somewhere between then and now.
But the memories bled through anyway.
The meeting with Reinhardt. The hotel valet. The fight. The rain. The blood.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bile creeping up my throat.
Something was wrong. Still wrong. I didn’t know if it was my body or my brain or the bleeding that hadn’t slowed. But I knew this wasn’t peace.
This was the eye of the storm. The part where everything was too quiet. The part that came before the next wave hit.
Callum shifted behind me, arm moving slightly to pull me tighter, and pain lanced down my side.
I flinched. “Fuck—ouch.” It came out hoarse and strangled.
His hand stopped instantly. “Shit, sorry. What’s wrong?”
“Everything hurts,” I rasped, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “Literally everything. My back, my stomach. My legs feel like I ran a marathon and then got hit by a truck.”
A beat.
“Might be the sub drop.” His voice was husky, thick with sleep and rough around the edges.
I stilled. “The what?”
He hesitated. “Submissive drop. It’s a… crash, basically. A come-down. After intense…” His voice trailed off. “Sessions, I guess? Can happen to both people, but especially the submissive. You go through something emotional and physical and your body just… kind of shuts down for a bit. Hormones, adrenaline, endorphins, all of it drops off.”
I blinked slowly, processing that. He shifted again, just enough for me to glance back over my shoulder. His eyes werestill soft with sleep, his hair a chaotic mess, voice scratchy as hell, but he lookedworried. Like he’d been waiting for this, maybe even bracing for it.
“You did research?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
His brow creased. “Of course I did. I needed to make sure I took care of you right.”
Something cracked open in my chest.
I stared at him for a long moment. His eyes held mine. Tired, earnest, steady. Still tethered to me even after everything. And somehow, the knowledge that he’d done this—that he’dlooked this up, studied it, prepared for it—made something molten bloom beneath the ache.
I reached back blindly, fingers seeking his under the covers. He caught them, no hesitation.
"You’re feeling it too?" I murmured.
He chuckled and pressed a featherlight kiss to my mouth. “Like I got turned inside out and left out to dry.”
I breathed in slow. "Yeah. That sounds about right."
Callum shifted again, pushing up onto one elbow, the duvet rustling as he rolled me to my back. He lifted one of my bruised wrists—carefully, reverently—and brought it to his mouth. His lips brushed the inside of it, soft as breath.
“We’ve had a few intense days,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and concern. “Not just last night. Austria fucked you up. Silverstone fucked you up. This whole goddamn season’s been an avalanche.”
His mouth pressed there again, right at the fluttering point of my pulse.
