Page 106 of Maksym

A laugh moved through the room, quieter this time, because the witch moaned again and the sound demanded more attention than humor.

The wolf worked the crop up and down her spine in measured taps. Not all the same force. Each time, she sank deeper. Her forehead lowered toward the padding. Her back arched more willingly. Her thighs parted by degrees.

I watched her let go. That was the part that caught me in the throat.

Not the nudity. Not the strikes. Not even the wetness visible when the wolf’s hand returned between her legs and she rolled back into him without shame.

It was the letting go.

She had walked onstage with command in her bones. A coven leader, Bohdan had said. Someone responsible for other people’s fear, magic, disputes, needs. A woman who likely spent her days being consulted, challenged, resented, obeyed. And now she had placed herself over leather and wood, restrained beneath lights, and allowed someone else to hold the edge of the world for her.

My throat tightened. My core tightened with it.

The wolf turned the crop handle down.

The shift was subtle, but the entire room seemed to notice. Or perhaps I only felt Maksym’s hand still over mine.

The wolf ran the rounded handle slowly down the witch’s spine. It followed the line of her vertebrae, each bump and hollow, down over the swell of her buttocks and into the cleft between them.

I went very still.

My free hand rose before I decided to move. It crossed the few inches between us and gripped Maksym’s arm.

Now I held him with both hands. His muscle flexed beneath his suit jacket.

He did not look down at my hands. He kept his gaze forward, giving me the mercy of not making my reaction larger by acknowledging it too directly.

Onstage, the witch lifted her head, hair sliding over her shoulder.

The wolf bent over her. “Color?”

“Green,” she said, but this time the word trembled.

He lowered the handle between her legs, angling it carefully.

Her body opened to it. I saw his attention sharpen, the way his hand slowed when the handle met her entrance. He eased it in—not far, not cruelly, not with the hurry of someone trying to get to the next spectacle.

The witch moaned. Bohdan did not speak for several seconds. The silence was worse. Or better. I had lost track of categories.

The wolf moved the handle shallowly, withdrew, then ran it slick over her folds. Her hips followed, restrained and still somehow seeking. The muscles in her thighs quivered.

Then he shifted the handle upward. Against her back entrance. The witch stilled completely. Not fear. Not refusal. A hard pause. My own breath locked.

The wolf stopped at once. “Color?”

“Yellow,” she said.

The word carried.

The room did not groan. No one booed. No one laughed. No irritation moved through the crowd. If anything, the attention deepened.

Yellow was not failure. Yellow was information.

The wolf leaned down, one forearm braced beside her on the bench, his mouth near her ear. He spoke too low for me to hear. She answered. He nodded. Then he straightened, brought the crop handle to his mouth, and let saliva fall slowly over the rounded end. It shone under the light. He lowered it again, mixing it with her own slickness, working with almost maddening patience.

Bohdan spoke softly. “Yellow is not an interruption of the scene. It is part of the scene. It tells the dominant where care is required. It allows trust to continue instead of forcing endurance to masquerade as consent.”

Something cold and old moved through me. Forcing endurance to masquerade as consent.