Page 116
The kid has spent the better part of the morning crying, arguing, remembering things no one should have to remember, finding out his dead father asked me to protect him, and then discovering just how thoroughly I fucked that up. He’s had enough revelations for one day without me sitting here picking apart why being called good makes him turn pink, or why questions about punishment seem to make his pupils expand, or why he practically folds in on himself every time I praise him in that particular tone.
I’ve spent enough years around littles, middles, submissives, brats, boys who need structure, boys who need softness, boys who light up under praise and settle beneath a firm voice, to recognize the outline of something even before the person experiencing it has a name for it.
That doesn’t mean I know what Kamden is.
More importantly, it doesn’t mean I get to decide.
The boy is cuffed to a bed because I kidnapped him less than twenty-four hours ago. I do not get to look at that situation and start assigning him a place in a dynamic he hasn’t chosen.
Christ, John would claw his way out of Arlington just to beat me to death with my own prosthetic.
I drag a hand over my beard.
Kamden is still staring at his rabbit. His eyelids are heavy now, swollen from crying and fighting sleep despite the way his whole body has slowly gone slack against the pillows.
“That’s enough for now,” I tell him.
His gaze lifts. “Enough what?”
“Talking.”
A faint line appears between his brows. “I didn’t say I was done.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I’m not tired—” He yawns halfway through the sentence, going pink when he’s done. “That was unrelated.”
“I bet.”
“It was,” he insists.
“Sure.”
He hugs the rabbit closer and glares at me with all the menace of a wet kitten.
Cute.
Fuck me.
I stand and tell him, “Rest for a while.”
His attention drops instantly toward the cuff, and I know what he’s hoping for. I also know I can’t give it to him yet.
Not after the lamp, and definitely not after he admitted five minutes ago that he’d run if he had the chance.
I crouch beside the headboard. Kamden tenses slightly when I reach for his wrist, but only until he realizes I’m checking the fit, not unlocking it.
No redness or swelling; it’s secure but not too tight.
The left wrist still looks worse from the zip tie, though even that has improved now that the ointment has had time to settle.
“This stays on,” I say as I drop his hand.
“I know,” he murmurs.
“You did well.” His breath hitches. “But one good morning doesn’t mean I suddenly stop taking precautions.”
“I know,” he repeats, quieter this time.
