Page 40

There’s already running a list in my head—logistics, appointments, the chain of command for asset compliance sequences. There is a meeting at noon, a report window at three, and going back home. But none of it matters.

All that matters is Samuel.

Last night replays in slow frames. The way he bit down, hard, not in defiance but as a claim. The way his body refused to break, even when I worked him over with enough force to destroy him. The aftermath, the way he watched me, neither afraid nor grateful. Just… watching, like he wanted to see what I would do when I ran out of rules to follow.

I turn to the closet, walk naked across the cold marble.

Inside, every item is curated. The hangers are matte black, the suits all monochrome: gray, black, navy, with nothing to distract. I pick a fresh shirt—white, pressed, the Brooks House crest stitched in black at the inside collar. Next, the suit: tailored, cut to fit over muscle with no room for error. The tie is silk, narrow, a single tight knot. Cufflinks—obsidian. I dress fast, wondering if Samuel listened to my instructions. There is no pause for reflection, but when I turn back to the mirror, I see the man the world expects.

Except for the eyes.

The eyes are alive today.

08:55. Good. On time. Just like always. Running my tongue over my teeth, I wince. Heading back to the bathroom, I brush my teeth, and catch the blood that wells up from the line where Samuel’s bite split my lower lip.

I suck the blood, savor the taste.

Possession is not metaphor.

I don’t want to own him because it is required. I want to own him because nothing in my life before has survived my hands with this kind of hunger intact.

There is no nervousness in my walk back to the front hall. If anything, I find the expectation a comfort.

Samuel will be there, on time.

And if he is late, I will punish him in a way that makes last night look like a schoolyard fight.

I shut off the light, take the steps two at a time, and cross the living area with silent, certain feet.

At exactly 08:58, I hit the front hall. The corridor is marble, air chilled and perfectly still. At the far end, Samuel stands in the entryway, black uniform impeccable, hair slicked down. His eyes are fixed on the glass doors and the cold white light beyond.

He doesn’t move when I enter. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink.

He just waits.

Arms at his sides, relaxed. Head level, gaze unbowed.

I step onto the marble, the sound of my shoes snapping through the hush. The air shifts, barely. I make a slow approach, watching his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, not hurried. I stop two meters away.

He looks at me, the way a wolf looks at another wolf. Neither challenge nor surrender. Just assessment.

I close the gap and look him dead in the eye.

There is nothing to say, so I don’t.

Instead, I extend my hand, not in greeting but in command, and close it around his.

The sensation that runs through me confirms why I’m obsessed with him. I grip tight enough that my thumb compresses his tendon. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t lean in either. He lets himself be claimed, that’s all.

This is compliance without submission.

It’s tantalizing.

I pivot, turning him with me, and lead the way toward the exit. My grip stays tight. He tracks my pace exactly, no lag, no overstep. Our shoes sound the same rhythm. Past the fridge, past the first security checkpoint. The glass doors slide aside at my keycard, then seal again with a pneumatic hiss.

There is a guard at the door. He stands at attention, eyes never leaving the floor. Samuel stares straight ahead, jaw set, like he’s memorizing every tile on the way. My grip remains unchanged. I want him to remember it. When we reach the guard, I flash my card, and the man says, “Morning, Mr. Brooks.” He doesn’t look at Samuel. That’s protocol, too.

At the front door, I let go of his hand.