“Why did you choose him to take custody of you back then? When your father died and you were sixteen.” I’m surprised by the spike of needless jealousy. I can’t go back in time to be in every part of Ella’s life, as much as I want to. And even if I could, I don’t know if I’d do it. The way Ella and I are together is only possible because of the people we are right now, and those people were shaped by the past.
She frowns, her eyes going distant. “I knew he’d do anything for me. He took care of … a lot of things. So it made sense.”
In the space of this one sentence, her tone has changed. It’s off, and her body stiffens in my arm.
“Don’t withdraw from me, jailbird. We’re in this conversation until it’s over, unless you want to use your safe word.”
Her eyebrows go up as color darkens her cheeks. “I can safe word out of a conversation?”
“You can use your safe word at any time,” I remind her. “It’s not just for when I’m fucking you, or when you’re bound. It’s for any time. Because our relationship is twenty-four seven, so is your safe word. Do you feel like you might need to use it?”
Ella considers it for a moment, like she should. I’m proud of her for not immediately saying no. Some submissives become convinced that using the safe word is a kind of weakness, and that it makes their Doms happier if they don’t use it. That’s not the case at all. I need her to know she can use her safe word at any point, because otherwise I can’t adjust my methods. It’s crucial to be comfortable with using a safe word. I’ve always thought that a reluctance to use it is a sign that the Dom hasn’t done his job. I’m going to do well by Ella. I won’t let her down.
“No. I don’t need to use it.” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “When he died—my father, I mean—there were a number of people in my life I didn’t trust. I knew I could trust Kam.”
“How did you know you could trust him?”
“He knew things I’d done. And he knew things about my father. He knew everything.” Ella swallows, meeting my eyes. “You can trust someone who knows all your darkest secrets. You know?”
Ella
There is purpose in suffering. Damon’s previous declaration has wreaked havoc on me since I woke up in the middle of the night and struggled to get back to sleep. With my eyes feeling heavy, the questions roll around in the back of my mind.
What the fuck purpose is worth what I went through? The tragedies that so many people endure have purpose?
The question sticks to my tongue as Damon takes his seat on the patio chair across from where I’m lying. In high-waisted jeans and a cream sweater, I don’t have to worry about covering anything from him.
“Enjoying the fire without me?” he jokes, leaning back in the chair. The fire burns bright behind him. Damon’s gotten back to his more casual, friendly banter with me. Any bit of tension or uncertainty since The Firm found out about Zander and I has subsided entirely.
But why would he tell me there is purpose in suffering? The more I think about it, the more it almost seems cruel. The question is still there, but I swallow it and answer, “It’s the perfect day for the fireplace out here, don’t you think?”
“There’s a nice chill out here, I’ll admit.”
What purpose could be worth this? I’ve been thinking about it all day. He said there was purpose in suffering, but what could possibly be worth the suffering that comes with loss?
“Something on your mind?” he questions and I run my teeth along my lower lip, considering him.
“Did Z send you out here to babysit me while he left?”
With a shake of his head, Damon crosses his ankle to his other knee.
“You look like a therapist, you know that?” I point with a chipped nail and add, “Especially in a collared shirt under that sweater.”
“You sound like a patient avoiding meaningful conversation.”
I huff out a laugh and ask, “What’s it called when you keep thinking about the same thing over and over?”
“Obsessing?”
“No.” I’m quick to dismiss that suggestion. “When it’s things that make you sad.”
He nods and says, “Ruminating. Excessive thinking about negative feelings.”
Snapping my fingers, I point at him and say, “That’s the one.”
“What are you thinking about?” he questions but then corrects himself. “What can’t you stop thinking about?”
I watch his foot tap on nothing in the air.
“Missing James,” I confess under my breath and I let my expression show the sadness I’ve been concealing as I add, “Don’t tell him. Please.”
“Zander?”
Swallowing thickly, I nod.
“He knows that you miss him. But I won't tell him anything in our conversations. It’s only between the two of us.”