Page 24 of Dominion’s Collar

"Bondage." It comes out steadier than the pulse behind my ears. "Rope work. I've studied shibari patterns extensively."

"Studied." He catches the verb and holds it, deciding. "Have you experienced them?"

"No."

The word hangs in the air. I hear what it actually means: I've read about rope against skin the way someone reads about drowning. The mechanics are precise. The sensation is foreign.

"We'll start with rope." The register drops. The authority in it isn't an affectation. It's where he lives. "I want to know how your body responds to progressive restriction before we build from there."

My response is involuntary. A slow tightening between my hips, a flush climbing my neck.

I keep my expression controlled. Edited.

He sees it anyway. His gaze drops from my eyes to my neck for exactly long enough.

"Impact play?"

"Flogging is a soft limit. I want to know the implement before it touches me."

"Always." No hesitation. "Open hand?"

The last two words hit differently. His palm, my skin, nothing between them.

"Soft limit. Not without a conversation first."

"Understood." Then, quieter: "Aftercare."

"Aftercare isn't something I'll need."

He shakes his head. "Non-negotiable. Every scene ends with it."

"I've done the research. I understand the concept⁠—"

"This isn't a debate." His eyes don't release mine. "I'll need to know what brings you back."

Brings you back. He says it as if he already knows where he's planning to take me, and the return trip requires navigation.

"Fire play?"

"Soft limit. I want to negotiate it after we've scened. I need to know how you handle me first."

"Fair." He absorbs whatever I just revealed and moves on. "Sensory deprivation?"

"Blindfolds. Nothing further until trust is established."

He goes still. Not his usual stillness, which is controlled and deliberate. This is the stillness of a man holding something down. It lasts less than a second, and if I weren't trained to watch for cracks in careful surfaces, I'd have missed it.

The word trust did that.

"Safeword," he says.

"Traffic light system. Green, yellow, red."

"Good. I also want an additional word. Something you wouldn't say during a scene by accident. Something that means everything stops and we have a conversation as equals."

I think of it immediately. Not Claire's name. Too close, too raw, too likely to surface for the wrong reasons.

But the place where Claire was my sister and not a case file. The place I left to come here.