Chapter 1: Waking Up to Madness
The first thing he tasted was blood—sharp and coppery, seeping from where he’d bitten his tongue. The second thing was the headache, a white-hot drill bit boring into his temple. Hank groaned, the sound muffled against the rough fabric of his own couch cushion. He tried to move his hands, to push himself up, and the world snapped into a horrible, familiar focus.
Cold, unyielding leather bit into his wrists. His ankles were locked in the same vise, secured to the sturdy wooden legs of his own damn sofa. He was spread-eagled on the couch he’d bought at a flea market, in the apartment that smelled of yesterday’s espresso and old sandalwood incense. The lamp in the corner flickered, making the shadows of the window bars jump like nervous creatures on the peeling linoleum floor.
“Mmm. There he is.”
The voice was a soft, singing thing, edged with static. Hank knew it. His gut turned to liquid lead.
He wrenched his head to the side. Kaidan was perched on the low coffee table, a silhouette against the dingy window. The flickering light caught the glossy sheen of a tight black latex bodysuit, the glint of a high leather boot swinging idly. A police hat, absurdly, sat tilted on pink hair. Where a badge should have been, a stenciled heart glowed faintly white.
“Kaidan.” Hank’s voice was gravel, torn up from the inside. “The hell is this?”
“What’s it look like?” Kaidan hopped down, his movements unnervingly fluid. The fluffy pink bunny ears atop his head twitched once. They were real, a genetic hiccup he’d always hated, but now they just looked like part of the costume. He stepped closer, the tap of his boots on the linoleum too loud in the stagnant air. He smelled like synthetic cherries and ozone. “It’s a welcome home party. You’re the guest of honor.”
He straddled Hank’s hips, a negligible weight that felt like a thousand pounds. Latex-clad fingers, encased in long, sleek gloves, reached out and traced the throbbing bruise on Hank’s temple. The touch was clinical, possessive. Hank flinched—a full-body jerk against the restraints—and hated himself for it.
“Miss me, tesoro?” Kaidan purred. His sky-blue eyes, ringed with dark, smudged circles, held no warmth. Only a frantic, glittering intensity. “Or did you forget how much you love when I hurt you?”
“I don’t love it,” Hank snarled, pulling against the ropes. They held firm, expertly tied. He was six-foot-three, muscle and tattooed anger, trussed up like a festival pig by a five-seven bunny-boy in a fetish getup. The humiliation burned hotter than the headache. “They let you out? They said you were getting help.”
“Help was boring.” Kaidan giggled, a sound like breaking glass. He leaned forward, his face inches from Hank’s. “They kept talking about boundaries and coping mechanisms. Blah, blah. All I could think about was you. Your rules. Your… limits.” He spat the last word like it was a joke. “You pretending you don’t crave the crack of a whip. The bloom of a bruise. My voice in your ear telling you how pathetic you are.”
Hank’s breath hitched. It was the truth, the filthy secret buried under layers of performed toughness, a truth only this chaotic, broken person had ever unearthed. Kaidan saw it flicker in his eyes—the shame, the unwanted arousal.
“See?” Kaidan whispered, triumphantly. He ground his hips down, a slow, torturous roll. The latex was cool, frictionless. “Your body remembers. It doesn’t lie like your mouth does.”
“Get off me, you crazy bastard.” The insult was weak, automatic.
“Crazy. Yeah.” Kaidan sat back, tilting his head. One bunny ear flopped. “The doctors said that too. Schizo-affective disorder. Fancy words for the noise in my head. But you know what? Right now, the noise is very clear. It’s singing. It says you owe me. For leaving me in that white room. For making them take me away.”
“You stabbed me, Kaidan. With a fucking letter opener.”
“A love tap!” Kaidan’s mood shattered, his face contorting into a snarl. He slapped Hank, open-handed. The crack was deafening. “You were going to leave! You did leave! This… this is just catching up.” He blinked, and the rage dissolved into a pout as sudden as a summer storm. He gently stroked the reddening mark on Hank’s cheek. “Sorry. Was that too much? It’s hard to tell, sometimes. The dosage they gave me makes everything… fuzzy at the edges. But you. You’re in focus.”
Hank stared up at him, the panic solidifying into a cold, dense knot in his chest. This wasn’t the calculated dominance he sometimes fantasized about in his darkest hours. This was chaos wearing a latex mask. This was real, profound danger.
Kaidan’s gloved hand drifted down Hank’s chest, over his plain cotton T-shirt. He clicked his tongue. “Still dressing like a divorced landscaper. I can fix that.” From somewhere—a pocket, the air—he produced a straight razor. The steel winked in the bad light.
“Kaidan. Don’t.”
“Shhh.” Kaidan pressed a finger to Hank’s lips. The smell of latex filled his nostrils. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not like that.” He brought the razor to the collar of Hank’s shirt. With a delicate, precise snick, he cut through the fabric from neck to hem. The blade was cold against Hank’s skin, leaving a trail of raised goosebumps. He peeled the fabric apart, exposing Hank’s torso. “There. Better.”
Hank was trembling. Not from the cold. From the terrifying, electric current of surrender and terror warring in his veins. Kaidan admired his work, his eyes lingering on the old scars, the tattoos that covered Hank’s shoulders and back—inked monuments to a life he’d tried to leave behind.
“You always liked my hands,” Kaidan murmured, more to himself than to Hank. He set the razor aside on the couch cushion, well out of Hank’s reach. He then began to peel off one long latex glove. It came away with a soft, sticky sound. His bare hand was pale, slender, almost fragile-looking. He placed it flat on Hank’s sternum, over his pounding heart. His skin was shockingly warm. “See? I can be gentle. I can be whatever you need. The script just got… rewritten. I’m in charge of the happy ending now.”
He leaned down again, his pink hair brushing Hank’s chin. His whisper was a secret delivered directly into Hank’s soul.
“You’re going to say it. You’re going to tell me you want this. You want me. And then,” he giggled, a little breathless, “the real fun starts. I brought my tools.”
Hank’s gaze darted past Kaidan’s shoulder. By the door, he saw it: a small, innocuous black duffel bag, unzipped just enough to reveal a glint of metal chains and the smooth, dark wood of a paddle.
The world narrowed to the weight on his hips, the hand on his heart, the frantic rabbit-quick beat of his own pulse under Kaidan’s palm. The nightmare was here, wearing the face of his most forbidden fantasy. And the most terrifying part wasn’t the ropes, or the razor, or the giggling.
It was the part of him, deep down in the dark, that was wide awake and interested.