Chapter 5: Crimson Bindings
The hour crawled. Sage stood under a stream of water so hot it verged on painful, scrubbing her skin until it pinkened, as if she could cleanse the lingering sense of him from her pores. It was futile. The memory was in her muscles, in the ache between her legs, in the cool kiss of the pearl against her sternum. She dried off, her hands trembling slightly as she lotioned her skin. The simple act felt like a preparation for something sacred and terrible.
She chose her clothing without conscious thought: plain black leggings, a soft grey tunic that fell to her mid-thigh. No underwear. The thought was unbidden, a flash of instinct she didn't question. She left her hair down, auburn waves falling around her shoulders like a veil.
The walk to the west wing of the penthouse felt longer than ever. The house was silent, a sleek, modern tomb holding its breath. The door to the room he called the dungeon was a slab of aged, dark oak, incongruous against the white walls. She pressed her palm against the cool wood, took a breath that shuddered in her chest, and turned the heavy iron handle.
The air changed instantly. It was warmer, still, and carried a complex scent: rich leather, clean linseed oil, beeswax, and underneath it all, a faint, spicy sandalwood incense. It was not the dank, fearful place the word "dungeon" conjured. It was a curated space, a studio.
Soft, recessed lighting illuminated polished hardwood floors and deep burgundy walls. One side held a library of books on spines so old the titles were faded. Another wall displayed an array of objects on hooks and shelves: coils of rope in different colors and thicknesses, polished wood paddles, sleek metal implements she couldn't name. In the center of the room, dominating the space, stood a large, X-shaped structure made of dark, polished wood. The St. Andrew’s cross.
Zaden stood before it, his back to her. He was dressed in simple black trousers and a grey linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was examining a length of crimson silk rope, running it through his fingers with a contemplative air.
"You're late," he said without turning. His voice was calm, filling the quiet room.
"By two minutes," she said, her own voice surprising her with its steadiness.
He turned. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Two minutes is an eternity when anticipation is part of the lesson." He gestured to a space on the floor before the cross. "Kneel. Center yourself."
She obeyed, the hard floor unforgiving against her knees. She folded her hands in her lap, trying to slow her breathing. She focused on the grain of the wood, the scent of the room, the solid presence of him.
"Look at the cross, Sage," he instructed, his voice low. "Tell me what you see."
She lifted her gaze. "It's… wood. Well-made. Old, I think." Her artist's eye engaged, seeing beyond the object's purpose. "The grain is beautiful. It's been cared for."
"Good. It is a tool. Like a paintbrush. Its function depends on the hand that guides it." He stepped closer, the rope dangling from his hand. "Tonight's function is containment. A safe boundary. The struggle against the rope is not against me. It’s against your own impulse to flee from sensation. The rope holds you so you can feel completely." He offered a hand. "Stand."
She took it, his grip sure. He led her to the cross. "Place your palms here, against the vertical arms. Legs apart, here." He guided her into position, her body forming an X against the wood. The surface was smooth, cool against her skin.
He moved behind her. She heard the soft whisper of the silk rope, then felt it loop around her right wrist. He began to bind her, his movements practiced, efficient. The silk was sinuously soft, but as he pulled and wound, it became firm, unyielding. He tied a series of intricate knots, each one snug against her skin but not cutting. He secured her left wrist, then moved to her ankles. The process was methodical, almost meditative. With each loop and pull, her breathing shallowed. She was being anchored, rendered motionless.
"Is it too tight?" His voice was close to her ear.
She tested the bonds. She could flex her fingers, make small shifts, but she could not pull away. "No. It's… secure."
"Good." He stepped back. She heard him move away, the rustle of him selecting something else. She stared at the grain of the wood inches from her face, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs. Her senses were heightened to an unbearable degree. The scent of the sandalwood, the faint sound of his breathing, the cool air on her exposed neck.
He returned. She couldn't see him. Her world had narrowed to the wood, the rope, and the waiting.
"Remember your photograph," he said, his voice calm, instructional. "The journey. The first frame is surrender." She felt a touch, not on her skin, but on the back of her tunic. A whisper of leather. "The second is struggle."
The first strike was not what she expected. It was not a hard crack, but a heavy, muffled thud across her shoulder blades. The impact bloomed heat, a deep, resonant shock that sank into her muscle. She gasped, her fingers curling against the wood.
"The third," he continued, his voice unwavering, "is release."
The second strike landed lower, across the back of her thighs. This one was different—lighter, sharper. It was a swarm of soft leather tails. They stung, a bright, peppery sensation that skittered across her nerves. Another gasp, this one higher, startled.
He began a rhythm. Not fast, not frantic. A slow, measured cadence. The heavier flogger, then the lighter one. Thud, then sting. Deep ache, then surface fire. He painted sensation across her back, her thighs, the curve of her ass. Each impact was precise, deliberate, landing on a new patch of skin.
The initial shock began to transmute. The thudding blows warmed her, loosened something tight in her spine. The sharper strikes made her flinch, a jolt that traveled straight to her core. She realized she was pressing herself against the cool wood, not to escape, but to ground herself against the onslaught of feeling. A low moan escaped her lips, muffled by the cross.
"Where is your mind?" His question cut through the haze.
"Here," she panted. "Only here."
"Good." A particularly sharp strike landed across her shoulders. She jerked against the ropes, a sweet ache spreading through her. "The pain is a color, Sage. Name it."
It was a bizarre, perfect question. Her mind, awhirl with sensation, grabbed onto the anchor of it. The deep, throbbing warmth was "crimson." The sharp, electric sting was "vermillion." She saw them behind her eyelids, swirls of pigment on a dark canvas.
"Vermilion," she breathed, as the tails landed again. "And crimson."
He changed the pattern. A series of swift, light strikes from the softer flogger, a rain of sensation that made her skin sing. Then a pause. She heard him set the implements down. His footsteps circled her.
His hands, warm and dry, touched the heated skin of her lower back, where the tunic had ridden up. She flinched, the touch almost more intense than the blows. He smoothed his palms over the warmth, evaluating.
"Beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "The skin speaks. It tells a story of acceptance."
His thumb traced the line of one of the ropes at her waist. Then his touch was gone. She heard the clink of metal. Cold, smooth loops settled over her wrists, outside the silk. Light pressure. Cuffs, connected by a short, fine chain. A new restraint.
He came around to face her. His eyes were dark, focused. He held a small, flat paddle made of polished leather. "Open your mouth."
Confusion flickered, but she obeyed, parting her lips. He placed the cool leather of the paddle gently on her tongue. "Bite down."
She closed her teeth over the soft leather. The taste was clean, slightly waxy. It filled her mouth, a grounding, physical thing.
"I'm going to use my hand now," he said, his voice utterly matter-of-fact. "The paddle is for you. If you need to scream, scream into that. The house is quiet, but not empty. Do you understand?"
She nodded, the leather between her teeth.
His first open-handed strike landed on her backside. It was a crisp, solid crack that echoed in the quiet room. The sound was shocking. The pain was immediate, bright, and localized. A choked sound lodged in her throat, swallowed by the leather. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Another. And another. He wasn't holding back. Each slap was a sharp, clarifying fire. It burned away everything but the present. There was no past, no future, no mother in Singapore, no forbidden lines. There was only the heat blooming under his hand, the restraint of the ropes and cuffs, the leather in her mouth, and him.
Tears welled, hot and silent, tracking down her cheeks. They weren't tears of sorrow, but of sheer, overwhelming sensation. Her body was alive, singing a raw, primal song.
He paused. His breathing was slightly elevated. He ran a hand over the heated skin, feeling the rise of the welts. "Look at me."
She forced her eyes open, blurred with tears.
"Are you with me?" he asked, his gaze searching hers.
She nodded fiercely, the movement jostling the paddle.
He leaned in, his lips close to her ear. His voice was a low, intimate vibration. "This is the struggle. You're in it. Don't hide from it. Feel it all."
He straightened and delivered three more sharp, rapid strikes in succession. They stole her breath. A fractured cry was muffled by the paddle. She sagged against the ropes, held upright only by his bindings and her own trembling will. The heat was everywhere now, a mantle of pain that was starting to soften at the edges, melting into a strange, heavy glow.
Then, his hand was gone. He took the paddle from her mouth, setting it aside. His hands went to the small chain between her wrists. With a soft click, the cuffs released. Then he began to untie the silk ropes, his fingers deft and surprisingly gentle on the swollen, tender skin at her wrists and ankles.
The release of pressure was its own shock. Her arms fell loosely to her sides, heavy and tingling. She couldn't stand on her own. As the last rope fell away, her legs buckled.
He caught her before she hit the floor, his arms sliding around her, pulling her back against his chest. He sank to his knees, holding her cradled in his lap. Her body trembled violently, a leaf in a storm. The heated, throbbing skin of her back pressed against the cool linen of his shirt. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his familiar scent of sandalwood and clean sweat.
He didn't speak. He simply held her, one arm supporting her back, the other stroking her hair, his palm moving in slow, steady passes from her crown to the ends of her auburn waves. The silence was profound, filled only with the sound of her slowing breaths and the thud of his heart under her ear.
The pain began its final transformation. The sharp edges blurred, suffusing into a deep, total relaxation. A warmth spread from her core outward, a liquid peace that felt older than bones. Her trembling subsided. She felt weightless, floating in the circle of his arms, her mind beautifully, perfectly blank.
After a long time, he shifted, reaching for something beside him. She heard the snap of a cap, then smelled a sharp, herbal scent. Aloe. Cool gel touched the heated skin of her back, his fingers spreading it gently over the welts. She winced at first, then sighed as the cooling relief seeped in.
"Breathe," he reminded her softly, his voice a rumble in his chest.
She breathed.
When he was done, he simply held her again. Her fingers, clumsy, found the front of his shirt, clinging to the fabric. The pearl necklace was cool between them.
"That," he said finally, his lips brushing her temple, "was the edge of release. You found the place where pain becomes a door, not a wall."
She didn't have words. She turned her head, just enough to press her lips against the strong column of his throat in a silent, desperate kiss of thanks.
He went still for a moment. Then his arms tightened around her, just briefly, a convulsive squeeze that felt like more than control. It felt like… acknowledgement.
He stood, lifting her easily into his arms. She didn't protest, looping her arms around his neck, her face tucked against him. He carried her from the dungeon, through the silent, sleeping penthouse, and into her pastel sanctuary. He laid her on her bed, on her stomach, and pulled the covers over her.
"Sleep," he commanded, his voice rough at the edges.
She was already halfway there, adrift on a sea of endorphins and exhaustion. As he turned to leave, her voice surfaced, a thready whisper.
"Zaden?"
He paused at the door.
"What was my color?" she asked, her eyes closed. "At the end?"
The silence stretched. She thought he wouldn't answer.
"Gold," he said softly. Then the door clicked shut.
She drifted, the word painting itself behind her eyelids—a luminous, healing gold, washing over the crimson and vermilion, turning everything warm and quiet and whole.
She drifted, the word painting itself behind her eyelids—a luminous, healing gold, washing over the crimson and vermilion, turning everything warm and quiet and whole. Sleep was a deep, black pool and she sank into it without a sound.
The morning light felt different on her skin. It was a slow, creeping awareness. She woke not to the shrill beep of an alarm, but to a pervasive, deep-seated ache that mapped the events of the night before across her muscles. She stretched cautiously beneath the soft sheets. A sharp twinge radiated from her shoulders, a pleasant burn decorated the backs of her thighs. She touched her own wrist, tracing the faint, ghostly impression of the silk rope. A shiver ran through her, unrelated to the cool room.
The memories were not jagged or frightening. They were solid, like polished stones in her palm. She saw the grain of the wood, smelled the sandalwood, felt the exact weight of the leather in her mouth. And she felt the gold. It lingered in her chest, a quiet, molten glow.
She rolled over. The other side of the bed was cold, empty. A part of her had half-expected to find him there. The thought made her face flush. She got up, her body protesting with every movement. Walking to the en-suite bathroom was a study in rediscovery; each twinge a footnote to a specific moment.
A long, hot shower helped. The water needled her sensitive skin, turning the deep aches into a bearable hum. She examined herself in the steamed mirror. Pale pink lines crisscrossed her shoulders and the curve of her backside. They were not angry or brutal. They looked like shadows, or the faint marks left by leaning against a textured surface for too long. She found she didn’t mind them.
Dressed in soft, loose linen trousers and a simple tank top, she ventured out. The penthouse was quiet, filled with Saturday morning sun. She followed the smell of coffee and toasted bread to the kitchen.
Zaden was there. He stood at the massive island, scrolling through a tablet with one hand, a mug of black coffee in the other. He wore jeans and a plain white t-shirt, his hair slightly damp. He looked… normal. Approachable. Human.
“Morning,” she said, her voice still sleep-rough.
He glanced up. His blue eyes scanned her face, then did a quick, assessing sweep of her body. It wasn’t lecherous. It was checking. “Morning. How do you feel?”
“Like I got used as a human drum,” she said, managing a small smile. She moved to the coffee machine, her steps careful.
A faint grin touched his lips. “A specific and accurate description. Cream’s in the fridge.” He watched her move, his head tilting slightly. “Stiff?”
“A bit.” She poured her coffee, adding a generous splash of cream. “It’s a good stiff. Like after a really hard workout.” She leaned against the counter opposite him, mug cradled close. “You?”
He shrugged one shoulder, a casual roll. “I slept.” He said it like it was a rare accomplishment. He set the tablet down. “You should eat. Protein.”
“Yes, doctor.” The retort came easily, lightly. The dynamic had shifted, settled into something new. The middle-of-the-night intensity was one thing. This daylight aftermath was another.
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, turning to the Sub-Zero to pull out eggs and butter. He cooked with the same efficient focus he did everything else. She sipped her coffee, watching him. The same hands that had bound her, struck her, now cracked eggs neatly into a bowl. The contradiction should have been jarring. It wasn’t.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words slipping out into the sunny silence.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He whisked the eggs, the rhythmic scraping of the fork against glass the only sound for a moment. “You did the work. I just provided the framework.”
“The… cross?” she asked.
“The safety,” he corrected, meeting her eyes briefly. “The permission.”
The scrambled eggs were perfect, fluffy and soft. He served them on two plates with buttered sourdough toast. They ate at the island, side by side. It was astonishingly mundane.
“My mother calls today,” Sage said eventually, pushing a piece of egg around her plate. “Video call. Four p.m.”
Zaden nodded, chewing. He swallowed. “And will you tell her you spent last night tied to a piece of furniture in my dungeon?”
She almost choked on her coffee. A laugh burst out of her, startled and real. “God, no. I’ll tell her I’m painting. Which is true.” She looked at him. “You think that’s dishonest.”
“I think it’s a boundary,” he said, finishing his last bite. “What happens in this house stays between us. That’s the first rule. The only one, really.”
“No discussing scene details with third parties,” she said, the terminology feeling new and strange on her tongue.
“Exactly.” He took their empty plates to the sink. “She doesn’t need to know what you had for breakfast, either. Some privacies are just that. Private.”
Sage carried her mug to the sink, standing close to him. The space felt charged, but differently. It was a current of shared knowledge, not just illicit desire. “What happens now?” she asked. “I just… go back to my room? Paint?”
He turned, bracing his hands on the countertop behind him, caging her lightly between his arms. He studied her face. “What do you want to happen now?”
She looked down, her fingers tracing the cool marble of the counter. “I want to understand the gold.”
A slow, deep breath left him. He lifted a hand and very gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his knuckles brushing her cheek. “That comes later. After the body processes the shock. After the mind integrates the experience.” His thumb stroked her jawline. “Today, you rest. You hydrate. You let the marks fade. You paint if you feel like it. You be eighteen.”
She leaned into his touch, just slightly. “That sounds boring.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “It’s necessary. This isn’t a race.” He dropped his hand. “I have meetings. International. I’ll be in my office until evening.”
The dismissal was clear, but it didn’t feel cold. It felt like another part of the framework. She nodded. “Okay.”
He pushed off the counter. “There’s arnica gel in your bathroom cabinet. Use it.” He walked toward the hallway, then paused, looking back at her. “Sage?”
“Yeah?”
“The color was real. Don’t overthink it. Just let it be.” Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hall.
She stood in the sun-drenched kitchen, the ghost of his touch on her skin, the memory of gold in her chest, and the whole, quiet, empty day stretching before her. She finished her coffee, washed the mug, and placed it in the dishwasher with precise care. The ordinary actions felt like a ceremony, grounding her.
In her room, she faced a blank canvas on the easel. The tubes of paint waited. She picked up a brush, her body singing its various aches. She squeezed a blot of titanium white onto her palette, then, without thinking, reached for the yellow ochre. She mixed them, watching the color lighten. It wasn’t right. She added a touch of cadmium yellow, then just a dab of gold mica pigment from a precious, tiny tube she saved for special work.
There. She loaded her brush and made the first broad, sweeping stroke across the pristine white. It was the exact shade of morning sun through her eyelids, warm and liquid and full of promise. She didn’t paint a scene or an object. She just painted the feeling, the aftermath, filling the canvas with that glowing, healing gold. The phone on her desk buzzed, the screen lighting up with her mother’s scheduled call reminder. Four p.m. The outside world waited, patient and oblivious.
She dipped her brush again, the momentum of the color carrying her forward into the quiet, charged afternoon.