Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Six years ago

Ossian

"Ellis, come on! We've gotta go!" I whisper-shout, flinging a hoodie over his barely-awake body.

He blinks up at me, bleary-eyed. "Ossian?"

"I've got our stuff. It's time."

He starts climbing out of bed, already fumbling toward his toothbrush. "Wait—I have to brush—"

"Nope, packed it. You can brush at the hotel." I block his path. "Now move. Clothes, on."

He nods, sleepy but obedient.

I step back, station myself at his bedroom door, watching the hallway like it might turn hostile. "Don't forget Cubby," I add.

He flushes a little—like he always does—but goes to the dresser, opens the secret panel behind the bottom drawer, and pulls out the stuffed bear.

I grab it from him, quick but gentle, and tuck it into his backpack. "We don't want him getting wet."

Then I reach for the gun.

"Ossian?" Ellis's voice is small.

"You remember what I told you?"

He nods.

"Say it."

"Only if it's life or death."

"Good." My voice softens. I pull him in for a tight hug. He breathes a little easier. So do I.

"It's going to be okay," I say quietly, before pulling back and sliding the gun into the bag. "Just do exactly what I say."

He glances at the window, then back at me, nervous. "It's really dark. And raining. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow?"

I take his hand. "We don't have a tomorrow."

We creep into the hallway. The motion sensor lights blink on one by one, too loud, too bright. When we reach the basement, I shove the bookcase aside with a grunt, revealing the tunnel.

"Get in."

He drops to all fours and crawls into the narrow opening.

A footstep creaks above us.

My head snaps up. "Keyne! What the hell? You were supposed to be here already!"

"There were guards outside my door," Keyne hisses as he skids into view. "What was I supposed to do—ask them to move?"

"Shhh! They'll hear us!" Evely whispers, appearing behind Keyne with the others.

Ahmir eyes Ellis in the tunnel and sneers. "You actually brought him?"

"Of course I did," I snap.

Lelah shakes her head. "Remember: once we're out, we go separate ways. No hesitations."

"I know. Just stick to the plan."

I crawl in behind Ellis. Keyne follows. Then Evely, Ahmir, and Lelah. The tunnel groans as we move, elbows digging into dirt, the cold pressing against our skin.

"Go faster!" Lelah hisses from the back.

"We're going as fast as we can," Ahmir mutters.

That's when the alarm goes off.

A blaring, gut-wrenching wail.

Ellis freezes. Claps his hands over his ears.

"Ossian!" he whimpers, curling into himself.

"FUCK!" Keyne yells.

"Ellis, listen to me—hey, Ellie—you can do this!" I reach out, trying to touch his shoulder.

"Hurry!" Ahmir panics. "We have to go!"

"Shut UP! Let me deal with him first!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me, sub!" Ahmir snaps.

"Kiss my ass," I mutter, not even looking back at him. I turn to Ellis. "Ellie, shhh. You're my brave big brother, remember?"

He shakes his head, lip trembling.

"Yes, you are. I know this is scary. I know. But look at you—you're already here. You chose to crawl into this tunnel. That's brave, even if you're scared."

"I'm sorry," he cries.

"I'm not mad at you," I say quickly. Keyne's already pulling Cubby from the bag. "Here. You think Cubby can help us all be a little less scared?"

Ellis grabs the bear and clutches it to his chest like it's the only steady thing in the world. He doesn't care who sees.

He nods. Wipes his nose on his sleeve. Takes a breath.

Then he crawls forward.

"That's it," I whisper. "You're doing great."

"I see light!" Keyne calls.

"Ellis, remember what I told you—when you get outside, don't stand up. Stay low."

He nods again, determined now, Cubby under one arm, crawling toward freedom like he means it.

And behind him, we follow. One breath, one shuffle, one heartbeat at a time.

By the time we crawl out into the forest, we're shaking, and silent.

We stay on our hands and knees. The trees stretch out around us, tall silhouettes swallowed by rain and darkness. We can't see far, but we know what's out there: miles of mud, roots, and shadows.

No path. No map.

Just directions burned into our heads.

"Good luck," I whisper, voice hoarse.

The others nod. No goodbyes. Just that quiet kind of determination that comes when you're too scared to think and too stubborn to stop.

"Bye!" Ellis says, waving with his whole arm.

Keyne is the first to stand. He ruffles Ellis's hair on the way past. "Listen to Ossian, got it? I'll see you soon."

Ellis nods quickly, clinging to the comfort like a promise.

Keyne disappears into the trees, and the others follow—Lelah, then Evely, then Ahmir, each one swallowed by the dark and the rain, their outlines gone as fast as they stood.

And then it's just us.

"Ellis," I murmur, "our turn. Stay low."

A shout breaks through the downpour.

"HEY! I THINK I SEE SOMETHING—OVER HERE!"

Ellis freezes. "Ossian—it's a guard."

"Fuck," I hiss. Too close. Much too close.

I grab his hand. "We've still got time. We stick to the ground. Just like we practiced. Crawl. Now."

The rain hasn't let up. It slams into us like it's trying to force us down. Every inch of clothing feels like it's made of stone. And the ground? It's sludge. Thick and hungry. Ellis keeps slipping, his hands sinking into the mud, his knees caked in grime. I'm trained for this.

He's not.

Time passes like that—slow, miserable, relentless.

I make the call to stop when I spot a shallow cave carved into the hill. Barely big enough for both of us, but dry enough to count as a miracle.

Ellis collapses onto his side, hugging himself. "I'm cold," he whispers.

I dig out the water bottle and hand it to him. "We're almost there. Drink."

Then come the gunshots.

The first cracks through the air like lightning. Ellis screams.

I grab him and pull him into me, fast, one arm tight around his body, the other clamped over his mouth. His whole frame shakes. My own pulse spikes like a siren in my ears.

The next shot is closer. Then another. And another.

Each one drills through the silence, a horrible rhythm. I close my eyes and hold him tighter, riding the storm in my chest.

When it finally stops, the world feels impossibly still.

I wait. Then slowly pull my hand from his mouth, brushing his damp blond hair out of his eyes. "Ellis," I say, steady, even though my voice wants to break. "We have to keep moving."

He nods, silent tears streaking down his cheeks.

I crouch beside him and point to the hill just ahead. "You see that ridge? The truck's waiting on the other side. You run up and you get in. Don't look back. I'll be right behind you."

He nods again, this time with more weight.

I take his hand and hold it for a second longer than I should.

I look at him—really look—just in case.

Then I squeeze his fingers and let go.

"This time, we run."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Now

With a groan of victory, I slide onto the barstool like I've just finished a war campaign. "Anything with alcohol," I mutter to the bartender without looking up.

Odile raises a sculpted brow, unimpressed. She slides an empty glass in front of me like it's a warning shot, tosses in a few ice cubes, cracks open a can of Coke, and tops it with a very smug slice of lemon.

I stare at it. "I look twenty-five."

"Honey," she says, arms folding, "you don't look a day over nineteen."

I scowl at the glass like it personally betrayed me. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Nice try, Ossian." Her voice is dry as gin. "That line may work on the press junket, but not here."

Sue me for wanting something stronger after spending the last four hours shaking hands with every suit, starlet, and studio exec this side of the solar system. I've smiled so much my cheeks hurt, and I'm ninety percent sure I gave someone's assistant a fake name just to mess with them.

"Hey, lovey," Emrys's voice cuts in, tired and warm. He's got Ellis draped over one shoulder like a very cute, very sleepy accessory. Ellis rubs at his eyes and yawns like a baby deer in couture.

I grin. "What did you think of the movie?"

Forget critics. Their opinion matters more than every review on the planet.

"He cried so much," Ellis giggles, covering his mouth with both hands like it's classified information.

"I did not!" Emrys protests immediately, already blushing.

I turn to him, smirking. "Wait—I made you cry? Don't tell me you sobbed like after Flowers On The Moon. The theatre was echoing."

He gasps. "That film destroyed me and you know it."

I laugh—really laugh for the first time tonight.

"Shut up, brat," he huffs, pinching my thigh. "We are so proud of you."

Ellis nods in sleepy agreement beside him, all soft eyes and starry admiration.

My cheeks burn a little, and not from the Coke. "Thanks, guys."

"Not scary like the last one," Ellis adds, mumbling. He still hasn't forgiven me for the horror film. The poor boy refused to sleep alone for a week.

Even though he's older than me by almost three years, I've been looking out for him since day one. Some people just make you want to protect them. Ellis has that whole wide-eyed-forest-creature energy, and I signed up immediately.

"I promised," I say softly, "no more horror. Pinky swear."

"Good. Or I'll make Ansel spank you," he mumbles, half-teasing.

I roll my eyes. "Not scared of Ansel's 'spankings.'"

"Did they like the clothes?" Ellis asks suddenly, eyes brightening.

I perk up. "They loved the blazer. I've been getting compliments all night."

That earns a full-on smile from him—proud and shy and heart-melting all at once. I pull him into a side-hug and kiss the top of his head.

"Love you," he whispers.

"Love you too, big brother," I murmur back.

Emrys smiles at the scene. And then, of course, ruins it.

"Speaking of—Ansel wants you home in about an hour. I'm taking this one to bed before he falls asleep standing."

"I'll be home in two," I smirk.

"Ossian," Emrys groans, tugging gently at my curls. "He's already spanked you twice today."

"Emi," Ellis whines, clearly over the lecture.

"Yeah, I know, Sunshine, we're leaving."

"I'll behave," I say, holding up my hands. "Promise. Just let me sit here a minute and finish this five-star beverage."

Emrys eyes me. "You sure you're alright? You've seemed... off."

I wave him off, maybe too quickly. "Just tired. Promo tour's been a lot."

He doesn't buy it. "Ansel's worried."

I exhale. "Tell him I'm fine. And I'll be home in an hour, scout's honor."

"Fine. I'm holding you to that." Emrys leans in to kiss my cheek. "Don't disappear on us."

I nod, and they head out—Ellis waving half-asleep as Emrys guides him toward the exit.

I turn back to the bar. The Coke is still there, still smug.

I sigh and take a sip.

Tastes like sugar, exhaustion, and being nineteen in a room full of people who think I'm invincible.

Odile slings a towel over her shoulder, eyeing me like she's about to deliver a sermon.

"You know what you need?"

I take a slow sip of my soda. "Enlighten me."

"A dom."

I open my mouth, but the sound that cuts in from behind me derails it—a loud, delighted snort.

"God help whatever poor bastard signs up for Ossian Ambrose full-time."

I don't even turn. "Eat shit, Aedar."

Odile doesn't flinch. She's seen this show before. "You two better behave at my bar," she warns, already walking away to prep drinks for the next tray of servers sweeping the floor.

I swivel on the stool and meet Aedar's grin with a smirk of my own. I've always liked poking doms—especially this one. Something about the mix of ego and entitlement makes him too easy a target.

But then he tilts his head, real slow, and says, "You know that ass of yours was made to be spanked."

And just like that, something sharp twists low in my stomach.

I inhale—too fast, too tight.

Don't look at him. Don't fold for him.

But I already am. The sub part of me—the real one, not the performative flirt I wear like perfume—is inching forward, whispering things like kneel, like submit, like fix this.

It's stupid. I know better. I've had worse things said to me. 

But this hits different. Too casual. Too close to something I don't think I've ever felt. 

"Go to hell," I mutter.

It lands flat. Not sharp. Not flirty. Just... hollow.

Aedar's gaze sharpens, catching it. "You okay?"

I don't answer.

He leans in, voice lower now. "Let's get out of here. Somewhere quieter. Fewer eyes."

It's not unusual for us to dip from a party. We've snuck away to rooftop gardens, penthouse balconies, the back seats of too many overpriced cars.

Aedar's the kind of dom who's been handed everything—including me, once or twice. Son of a major producer. Too much money, too little supervision. A wild streak that makes bad decisions look like a sport.

"I don't know," I murmur, suddenly unsure of the game.

"Come on, baby," he says, that pet-name falling out like muscle memory. "We'll get real booze. Something that doesn't taste like... whatever this is."

He grabs my soda, takes a sip.

I blink at him. "You know the papz are still out there."

"So? You afraid the headlines tomorrow are going to scream Ossian Ambrose Reunites With Old Flame—Again?"

I snort. "You're not even my type."

That earns a glare. His dom ego takes hits like a porcelain vase.

"Of course I am."

I tilt my head. "Ugh, you're right," I deadpan. "We should definitely have sex right now. Maybe right here. I'm sure the lighting in this bar would really capture your best angles."

"What?" He chokes mid-sip.

"Yeah! In fact—Odile!" I call across the bar. "Get the spotlight ready, we're giving you a show!"

"Ossian!" he hisses, face now a shade deep red.

I laugh.

Aedar shakes his head, muttering, "You're impossible," but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Come on. I know a side exit. Press won't see a thing."

I slide off the stool and drop a heavy tip on the counter.

"Fine," I say. 

He opens the door, and I follow—half because I need the air.

Half because I'm not ready to go home.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

I'm outside the convenience store Aedar dragged me to, leaning against the wall, trying not to look famous or rich or like a walking headline.

Emrys's voice starts whispering in my head—soft at first, then louder, more like annoyed big brother mode: "Get your ass home, Ossian. Now."

I take a breath. Then another. Try to shove it down.

Ansel's going to be pissed. I can already hear the lecture. The look.

He'll spank me, probably. Put me to bed.

Normally, I wouldn't care.

But tonight? I do.

And I hate that.

"Hey, you!"

I lift my head, shoulders squaring automatically, expression flipping into neutral-famous-smile mode. I'm already reaching for a pen in my pocket—autograph, selfie, quick laugh.

Until I see the knife.

"Give me your wallet," the guy snarls, stepping into my space. He's twitchy. Wired. Desperate.

I barely register his face. All I see is the glint of the blade.

I lift my hands slow. "Okay. Okay. I'm reaching for it. Don't want trouble."

I move like I've rehearsed it. Left hand to blazer pocket. Calm. Controlled.

And then I hit him.

My fist connects with his jaw in a clean, sharp arc. He stumbles back with a grunt, stunned—but only for a second.

Then he charges.

That's when I realize how big he is. Bigger than me. Stronger, maybe.

But not faster.

I twist away from the knife, foot skidding in gravel. The blade misses me by an inch, and all I can think—stupidly, insanely—is that I'm not letting him ruin the blazer Ellis made.

My vision narrows. Tunnels.

Then it snaps.

I lunge.

We go down hard. My knees hit pavement. My fists find bone.

I don't hold back.

I don't want to.

I don't know what part of me takes over—but it's not the actor. Not the sub. Not the boy who worries about discipline or image or press.

It's something older. Meaner. Unafraid.

I hit him again. And again.

He grunts. Maybe tries to yell. I don't hear it. Just blood and rain and the pounding in my skull.

I don't count the punches. I don't care.

It could've been a minute.

Could've been an hour.

Only when hands grab my arms and yank me off him does the world come back.

"Get off!" I thrash, chest heaving, eyes still wild.

I can't see who's holding me. I don't care.

The rage hasn't burned out yet. It's alive—still crawling through me like fire.

I twist against the arms, snarling. Not words. Just instinct. Just fight.

"Ossian!" a voice barks, sharp enough to cut through the fog.

I freeze.

Blink.

Then blink again.

Aedar.

His face is pale. His grip is strong. But it's the fear in his eyes that pulls me back.

Not fear of him.

Fear of me.

Of what he just watched me do.

My breath hitches. My chest stutters, like my body just realized what it’s done.

I glance down.

The man on the pavement isn’t moving much. His nose is bent the wrong way. One eye’s already closing, purple and angry.

And my hands—

My hands are stained with it.

Red. Raw.

Like I’d forgotten they were mine.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Ansel

"So you're telling me he's a level-five submissive?"

I stare at Veda like she just told me Ossian is secretly made of glass.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "No, that can't be right. He doesn't act like—he's not—he doesn't present like a high-level sub."

Veda gives me a look that's more sympathy than smug, but only barely. She gestures to the file on the desk, the pages a chaotic mess of neurochemical reports, behavioral assessments, and stress response data.

"We re-ran the tests, Ansel. Twice. Maybe a level four, maybe five sub could hit this degree of physiological distress without total system collapse."

She points to one chart, red-lined and alarming. "And then there's this—Dr. Murphy ran a cognitive battery after realizing we had no academic records on file. He blew the scale. We're talking low latent inhibition, accelerated pattern recognition, retention through the roof."

For the first time all day, I feel the corners of my mouth twitch. "Yeah," I murmur. "That doesn't surprise me. He's always been sharp. Too sharp."

Her voice gentles. "He was abused, right?"

I nod, jaw tight. "He and Ellis were. We don't know much. We tried getting him in with Ellis's therapist, but..." I look away. "He wouldn't go."

Veda watches me. "Ansel—don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't turn this into a guilt project. You didn't fail him."

"He feels like my responsibility, Veda."

"You thought he was a level-two. Everyone did. Hell, he probably did. And you live with your own two subs whose rhythms you're locked into—of course that's going to blur things. You're not psychic. And let's be honest—Ossian? He's a hell of an actor."

I let out a tired breath and lean back in the chair. "What'd the judge say?"

"She wants him placed in an institution for neglected submissives—something temporary, clinical. But he's high-profile. His agency's panicking. They want it buried."

"Of course they do." I scrub a hand over my face. "How'd he take it?"

Veda sighs. "Badly. They had to restrain him."

I close my eyes.

She softens. "Look, he's a charmer. Smart. Sweet when he's not terrorizing the nurses or escaping psych evals."

I snort despite myself.

"But Ansel, we're not just talking tantrums. He's had four violent incidents in three days. One of them was over the bedsheets. The texture alone sent him into a full-body panic. We're seeing clear signs of advanced sensory dysregulation—his system's raw, like there's no buffer left between stimulus and reaction."

She flips the chart toward me, her finger tracing the hormone panel. "And this? I've never seen numbers like this. His biology is screaming for structure, regulation—relief. We don't think his needs as a high-level sub have ever been fully acknowledged, let alone met."

"So what are you saying?"

"He needs something smaller. More personal. A team. A home. At least right now."

I let the words settle like lead.

"Have you talked to Onyx?" she asks.

"Not about this," I admit. "Work's been hell. And I don't know what he could even do."

"Well—one of his partners. Finnian."

I blink. "Yes."

"Then you know he's not just the heasmaster at Chestworth—he's taken in some cases before. Along with his partners. Three level-five dominants, living under one roof."

"They don't take in submissives, they've helped doms, mostly," I mutter.

"They will make an exception. I don't think Finnian would turn a blind eye if you put this—" she taps the chart—"in front of him."

I hesitate.

Because she's right.

Finnian wouldn't.

Before I can say anything else, the door bursts open. One of the nurses—young, wide-eyed, panting.

"Doctor—Mr. Ambrose. He's gone."

I'm on my feet before the words even register.

Of course he is.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Finnian

"Hey, baby," I call as I lean into the office doorway, holding up a familiar white take-out bag like a peace offering.

Onyx glances up from his laptop, eyes narrowing the second he sees me walk in. "Why are you limping?"

I smirk as I set the boxes on his desk. "Hendrix and I had a very productive morning before he left for Seattle."

His chair squeaks as he leans forward, scandalized. "I missed it!?"

I lean in and kiss the protest off his lips, grinning against his mouth. "You snooze, you lose."

With a satisfied sigh, I collapse onto the leather couch across from the desks, stretching out like I own the place.

He's just opening the first takeout box when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket.

I wince. "Sorry—Ansel."

Onyx groans. "Tell him his very patient partner is waiting for him in the office, starving."

I shoot him a look and answer the call. "Ans, hey—where are you? I brought lunch—"

"Finnian, I need your help," Ansel cuts in, voice tight. "Meet me at my place. Now."

The line goes dead.

I blink. Sit up.

"What's wrong?" Onyx asks, already pushing his chair back.

"He just said to meet him at home. No details."

We lock eyes.

"It might be the boys," I say.

Onyx is on his feet in a second. "Let's go."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Ansel

The front door bursts open. Onyx and Finnian sweep into the apartment, scanning the room, tense and ready.

"Is everyone okay?" Onyx asks immediately, his voice clipped.

"We're fine," I say quickly, rising from the couch. "Thanks for coming so fast."

But their eyes are already on Ossian—curled up, fast asleep, draped across Ellis's lap. Ellis holds onto him like he might vanish. I keep rubbing his back to ground him. 

Emrys appears from the hallway with a tray of coffee mugs, carefully sets it on the table, and slides down beside us on the couch.

"Ansel," Finnian says, arms crossed, brows sharp. "Explain."

Right. I take a breath. "Ossian came home tonight in full-blown panic, convinced I was having him institutionalized. He tried to lock himself in his room—we stopped him. Then he collapsed. Emrys held him until he passed out."

"He's still asleep?" Onyx asks, watching the boy closely.

"For now," Emrys murmurs, handing the file to Finnian. "But it's bad. I think you should see this."

Finnian flips it open and starts scanning.

"Who is he?" Onyx asks, gesturing gently toward the sleeping boy.

"Ellis's younger brother. I take care of him when he's in town. A week ago, he nearly beat a man into a coma during an attempted mugging. Self-defense, technically, but..."

Onyx's eyes narrow. Finnian's don't even lift. He's stopped on the hormone profile page, frozen mid-step.

"What the hell is this?" Finnian finally says, voice low and dangerous. "These numbers are—Ansel, these levels are unhinged. His stress response is maxed. His neural mapping looks like he hasn't had proper regulation in years."

"He was never formally tested," I admit. "He lied about his classification—claimed he was a level two. He's actually a five."

Finnian's voice sharpens. "How is this kid not in a hospital right now? These results are the worst I've ever seen."

Emrys flinches.

I turn. "What?"

"It's my fault," Emrys says softly.

Onyx pulls him into his lap without hesitation.

"He's been filming nonstop. Press tours. Awards, premieres, flights every other week. I didn't see it. I should've seen it."

Tears threaten to spill as he shakes his head.

"Sweetheart," I say gently, reaching for his hand, "this isn't on you."

"It's his school that failed him," Finnian agrees, closing the folder. "This wasn't just missed—it was... It must have been buried. I know a facility in Vegas—"

"NO!" Ellis blurts out.

The room falls silent.

"Ellis," I warn, voice low.

He flinches. Dips his head.

I reach out and tilt his chin up. His eyes are brimming.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to Finnian.

Finnian's expression softens instantly. "Forgiven, sweetheart."

I pull Ellis gently into my lap. He resists at first, not wanting to let go of Ossian, but finally gives in, curling against me. 

"We're not sending him to an institution," I say firmly. "His doctors are clear—intimate training would be better for him. And he's too high-profile."

Finnian nods. "They're right. Public placement would do more harm than good."

"That's why I called you." I glance between them. "I want you to take him."

Finnian and Onyx freeze, exchanging a loaded look.

"You want us to train him?" Onyx asks, eyebrows rising.

"I want you to take him into your home," I say, without hesitation. "I know it's a huge ask. I know you've only ever trained Chestworth dominants in your home. But I also know you're the only people I trust with someone like Ossian."

Finnian hands the file to Onyx, and they retreat into one of their classic silent debates—the kind that only bonded partners can have with nothing but glances and weight shifts.

Finally, Onyx exhales. "We'll take him."

Finnian nods once, like it was always going to end this way. "Ansel, you're family. Of course we'll help. I'll review his records with my team at Chestworth and put together a preliminary training framework. We'll also need to loop Hendrix in."

"Thank you," I breathe. It doesn't feel like enough.

But it's all I have.

And for the first time in days, something in my chest starts to let go.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Ossian

"Come on, Ossian," Emrys says gently, holding the car door open like I'm a nervous cat instead of a human person.

"No."

"Ossian." Ansel's voice is firmer now.

"I said no!"

Then Ellis touches my arm—light, hesitant—and I make the mistake of looking at him.

His eyes are wide and worried, lips pulled tight in that way he does when he's trying not to cry for me.

Damn it.

I sigh like it costs me something and finally slide out of the car.

We follow Ansel up the long, polished stone steps toward a mansion so dramatic it might as well have mood lighting and an ego of its own. Two men wait at the massive double doors—both tall, both dominants, both far too attractive for my current emotional capacity.

They greet Ellis and Emrys first—grinning, arms wide, warm voices and hugs and gross familiarity.

I tuck myself behind Ansel's shoulder, using his broad back as a shield and pretending the doms don't exist.

Then it gets quiet.

Ansel clears his throat. "Ossian."

He pulls me gently forward like I'm being handed off to a new school I didn't agree to attend.  

The blond one smiles. "I'm Finnian."

The darker-haired one gives a slow nod. "Onyx."

Onyx has those annoyingly intense deep blue eyes—the kind that look like they’re always two seconds from catching you doing something wrong. His skin’s warm-toned and golden, like he lives in perpetual sun, and he’s built like he could bench-press the front door if he felt like it.

Finnian, on the other hand, is all sharp cheekbones and expensive posture, with hazel eyes and a pale, clean-cut look. He looks like a retired 90s Abercrombie model turned guidance counselor.

I’m definitely not staring.

I’m just… gathering intel.

For self-defense. Obviously.

"And I'm leaving," I announce, already turning on my heel.

A firm hand clamps around the back of my neck.

"Stay." Ansel doesn't even raise his voice—but the command drops like a hammer. I freeze.

Finnian steps in smoothly, like this is all part of the onboarding experience. "Emrys and Ellis will show you to your room. There's an outfit laid out on the bed—something more appropriate for the house."

"I'm sure it is," I mutter under my breath.

Emrys grabs my hand before I can spark anything else and steers me inside. I groan the whole way up the grand staircase like it'll delay the inevitable. The room is gorgeous, annoyingly so—warm lighting, thick bedding, everything too curated to be real.

My bag hits the floor with a soft thud and Emrys immediately starts undressing me like he owns the rights to my wardrobe.

"I can change myself, you know."

"Clearly, that's up for debate," he says without looking at me, peeling my shirt off like I'm a mannequin with too much attitude.

Then I see the outfit on the bed.

A leather jockstrap.

I narrow my eyes. "Absolutely not."

Emrys picks it up, raises a brow, and holds it open expectantly.

"...Fine."

As he wrestles it over my thighs, he mutters, "How did your ass get plumper?"

Ellis giggles from the bed. I shoot him a glare that only makes him giggle harder.

"Good Lord," Emrys huffs as he finally gets it into place. I smile proudly, because if I have to wear it, I'm at least going to make it difficult.

He smacks me on the ass.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You know exactly what," he mumbles, grabbing the matching harness. "Arms up."

I roll my eyes dramatically but do it anyway.

Then come the ankle and wrist cuffs.

"Are they taking me to a club?"

"No, lovey. I think this is just your standard house uniform," Emrys says, tone way too casual for the information he just dropped.

"WHAT? Ellis! They can literally see my ass!"

Ellis just giggles again. 

Once I'm fully dressed—or strapped in, depending on how you look at it—Emrys pulls me down onto the bed between them.

"Please," he says softly. "Just give this a chance."

I look away. "I don't need this."

Emrys tenses. "How can you say that? After everything that's happened?"

The shame hits fast and hard.

"Sorry," I murmur.

Ellis grabs my hand and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. "You're going to get better here, Ossian."

I stare at him, at the pure faith in his voice. It makes my throat tight.

"...Ellis, I demand that you design me a better uniform."

He beams. "Nope. You look amazing."

I groan. And pout.

A knock at the door, and then Ansel steps inside, his expression already braced for impact.

“It’s time to go, boys.”

“No!” The word rips out of me before I can stop it.

“Ossian,” he says gently, crossing the room.

I back away instinctively.

“Please, sweetheart—”

“I don’t want to be here!”

Emrys is on me first, arms wrapping tight. “We know,” he whispers. “But this is going to help. You’re going to get better, baby.”

Then Ellis joins, wrapping himself around me like a second skin. I bury my face in his shoulder and breathe him in—soap, sugar, something warm and safe.

When they finally pull back, Ansel steps forward and scoops me into his arms like it’s nothing. I don’t fight him. I just cling. Wrap myself around him like a koala and refuse to let go.

He carries me down the stairs while I silently beg the moment to last forever.

“Finnian, Onyx, and Hendrix—they’re family,” Ansel murmurs into my hair. “I trust them with my life. We’ll visit, sweetheart. I promise.”

But then Finnian steps into my line of sight.

And I know what’s coming.

“No,” I say, tightening my hold.

Finnian reaches out—and Ansel, goddamn traitor, gently peels me off his chest and hands me over.

“LET ME GO!” I shriek, thrashing. My fists land wherever they can, but I’m exhausted. The week’s drained every drop of strength I had.

Finnian drops with me to the floor, keeping me locked against his chest like a vice. His arms are steel. Immoveable.

And I lose it.

I scream. Loud. Messy. Ugly.

I don’t care who hears.

Until I don’t hear it anymore.

Until everything drops out.

Ellis is crying—I can see him, blurry and distant, being carried out by Ansel. His face breaks me more than the arms holding me ever could.

Then—

Nothing.

Like the volume in the world just… cuts.

I know I’m still screaming because my throat hurts, but it’s like I’m miles away from the sound. Like I’ve been dropped underwater.

Somewhere in that muffled dark, I feel Finnian’s voice. Low. Calm. Threading its way through the static.

I can’t make out the words, but I cling to the rhythm of it.

The steady rise and fall of his chest behind me. The weight of his arms. The warmth of his breath against the top of my head.

And slowly, I stop fighting.

Stop spiraling.

Stop thinking.

By the time sleep takes me, I’m still in his lap, body trembling, but quiet—his voice the last thing I hear before the dark finally lets me rest.