Brigid Wycliffe's steady command draws Lorcan MacLeod into the shadowed corridors of the estate time after time. He comes restless, his thick forearms and broad chest tense with the obedience that masks his shame, seeking the ritual that will correct him until the apology leaves his lips and grants him belonging.
The formal sessions in the candlelit rooms escalate with every return. Her palm against his bare skin is no distant rite. It strips every defense and demands the apology that binds their hidden fears of abandonment and unworthiness into something neither can control.
Tonight the door locks behind him, and her authority meets his willing frame at the threshold of the first measured strike. The apology has not yet been given.
