Page 116 of The Associate
He turned and bolted. He weaved through the close-set tables, a blur of motion, ignoring the startled looks of other diners. He hit the door at a run, bursting out onto the sunny sidewalk, the cool air doing nothing to clear the suffocating pressure in his chest.
He didn’t look back. He just ran.
Chapter 29
Samuel
Samuel ran.
His legs pumped without thought, carrying him away from the café, away from the sunlight and the smell of coffee and the surprised look on Jacob’s face. He didn’t know where he was going. He just had to move.
The neat, tree-lined streets of the Upper East Side blurred past him. He cut across avenues, his breath sawing in his throat, his shoes slapping hard against the pavement. He didn’t feel the stitch in his side. He didn’t feel the sweat cooling on his neck. He only felt the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart, a painful drumbeat against his ribs that seemed to screamrun, run, run.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to buckle. He stumbled to a stop on a quiet, shaded side street, bracing his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. His vision swam. The world tilted. He looked up, blinking the sweat from his eyes.
He was standing before a church.
It was a small, old stone building, nestled between two modern brownstones. He didn’t know it. He made a point of not knowing any churches in the city. He avoided them, the way some peopleavoid the scene of an accident. He only entered one under duress, when his mother’s pleas became impossible to ignore and he couldn’t fabricate a work emergency convincing enough to bypass her quiet, disappointed tears.
He stood there, his chest heaving, staring at the arched wooden doors. The stained-glass window above them depicted a lamb, pale and serene. His eyes, blurred with exhaustion and unshed tears, couldn’t make out the details.
Is this a sign?
The thought was pathetic, a reflex from a childhood. He didn’t believe in signs. But his feet were moving anyway, carrying him up the three shallow stone steps. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
The air was cool and still, smelling of old wood, wax, and a faint trace of incense. It was empty. Quiet. A few candles flickered in red glass jars at a side altar.
Samuel walked slowly down the center aisle, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor. The rows of dark wooden pews stretched out on either side. He chose one near the middle and slid in. He leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the back of the pew in front of him and pressed his forehead against his wrists. It was the posture of prayer, a shape his body remembered from a thousand childhood Sundays, from desperate, silent pleas in the chapel at The Hills.
He didn’t pray. He just sat, trying to catch his breath.
And then, as the adrenaline began to seep away, leaving him hollow and shaking, the memories came.
The last few months played behind his closed eyes, not in order, but in vivid, emotional flashes.
The first day at Voss & Wise, his hands trembling as he adjusted his tie in the elevator mirror. Gael’s eyes, cold and assessing, freezing him in place. The mugging, the shock of the pavement, and then Gael’s silhouette against the headlights.
The first time in Gael’s apartment, the tour, the terrible, exposing questions. The feel of the cushion under his knees. The kiss against the kitchen wall, the world dissolving into heat and shame and impossible pleasure. The soft praise in his ear.Good boy.
The Crimson Knot. The flogger rising and falling, and the peace on the submissive’s face. Gael’s low voice explaining trust, explaining surrender as a gift.
Waking up sore and marked. The quiet hug in the kitchen that had disarmed him more than any command. The easy conversation over brunch, Gael’s hand warm over his.
And then Jacob’s voice. The look on his face. The yank of his own hand. The run.
A choked sound escaped him, a sob he hadn’t meant to let out. It was followed by another. He pressed his face harder into his arms, but it was no use. The tears came, hot and silent at first, then wrenching, shoulder-shaking heaves that he muffled against the sleeve of his shirt.
He wept for the scared boy on the bus to The Hills. He wept for the lonely man in the sterile apartment. He wept for the fragile, impossible happiness of the morning, now lying in pieces on a café floor. He wept because he was so tired of being afraid. He wept because, for a little while, with Gael, he hadn’t been.
He was so far inside the storm that he didn’t feel the presence beside him. He didn’t hear the soft footsteps.
The first thing he registered was a warm, solid pressure on his back. A hand. Gentle, but firm.
He startled, his head jerking up. His vision, blurred with tears, swam for a second before focusing on the face beside him.
Jacob.
Fresh tears welled up, spilling over immediately. A new wave of anguish, this one mixed with a profound, gut-deep shame.
