Page 79 of Dose

“Sorry.”

She flexes her hand, then threads her fingers through mine again. Her choice. The distinction matters more tonight than it usually does.

Five days have passed since the Phoenix review. The western-hub access attempt is provisionally nine days away. Ezra and Marcus’s model survived three rounds of challenge, Nikolai authorized the decoy, and Korte responded along one of their highest-confidence branches: she hardened the false route and shifted administrative traffic onto the secondary path.

It gave us part of the credential hierarchy. It also made Korte’s presence in the intercepts impossible to ignore. Her name has appeared eleven times in seventy-two hours, usually attached to her security detail and never quite proving whether she will be at the hub herself.

Nine days. An incomplete plan. No decision yet on whether Isla’s role requires her on site.

I have reorganized the isolation-suite shelves twice since we came down here.

She glances at them. “You moved the towels back to where they started.”

“The second arrangement was inefficient.”

“You get very orderly when you’re frightened.”

“I’m always orderly.”

“You checked the same west-hub credential six times this afternoon.”

“Verification.”

“Compulsion wearing a lab coat.”

I almost argue. There is no point. She was in the Chamber when I asked Marcus the same question three different ways. She watched my hands begin to shake on the walk down here.

Isla steps in front of me and tips her head back. “Tell me what you need.”

The answer has been waiting since before Atlanta, when I made her a promise in the corridor.

“Control,” I say. “Not of Korte or the operation. I don’t have it there.” My right hand settles at her waist. “I want to tie you to the bed. Blindfold you. Keep you at the edge until you beg me to decide when you come.”

Her breath changes.

“I want you calling me Daddy while I do it,” I continue. “I want one hour in which you ask me to make the decisions and I know exactly where you are.”

She studies me without retreating.

“You do not owe me this because I’m afraid,” I say. “If you don’t want it, I find another way through tonight.”

“I’ve never been tied down by choice.”

The words land cold.

“They cuffed me to a gurney when I was nine because I moved during a dose calibration,” she says. “Twice for transport after that. I know what it feels like when restraint means my answer doesn’t matter.” Her eyes hold mine. “I want to know what it feels like when it does.”

I force myself not to answer too quickly. Wanting this is not enough. Not with her history. Not with mine.

“Wrists and blindfold,” I say. “Edging. No gag. No pain. You choose where I secure your arms.”

“Above my head.”

“Red ends it. Yellow makes me stop and check in. If words fail, tap the headboard twice with either hand.” I lift her joined fingers between us. “If you go quiet or stop answering me, I stop whether you signal or not.”

“Red, yellow, two taps.”

“And?”