Page 9 of Carter

I’d been kidding myself. You can’t live the Bachman life without understanding what the Bachman lifestyle asks from both people.

The men lead. The women choose to place their trust in that leadership. But headship is not a prize a Bachman man wins. It is a debt he takes on. Protection. Provision. Loyalty. Restraint. If Sasha gives me the gift of her submission, I answer for the care I take with it.

Sasha has never feared strength. What frightens her is the idea that trusting mine might require surrendering her own.

Except right now.

The door opens. She waits for me to direct her where to go.

This is new.

“Go have a seat on the couch. We need to talk,” I say.

The pitiful glance she gives me almost breaks my heart. “Carter, I⁠—”

“Now.” I will be strong. I will be the man that I know I’ve not been.

I’ll be a Bachman. I’ll uphold my vow.

Whether she chooses to accept, that will be up to her.

We go up the stairs to the living room. She sits on the couch. Her face winces as her poor bottom contacts the cushion.

I’d spanked her hard. I came up to our room expecting her to be there, and she wasn’t. She had climbed down a fire escape and vanished into New York without a phone, purse, or ID after letting me believe she was safely upstairs. That is the part I cannot shrug off as Sasha being Sasha.

When I saw her on the dance floor, relief hit first. Anger followed close behind. The dress stirred every possessive instinct I have, but the dress was not the offense. The deception was. If I am going to demand that she trust my judgment, I have to be disciplined enough to know the difference.

I sit beside her.

Her gaze is soft. Sorry. She sniffles.

She looks so small. Vulnerable. My throat feels tight. “Sasha, do you like living here in the Village?”

Her fingertips reach for her ponytail. She tugs on the end of it. I don’t even think she’s aware she has the habit. “Y-yes?”

“Do you like living with me?” I ask.

“Of course! I love living with you.”

My chest is tight. I can barely speak. But I have to say the words. “Do you love me?”

Her eyes widen. She’s shocked I would ask such a thing. “You know I love you, Carter. Why’d you even ask something like that? Do you… do you not love me anymore?”

She’s crying.

I look away. I can’t watch her cry—I’ll gather her in my arms, and we’ll be right back where we started.

Nowhere.

I say, “I love you more than anything. But I’ve made a vow.”

“To the Bachmans? I know. You told me all about it when we got engaged. And I’ll make the same vow when we get married.”

I lock eyes with her.

She goes to speak but her words catch in her throat. A sudden recognition flashes in her eyes. She knows I’m about to give her an ultimatum.

I drop the bomb. “I can’t marry you. Not unless we both truly adopt the Bachman lifestyle.”