Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
I think about the girl I was at eighteen. The one who wrote Lyra's story because she needed somewhere to put all the darkness inside her, all the shameful wanting that had no acceptable outlet. She didn't know what any of it meant. She just knew that the fear, and the helplessness, and the desperate relief felt real in a way nothing else did.
She knew that Lyra's surrender wasn't weakness.
It was survival.
I think about what the unmasked man said in the aftercare room. About how Station Three was designed as a trust-builder. About how I would emerge feeling exhilarated and proud, knowing I could face something that scared me and come out stronger.
He wasn't talking about a simple maze.
He was talking about this.
About The Call of the Labyrinth made flesh.
About walking into my darkest fantasy and discovering whether I could survive it.
Whether I could trust him enough to let it play out.
My fingers find the raised welts across my thighs where the cane struck me. The pain has faded to a dull throb, but when I press against the tender skin, it flares back to life—sharp, immediate, grounding.
I wrote that punishment too.
I wrote all of this.
Every fantasy I've ever committed to paper, every dark desire I've explored through fiction, every scenario I thought was too extreme to ever happen in real life—he's turning them into reality.
He's giving me exactly what I asked for.
The question is whether I'm brave enough to accept it.
I read the poem one more time.
Hunters prowl with practiced skill, seeking pleasures you won't fight.
Failure brings the prize you crave, punishment you long to feel.
All your fantasies made real.
I fold the card carefully and hold it against my chest, feeling my heart pound against the paper.
Then I start walking toward Station Three.
Chapter 13
Caleb
The afternoon light on Story Island has always possessed a peculiar quality that I've come to appreciate during my years of owning this place—dappled sunlight filtering through the dense canopy overhead, breaking apart into scattered beams that pierce the shadows below like scattered messages from some divine entity.
The effect is almost theatrical, the way the light shifts and dances, creating dramatic contrasts of illumination and darkness as the Caribbean trade winds push clouds across the blue sky above.
It's beautiful in a raw, untamed way that money can't buy, only stumble across and claim.
And on the screen before me is Scarletta, suspended in that very light.
She's leaned into her challenge with every ounce of herself. She's given me everything—her trust, her fear, her absolute surrender. The completeness of it makes my chest tight with something I don't have adequate words for.
I'm not disappointed that she used her safe word.
Not even remotely.
In fact, I'm intensely, viscerally proud of my good little slut for having the courage and self-awareness to do so. For trusting me enough to believe I would honor it without question or hesitation.
And the reason she gave—Jesus Christ, the reason. My God. Could there possibly be a better, more perfect reason to invoke that protection?
I want to remember everything.
She was afraid of blacking out. Of losing this experience.
Not losing her agency, which would also be valid.
Losing her experience.
She wanted to stay present for every moment of what I was giving her.
That's not weakness. That's the opposite of weakness. That's a woman who understands her own psychology well enough to recognize the warning signs, who trusts me enough to believe I'll stop when she asks, and who values our experience together enough to protect it from her own neurological defense mechanisms.
She could have let herself slip away. Could have surrendered to the blackout and woken up afterward with fragmented memories and confusion. Instead, she fought for consciousness. Fought to stay with me.
I replay the moment in my mind—her voice cracking on that single syllable, red, the way her body went slack with relief when I immediately powered down the wand and began releasing her restraints. No hesitation. No negotiation. No disappointment in my expression or my touch.
That's what builds trust. Not the scenes themselves, but the moments between them. The proof that her boundaries are sacred.
My thoughts drift forward, constructing the evening ahead with the same precision I bring to everything.
After the maze, I'll have lunch brought to the pavilion overlooking the eastern beach. Nothing elaborate—grilled mahi-mahi, fresh fruit, a light salad. She'll need protein after the physical exertion of the morning, and I want her alert, not sluggish from heavy food.
Thirty minutes to decompress. To let her nervous system settle back toward baseline.
But I won't let her sit across from me like we're colleagues sharing a meal.
No.
I'll make her kneel between my legs on the cushion I've already had placed there. I'll feed her pieces of steak from my fingers, watch her lips close around each morsel. Slices of mango, still cold from the refrigerator, the juice running down her chin until I wipe it away with my thumb.