Chapter 2: Collars, Confessions, and Cold Shoulders

For the next few days, I didn’t dare treat Carter the way I used to. I put away all the props.

I hovered at the edges of his world, trying to make amends. I ironed his shirts, learned his favorite playlists, even figured out how he liked his eggs. Every gesture was a silent apology.

At the dinner table, I eagerly ladled a bowl of homemade stew for him, offering a hopeful smile:

“I spent all afternoon making this for you—give it a try.”

But Carter’s face instantly darkened. He muttered through clenched teeth:

“Riley, you think I need this? You think I need to eat this stuff?”

His voice was low, almost trembling with something I couldn’t name. He stared at the bowl as if it were a personal affront. I froze, spoon in hand, caught off guard.

What was his problem?

Back in our lakeside town, Mrs. Jenkins next door loved making this stew for her husband. She said it was good for men’s health. I figured Carter’s ‘prince syndrome’ was acting up—looking down on my humble cooking. So I tried to reason with him:

“This is good stuff, really good for you. We shouldn’t be so picky—simple things are good for us.”

Carter just stared at me, speechless.

He ended up eating the stew, but his expression was one of pure humiliation, like he was being punished.

He poked at the carrots, jaw clenched. But he finished every bite.

That night, after my shower, I returned to my room.

As soon as I walked in, I was pulled into a corner.

Carter trapped me against the wall, his breath warm on my neck. He must’ve just showered too, a towel wrapped around his waist, his skin still damp. And he was wearing that collar again.

Damn it, I’d hidden that thing! How did he find it?

He placed the end of the chain in my hand. His tone was almost reverent.

“It’s your turn to decide bedtime tonight.”

His voice was low, almost pleading. I felt the chain slip into my palm.

God knows how tempting this was for a thirsty dockworker’s daughter like me.

Still, I pushed him away, sneaking a couple quick gropes of his abs to take the edge off, then patted his shoulder like a saint:

“No more. I’ll never force you again.”

“Why?”

His voice trembled a little, fists clenching at his sides. I thought he was about to cry, so I took the chance to say more nice things:

“I was wrong before—only thought of myself, ignored your feelings. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

I sent Carter out of the room.

Maybe it was just my imagination—he looked even more forlorn than a soap opera heroine being sent away by her lover.

He lingered in the doorway, eyes shining with something I didn’t want to name.

I shut the door gently.