Quinlan
I didn't believe in restraint.
I believed if you clasped a chain on the wrists of a human, you were forcing them to act like an animal.
I only ever had women in chains if they wanted to be in chains. Questionable preferences, Mercer would say, but it took a different level of skill and experience to look at a woman and know without asking if she liked her cake very vanilla, or if she liked her venison raw.
And while I knew Maisie would come to discover soon that she did like her venison raw, I was content with playing these little games of vanilla with her, where I pretended I was the good cop and not the one they called ange déchu back home in France.
"Like this," I said to Maisie as she writhed against the sheets, trying to force my hand as I chose instead to watch her first before touching her.
I loved watching her.
She was a vision. Like this. And even before the transition. There were certain images of her that I could never quite get out of my head.
