8. Seven

I stepped into Shepherd's apartment and froze, feeling like an intruder. The polished hardwood floors gleamed beneath my scuffed sneakers, each step leaving a ghost of grime on pristine rugs in deep crimson and navy. I tugged at my greasy uniform shirt, suddenly aware of every rip and stain, wishing I could shrink into the shadows.

Shepherd led me into the living room, gesturing for me to sit. I perched on the edge of the black leather couch, its softness a little too inviting, too pristine. Just sitting here felt like a risk, as if my presence alone might leave a mark. Sleek, minimalist art hung on the cream-colored walls—abstract swirls of charcoal and scarlet.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a breathtaking cityscape. The lights of downtown twinkled against the rainy afternoon sky. So different from the view from my cramped apartment, where I was lucky to catch a glimpse of the occasional smoggy sunset between the dilapidated buildings.

“Can I get you a drink?” Shepherd asked, moving to a bar cart stocked with crystal decanters of amber liquid.

I shook my head mutely, still taking in my lavish surroundings. A stone fireplace flickered with dancing flames. Built-in bookshelves lined an entire wall, filled with leather-bound tomes. Shepherd's stainless-steel kitchen gleamed, all granite countertops and state-of-the-art appliances.

It was a stark contrast to the kitchen I shared with Hal, Cherry, and Ketchup, which was little more than a hot plate and a fridge that sounded like a jet about to take off. The constant drip-drip of the faucet had lulled me to sleep more times than I could count. The rest of the time, I fell asleep counting cracks in the ceiling.

I wandered to the bookshelves, fingers grazing the spines of thick volumes, and pulled out a book at random. The Modern Clinician's Guide to Intersectional Sex Therapy . I mouthed the title to myself, brow arching.

“What exactly does a sex therapist do?” I asked, sliding the book back into place.

Shepherd emerged from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs. The rich scent of coffee wafted through the air. He set one on a coaster on the glass coffee table in front of me before settling back into his chair with the other.

“Sex therapists help individuals and couples address various sexual issues,” he explained, taking a sip of his coffee. “Anything from sexual dysfunctions to intimacy problems to healing from sexual trauma.”

I reached for the mug, wrapping my hands around its warmth. “And the BDSM stuff? Is that part of it, too?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Shepherd's mouth. “BDSM can be incorporated into sex therapy when appropriate. It's about exploring power dynamics, building trust, and pushing boundaries in a safe, consensual way.”

I took a gulp of the coffee, savoring the bold flavor. Definitely a step up from the instant crap I usually drank. “Sounds…intense.” I couldn’t decide if it was fascination or a wary tension twisting in my gut.

“It can be,” Shepherd replied, eyes glinting with something I couldn’t place—pride, maybe, or an invitation I wasn’t sure I wanted. “But when done correctly, with clear communication and utmost respect, it can also be incredibly fulfilling for both parties involved.”

My face heated at the implication in his words. I ducked my head, focusing intently on my mug. “I wouldn't know. It's not exactly my area of expertise.”

“Few people are true experts,” Shepherd mused. “But anyone can learn and grow with the right guidance.” He leaned forward and put down another coaster, letting his mug rest on top of it.

I met Shepherd's gaze, curiosity getting the better of me. “So how does someone even get into being a sex therapist? Especially with the whole BDSM thing. It's not exactly a conventional career path.”

Shepherd leaned back, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. “It was a natural progression for me, given my longstanding interest in both BDSM and mental health. I've always been fascinated by the intricacies of the human mind, the ways in which our experiences shape our desires and behaviors.” He paused, his expression growing more somber. “My interest in mental health is also personal. It stems from my own struggles, my own trauma.”

I blinked in surprise at Shepherd's confession. His own trauma? The put-together, dominant man before me hardly seemed like someone wrestling with inner demons. But I guess you never know what battles people are fighting beneath the surface.

“Trauma?” I echoed. “From being in the cult?”

“It’s a little different from what you’re dealing with,” he said. “I have dissociative identity disorder.”

I shifted in my seat. “Is that like…PTSD?”

Shepherd shook his head. “No, DID and PTSD are distinct conditions, though they can co-occur. Dissociative identity disorder, previously known as multiple personality disorder, is characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality states.” He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “These alters, as we call them, each hold different memories, serve different roles and function on their own. Most of the time, I’m the one out, but if you’re going to be staying here, it’s only fair that you know the truth. It’s possible you’ll have to meet one or more of them while you’re here.”

My breath caught, my fingers tightening around the mug. Multiple personalities? The words felt surreal, like something from a movie. But here was Shepherd, eyes steady, waiting as if my shock were just another predictable layer of his story.

“So... the other personalities, they're part of you?” I asked hesitantly, struggling to wrap my mind around the concept.

“Yes and no,” Shepherd replied. “We share a body, but we're distinct individuals with our own thoughts, emotions, and experiences. I'm the host, the main personality who handles most of our daily life. But the others are always there. Some are more aware of what’s happening than others. I do my best to communicate with them, so we’re all up to speed. We have a system that works, and Gavin helps, but don’t be offended if it seems like I suddenly don’t remember a conversation we’ve had or act like I don’t know you. It’s nothing personal, Eli.”

I sat back, trying to absorb this new information. It was a lot to take in. The idea of multiple personalities, of not always knowing who you were talking to...it was unsettling. But at the same time, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of empathy for Shepherd. What must it be like to have your mind fractured like that? To constantly be at war with yourself?

“I... I appreciate you telling me,” I said finally, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “I can't imagine what that must be like. To deal with that every day.”

Shepherd's lips quirked in a humorless smile. “It's not always easy,” he admitted. “But I've learned to manage it over the years. And I’ve learned it’s often best to be open about it with people. Trust is a two-way street. You’re trusting me with your safety. I want you to know that all the others in here are as invested in keeping you safe.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze intense. “I need you to understand, Eli. If we're going to do this, if you're going to stay here... there may be times when I'm not myself. Times when another alter is in control. I'll do my best to prepare you, to let you know what to expect. But there may be surprises. Things even I can't predict.”

A shiver ran down my spine at the seriousness of his tone. At the implication that even he, with all his control and dominance, was sometimes at the mercy of his own mind.

“I understand,” I said softly.

“You also need to understand that my life works because I live by a strict set of rules. As part of that, there will be rules for you while you’re here.”

My heart clenched at the word rules . It didn’t matter that Shepherd’s voice was calm, that his eyes were steady. Rules meant control, punishment, a leash disguised as safety. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to pull away.

I looked down at my hands, studying the lines of ink etched into my skin. The tattoos were my own form of rebellion, a way to reclaim my body after the cult had tried so hard to control it. To strip me of my autonomy and make me into their perfect little soldier for God.

Shepherd’s voice softened, each word careful, as if speaking to someone wounded. “Eli, look at me.”

Reluctantly, I dragged my gaze up to meet his. His dark eyes were intense, but not unkind.

“The rules I have in place are for everyone's well-being and safety,” he said gently. “Both yours and mine. They're not about control for the sake of control. And they're certainly not about punishment.”

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. “What... what kind of rules?”

“Basic things. A curfew to make sure you're getting enough rest. Expectations around cleanliness and respect for shared spaces. An open line of communication at all times, so we always know where the other is and that they're safe.” Shepherd paused, watching my face carefully. “Gavin has unrestricted access to the apartment, and he’ll drop by twice a day. However, you will have your own space. I expect you to keep it tidy, but other than that, you’re free to decorate it however you wish. There is also a room that’s generally kept locked and I’ll ask you to respect that since that room belongs to one of my alters and he doesn’t like for his space to be disturbed.”

I nodded slowly, processing Shepherd's words. The rules were reasonable, even gentle. But rules had always been weapons in the cult—control masquerading as care. The itch of old anxiety stirred beneath my skin.

“And what if I break one of these rules?” I asked, hating the tremor in my voice. “What happens then? Will you…” I swallowed. “Punish me?”

Shepherd's brow furrowed at my question. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he regarded me intently. “I don’t believe in punishment as a tool, Eli—not in any way meant to harm. Here, rules aren’t for control but for safety. If you make a mistake, we’ll talk, understand why, and decide together how to handle it.” His voice was low and measured, each word carefully chosen. “I would never lay a hand on you in anger or with the intent to harm. That's not what this is about. This is about creating a safe, stable environment where all of us can happily live in peace. If you break a rule, we'll talk about it. Try to understand why it happened and how we can prevent it from happening again. It's about communication and growth, not punishment.”

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Relief washed over me at Shepherd's words, at the sincerity in his eyes. But beneath the relief, a tiny flicker of disappointment stirred. A traitorous curiosity flickered at the thought of Shepherd’s hands holding me steady, guiding me. For so long, my body had been the cult’s to control—could I bear to give over that power voluntarily? The thought both thrilled and terrified me.

“However,” Shepherd continued, his gaze still locked on mine, “if punishment is something you want to explore, in a safe and consensual way, that's a different conversation. But it would be entirely separate from our current arrangement. It would be part of a formalized Dominant/submissive relationship, with clear boundaries and safe words. Something we'd have to negotiate and agree upon in writing.”

My face flushed at the implication that punishment could be something I wanted . Something I craved. I'd spent so long being told that my desires were wrong, sinful, that the idea of indulging them felt like the ultimate transgression.

“I don't know if I'm ready for that,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “The whole Dom/sub thing. It's a lot to wrap my head around.”

Shepherd nodded. “And that's perfectly fine, Eli. Perhaps today isn’t the day to discuss any of that. It’s been a long and emotional day for you already. I’d rather you settle in and find some balance first before we add any more pressure.”

I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore the way my body responded to Shepherd's words. The thought of surrendering control, of putting myself entirely in Shepherd's hands, was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Is that...is that something you still want?” I asked hesitantly. “To be my Dom, I mean. Like you mentioned before.”

Shepherd’s dark eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes. There’s something about you that calls to that side of me. But it's not a decision to be made lightly, and I have high expectations of my submissives. Even in the best of circumstances, I would want you to get more of a feel for who I am, how I operate, and to be more stable in your personal life before I took you on as a submissive. Our personalities and interests should align, and there should be a strong foundation of trust. That comes only with time. Right now, let’s just focus on making you comfortable, Eli. We can explore the rest if and when you’re ready.”

I nodded, both relieved and a little disappointed. Part of me wanted to dive headfirst into this new world Shepherd was offering, to throw caution to the wind and surrender myself completely. But the rational part of my brain knew he was right. I was in no state to be making life-altering decisions. I needed time to process everything that had happened, to find my footing in this strange new reality.

“Thank you,” I said softly, meeting Shepherd's gaze. “For everything.”

Shepherd's lips curved into a smile, warm and genuine. “You're welcome, Eli. I'm glad I can help.” He glanced at his watch. “Gavin should be here soon with some groceries and supplies. Why don't I show you to your room so you can get settled in?”

As if on cue, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the apartment. I tensed instinctively, my eyes darting to the door. Shepherd rose smoothly to his feet.

“It's just Gavin,” he assured me, laying a comforting hand on my shoulder as he passed. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down my spine.

The door swung open and Gavin stepped inside, his arms laden with brown paper grocery bags. He nodded at Shepherd before his cool gray eyes settled on me.

“Eli, this is Gavin, my personal assistant,” Shepherd introduced. “Gavin, Eli will be staying with us for a while.”

Gavin gave me a brisk nod, his cool eyes assessing. “A pleasure,” he said with careful neutrality. He set the grocery bags down with efficient ease, exuding the quiet control of someone accustomed to managing things without question. “I stocked up on some basics,” Gavin explained as he placed a carton of eggs in the fridge. “Figured you might want to cook for yourself sometimes, Eli. Let me know if there's anything specific you'd like me to pick up next time.”

I mumbled a thank you, still feeling off balance by Gavin's sudden appearance. It was strange, having someone else shopping for my food, anticipating my needs. In the cult, we ate whatever meager rations were provided, never daring to voice a preference or request. And after I escaped, I subsisted on ramen noodles and canned soup, stretching every dollar as far as it could go.

Shepherd must have sensed my unease because he spoke up, his voice calm and reassuring. “We can always go shopping together too, Eli. So you can pick out things you like. This is to get you started.”

I nodded, grateful for the offer. The thought of wandering through a big, brightly lit grocery store, faced with endless choices and decisions, was daunting. Having Shepherd there would make it feel more manageable.

“Speaking of getting started,” Shepherd continued, “we should probably swing by your old place sometime soon to pick up your things. Clothes, personal items, anything you want to bring with you.”

My stomach clenched at the thought of going back to that dingy, cramped apartment. At facing Hal and Cherry and Ketchup, explaining where I'd been, why I was leaving. Would they be angry? Hurt? Would they even care?

“I don't have much,” I said, my voice sounding small in the expansive luxury of Shepherd's living room. “Some clothes, my art books, and my tattoo supplies…”

Shit. My apprenticeship at Cherry’s. With all the chaos, I'd completely forgotten about it. What if she was pissed at me for moving out? What if she didn’t want me around the shop anymore? Tattooing was the one thing I had that was truly mine. The thought of losing it made my chest tighten.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “My apprenticeship. It’s at my roommates’ shop. What if she doesn’t want me there anymore after this?”

Shepherd's brow furrowed in concern. He crossed the room and sat down next to me, the leather couch creaking slightly under his weight. “Do you want to continue your apprenticeship?”

I nodded vigorously. “More than anything. It's…it's all I have.” My voice cracked on the last word.

“Then we'll make sure you can continue,” Shepherd said firmly. “I’m sure your friend will understand. If not, we’ll work together to find you another placement if we have to.”

Relief bloomed in my chest at Shepherd's words, at the certainty in his voice. But it was quickly followed by a twist of guilt. Shepherd had already done so much.

I looked up at Shepherd, my brow furrowing in confusion. “But what about getting another job? I can't let you pay for everything. I need to contribute somehow.”

Shepherd shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. “Don't worry about that right now, Eli. I'm happy to cover your expenses while you focus on your apprenticeship and getting settled here.”

My gut twisted with unease at his words. This was all too easy, too open-handed—too…caring. Good things didn’t just happen; they were traps, and I’d learned to see them for what they were. There was always a price, often hidden but always cruel.

“I don't know,” I said slowly, picking at a loose thread on my tank top. “I don’t want to be a burden,” I said, but it wasn’t just that. I didn’t want to rely on anyone—not again. Dependency was dangerous; it left you helpless.

“You're not a burden,” Shepherd assured me, his tone patient but firm. “I invited you to stay here. Helping you get back on your feet is part of that invitation.”

I chewed my lip ring, still unconvinced, but not wanting to seem ungrateful. “I'll pay you back,” I mumbled. “Once I start making money from tattooing.”

“We can discuss that later,” Shepherd said, rising to his feet. “For now, let's focus on getting you settled in. Gavin, would you mind showing Eli to his room while I get dinner started?”

Gavin, who had been quietly observing our exchange from the kitchen, nodded. “Of course. Right this way, Eli.”

I followed Gavin down the hallway, my ratty sneakers sinking into the plush carpet with each step.

He pointed out a closed door at the end of the hall. “That's Shepherd's room, and that one’s Dex’s room.” He gestured to a door on the left. “It's generally kept locked, as Shepherd mentioned. Please respect their privacy and don't enter either room without an explicit invitation.”

I nodded, making a mental note. The last thing I wanted was to overstep my bounds and piss off Shepherd or one of his alters. We continued down the hall, passing a sleek, modern bathroom with gleaming chrome fixtures and a rainfall showerhead that looked like it belonged in a luxury spa.

“You're welcome to use any of the toiletries,” Gavin said, noting my wide-eyed gaze. “Shepherd keeps the guest bathroom well-stocked.”

I mumbled a thank you, struggling to absorb the contrast: a full shelf of toiletries versus the half-empty, shared shampoo bottle back home.

Gavin led me past another door, this one slightly ajar. Through the gap, I caught a glimpse of a large mahogany desk, bookshelves lined with thick volumes, and a leather armchair. “Shepherd's office,” Gavin supplied. “He conducts most of his remote therapy sessions from there.”

Finally, we stopped in front of the last door at the end of the hall. Gavin pushed it open and stepped aside, allowing me to enter first.

I stepped into the room and blinked in surprise. It was larger than I expected, with high ceilings and a big bay window that overlooked the city skyline. Soft gray walls and dark hardwood floors created a soothing, neutral backdrop. A queen-sized bed with a plain white comforter and a mountain of fluffy pillows dominated one wall. On the opposite side, a dresser and a small desk sat waiting to be filled. Built-in shelves lined the wall above the desk, bare save for a few decorative succulents.

It was a far cry from the cramped, cluttered bedroom I shared with Hal back at the apartment. There, I was lucky if I could find a clear spot on the floor to set down my backpack amidst the piles of dirty laundry and discarded beer cans.

“This is your space,” Gavin said from behind me. “Feel free to decorate it however you'd like. Posters, art, photos—whatever makes it feel like home to you.”

Home. The word felt foreign. I'd never had a place that felt like home, not since I was a little kid, before the cult. Even then, the memories were hazy, more like half-remembered dreams than reality.

I turned to face Gavin, my brow furrowed. “Is Shepherd for real?” There was always a catch; I knew that much by now. No one ever just gave without wanting something back.

Gavin regarded me with his cool, assessing gaze. “Shepherd is a man of his word,” he said simply. “If he says he wants to help you, he means it. There's no ulterior motive, no hidden agenda. That's not how he operates.”

I shook my head, still struggling to wrap my mind around the concept of unconditional generosity. In the cult, everything came with strings attached. Every kindness was a manipulation tactic, a way to keep us compliant and under control.

“But why?” I pressed. “Why would he go to all this trouble for someone he barely knows? Someone like me?” My voice caught on the last word, all my insecurities rising to the surface.

Gavin's expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Shepherd sees something in you,” he said. “Something special. Shepherd rarely connects with anyone as deeply as he has with you, but when he does, he doesn’t hold back. Shepherd gives himself fully, even if it means taking on someone else’s darkness. It’s how he is.”

I looked away, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. The idea that someone could see worth in me, could believe I had potential beyond being a fucked-up cult survivor, was overwhelming.

Gavin sighed and came a little further into the room. “Don’t expect puppies and rainbows, Eli. Shepherd… he has his shadows, his own burdens, and they’re not easy. There will be days he’ll test your trust, days you might wonder what you signed up for. But if you stay, if you get through those times, you’ll be stronger for it.”

I let Gavin's words sink in, trying to reconcile the image of Shepherd as a stern taskmaster with the gentle, patient man who had offered me a haven without hesitation. It was hard to imagine him having a dark side, but I supposed everyone had their demons. God knows I had plenty of my own.

“I guess I'll have to take it one day at a time,” I said finally, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. “See how it goes.”

Gavin nodded, apparently satisfied with my response. “Do you have a cell phone?”

I fished my phone out of my pocket and held it up.

“I’ll give you my number,” he said, pulling out his. “That way, if you need to talk or if you have concerns, you can reach out. Plus, that’ll make it easier on me if I can get in contact with you. I’ll know what I’m walking into every day.”

I handed Gavin my phone, letting him program his number into it. When he handed it back, I stared down at the screen, my fingers hovering over the contacts list for a second longer than necessary. The names in my contacts list were few, and those I could trust… fewer still. Holding the phone felt strangely heavy, like it represented something more than just another connection. It was a lifeline, maybe—but one I wasn’t sure I knew how to rely on.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, pocketing the phone.

Gavin studied me for a moment. “You’ll be fine here, Eli. Shepherd’s not perfect, but he’s straightforward. He wants to help, and that’s all you need to focus on right now.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say. My life had flipped upside down in a matter of days, and while part of me wanted to believe things could get better, another part of me was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’d been given hope before—just to have it ripped away.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” Gavin said, breaking the silence. “Dinner should be ready soon.”

He turned to leave, and I stood there for a few moments, staring at the closed door. Alone again. But this time, the space around me didn’t feel suffocating. It felt... open.

I sank onto the bed, running my hand over the soft comforter. It was ridiculous how something as simple as a bed could feel so foreign. The weight of it all pressed down on me—this new life Shepherd was offering, the uncertainty of where it would lead, the uneasy feeling that none of this could be mine.

Maybe Gavin was right. Maybe Shepherd was different. Maybe I didn’t need to worry about hidden motives. But trust had been beaten out of me a long time ago, and the idea of trusting someone, even someone as kind as Shepherd, felt like walking into a trap.

As I sat in the quiet of this room that felt nothing like mine, I felt the strange pull of wanting to believe in something again. Maybe even someone. It was dangerous, I knew. But in the dim quiet, a fragile sliver of hope began to spark. Still, an old instinct warned: Don’t relax, not yet. Not ever.

I leaned back on the bed, letting my body sink into the mattress, the softness enveloping me. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt a soft, delicate glimmer—a small thread of hope I barely dared acknowledge, lest it break. It was almost enough to make me believe.

And yet, even as I let my eyes drift closed, my mind whispered a warning: Don’t get too comfortable. Not yet.