CHAPTER 4
Derrick exhaled heavily and stepped out of his car, heading toward the front doors of The House. He hadn't come looking for a scene tonight, and sex was the furthest thing from his mind. Truthfully, he was restless — haunted by the memory of Sandra from earlier that day. That visit to the cemetery had left him unmoored.
There'd been something different about her — something he couldn't shake. She'd stepped out of her front door in faded jeans and a soft T-shirt, her hair loose and face bare, and the sheer beauty of her had hit him like a sucker punch. The kind that lingered long after the blow.
Then she'd asked him to stay back while she visited Clement's grave alone. He'd watched from the car as her lips moved in a quiet conversation with the dead man. When she finally returned, something in her had shifted. Her expression was calmer. Her back straighter. She'd looked at him with a kind of quiet resolve — and then apologized. Apologized for being a burden. For needing too much. For wasting his time.
She had no idea that she was his time.
He greeted the man manning the entrance and wandered through the lower levels — the social lounges where the wine flowed, the conversations simmered, and the tension in the air often promised more than polite company. People paired off, exchanged glances, drifted upstairs. Derrick barely noticed.
Plenty of women took interest. A few made direct approaches. But he wasn't here for that — not tonight. He'd been here before, countless times, chasing ghosts in other people's arms. Pretending. Imagining. Always imagining her.
And now? Now she might actually be moving on. Her words from earlier replayed like a record skipping in his head: that Clement was gone, that she had to find a way to live again. She'd said it with conviction. And pain. And a kind of finality that terrified him.
He didn't know what to believe.
He'd waited for years. Been patient. Been the rock she leaned on. The best friend she never suspected harbored anything more. She'd never seen it. Never known that every moment with her mattered. That she wasn't a duty — she was everything.
Clement had known, though. Of course he had.
Before the accident, just weeks before it happened, Clement had cornered him and made him promise — swear — that if anything ever happened to him, Derrick would be there for Sandra. Not just as a friend, but as someone who truly loved her. Who would protect her. Cherish her. Love her as Clement had.
It had felt like a cruel joke at the time — a reminder of everything he couldn't have. But he'd made the promise. Not because Clement asked, but because Derrick had meant it.
Now here he was, in the place where he usually came to forget. But forgetting wasn't happening tonight.
He grabbed a glass of wine — only the best was served here — and climbed the stairs to the upper level. The common room was in full swing, filled with the usual kaleidoscope of sounds and sensations: moans, murmurs, the occasional crack of leather against skin. The air was warm, thick with arousal and anticipation.
He swept the room with a practiced eye. No sign of Ken or Karla. Good. He didn't come here often, but when he had in the past, running into old friends mid-play was... awkward, to say the least.
Karla was a rare kind of submissive — loyal, radiant, and totally in tune with her partner. Ken had found someone special in her, and Derrick respected that deeply. It was what he wanted for himself, what he searched for in every fleeting connection he made. But he would've given it all up in a heartbeat — that part of himself — if it meant he had a real shot with Sandra.
She'd never known this side of him. Never needed to. Clement hadn't been part of the lifestyle, and Derrick had always kept his own preferences quietly tucked away. Just one more secret.
Still, even after all this time, he hadn't found anyone else who came close. After Sandra, the bar had simply been too high.
He drifted toward a quiet corner, trying to distract himself, when movement at the entrance drew his attention. He glanced toward the doorway—and froze.
No. It couldn't be.
His heart thudded once, painfully, as he registered what he was seeing.
Sandra. Here.
Walking into The House.
Wearing a black dress that clung to every inch of her like it had been stitched to her body. A pair of heels that could make a man sin on sight. Her hair pinned up, soft strands brushing her neck, mouth slightly parted in disbelief.
And beside her, a man he recognized too well. Craig. A seasoned Dom, known for his rotating cast of submissives and his lack of emotional attachment. He was already gripping Sandra's waist, hand sprawled across her hip in a gesture so possessive it made Derrick's stomach turn.
She looked... stunned. Nervous. Not like herself at all.
Derrick didn't think. He moved.
Crossing the room, fast and focused, his pulse spiked. Sandra's eyes met his mid-stride, and he saw it — the recognition, the panic, the shame. She stepped away from Craig instinctively, but Craig tugged her back.
That was all it took.
Derrick reached them in a blink, positioning himself between Sandra and Craig without hesitation.
"Let her go," Derrick growled.
Craig blinked, taken off guard. "What the hell—?"
"I said, get your hands off her. Now."
Craig raised his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes narrowed. "Whoa. Chill. Didn't know she was—whatever she is to you."
"She's not for you," Derrick snapped. "Stay away from her. That clear?"
Craig's gaze lingered for a beat too long before he backed off with a casual shrug. "Fine. Whatever, man. She's yours."
Derrick turned to Sandra, whose face was ghostly pale. He caught her hand, firm and protective, and led her away without another word. Down the hallway, down the stairs, out the front door.
She stumbled a little in her heels, and he nearly carried her the rest of the way to his car. Rage and confusion churned inside him — but above all, a need to understand.
Once outside, he stopped and turned to her, barely keeping his voice level. "Where's your car?"
"I... I didn't drive," she said, voice shaky. "I took a cab."
That made it worse. Had she planned to stay the night with Craig? Was she expecting... more?
He opened the passenger door and motioned for her to get in. She obeyed silently, visibly shaken.
"Derrick?" she whispered as he climbed into the driver's seat.
Her voice cracked something open in him. The fear in it, the shame. She wasn't scared of him — not exactly. But she was scared of what he thought of her. And that was almost worse.
"I'm taking you home," he said quietly.
They drove in silence, her hand in his, trembling slightly. She kept trying to speak, then falling silent again. He didn't push her. Not yet.
But as he pulled into his driveway, just a few blocks from hers, she finally turned to him in surprise.
"Why are we here?" she asked softly.
"We'll talk inside," he said, his voice a little rougher than intended.
Her eyes dropped, and she nodded.
He walked around to open her door and guided her up to his front step. When they crossed the threshold, he paused to look at her — really look at her — and saw the storm in her eyes.
"It's going to be okay," he said gently. "Let's just... talk."
And as she stepped into his home for the first time, something between them shifted — small, invisible, but irrevocable.