Undone

A bell chimed once.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

But it cut through the cathedral like a blade through silk.

Dominique flinched, heart thudding in her throat. One by one, the masked attendees around her turned their heads toward the upper balcony—her balcony.

She was no longer anonymous.

A figure approached—cloaked in velvet gray, their mask a blank oval without eyes or mouth. Silent.

They held a silver tray with a single item: a mirror shard, no larger than her palm.

She took it without asking.

The moment her gloved fingers curled around it, the figure whispered—so close to her ear it felt like breath from inside her own head:

“Do you consent to be seen… without the mask?”

The mirror shard trembled in her hand.

Not physically. But symbolically.

It was a challenge. A ritual.

At The Mirror, unmasking wasn’t literal. It meant surrendering the part of yourself you guarded most. It meant letting the room see past Domica. Past Dominique.

To the ache beneath it all.

She rose.

Without a word.

Without fanfare.

The cathedral floor seemed to part for her. The masked attendants bowed as she passed, their gloved hands pressed to their chests like priests honoring a sacrament.

The steps to the altar stage felt longer than they should have.

Every click of her heels echoed like a dare.

She could have turned back.

But something inside her—a hunger that hadn’t been fed even by the WREC Room—urged her forward.

She climbed.

Until she stood across from the Mistress in red.

Until the leash lay coiled beside Wolf’s bare knee.

Until the cathedral pulsed with one single, shared breath.

The Mistress extended her hand.

Dominique placed the mirror shard into her palm.

And said:

“I consent.”

It was not just an answer.

It was a surrender.

The Mistress stepped back.

And the candles blew out—one by one—until only a single spotlight remained.

On Dominique.

She felt it then.

The presence.

Dozens of eyes—hidden behind silk, bone, porcelain—watching her. Judging her. Not for her power… but for her willingness to let it go.

Wolf had not moved.

Still kneeling.

Still silent.

But something in his posture had changed.

He wasn’t waiting anymore.

He was inviting.

Not with words.

With stillness.

The Mistress returned and raised a hand toward Dominique’s cheek.

Dominique didn’t flinch.

The glove was pulled from her left hand slowly.

Then the right.

Now bare, she stood in front of the mirror.

This time… it didn’t blur her.

It reflected her.

Eyes dark with want.

Lips parted with fear.

But more than anything: a raw, human ache to be understood.

Not worshipped.

Not obeyed.

Just seen.

The Mistress stepped aside.

A voice—low and velvet-wrapped—rang out from the choir loft above.

She didn’t know who it belonged to.

But it was ancient.

Commanding.

“Step forward, Wolf.”

Wolf rose.

Dominique’s pulse skipped.

He walked toward her—nude but unashamed. Not aggressive. Not submissive.

Equal.

“Step forward, Dominique.”

Not Domica.

Not the persona.

Her.

She obeyed.

Now, they stood inches apart.

His voice, when it came, wasn’t the growl she remembered.

It was quiet.

Gentle.

Terrifying in its intimacy.

“You wanted to know what it meant to be seen.”

“So see me.”

And he took her hand.

Not with force.

Not with lust.

With something deeper.

Almost reverent.

The final bell rang.

The Mirror cracked.

A single line of silver light cut through the ceiling above.

And everything changed.

There is a place beyond dominance and submission—where masks fall, and breath becomes prayer.”

The room didn’t breathe.

It watched.

As if the cathedral itself—stone, candle, velvet—was a living, pulsing thing, bearing witness to the two figures now centered beneath the fractured mirror.

Wolf stood before Dominique, eyes lowered, breath steady.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

The silence between them buzzed louder than applause.

The Mistress in crimson extended her hand once more, revealing two silver bands—twins, like rings forged from restraint and temptation. One etched with the word Command. The other: Obey.

She offered them to Dominique first.

Her gloved hands trembled faintly as she accepted them.

She understood the choice.

In this place, the ceremony required balance.

Each participant would wear one ring.

Each would switch.

Only those who dared both ends of the power chain were worthy of the Mirror’s final reflection.

Her fingers hovered.

Her chest rose.

And finally—she chose Command.

The Mistress slipped Obey onto Wolf’s hand.

For now.

The lights dimmed further until all that remained was the cold halo of silver cast down from the mirror itself.

A new attendant approached—a girl in ink-black lace, face hidden behind a veil.

She knelt between them, lifting a velvet-lined box.

Inside:

A collar.

A ribbon.

And a mirrored blindfold.

Dominique picked up the collar first.

Its leather was supple, dark red, the stitching fine enough to suggest obsession. She circled Wolf slowly, her heels whispering across the ancient floor.

When she pressed it to his neck, he bowed.

Not just his head—his whole self.

A silent yes.

Her fingers fastened the buckle.

And the room exhaled.

She brought the ribbon to his wrists and bound them gently. She didn’t tug. He didn’t resist.

The blindfold came last.

She paused before placing it on him, letting her fingers brush his cheek.

He flinched—not from fear.

From the contact. From the truth of it.

It wasn’t domination.

It was communion.

Their bodies, bare of defense. Their hearts, draped in tension.

And then she slipped the blindfold on.

Her lips brushed his jaw.

Her breath lingered near his ear.

“You’re mine now.”

Not screamed.

Whispered.

Like scripture.

She moved around him, circling—dragging her fingertips down the column of his spine, over the faint scars she hadn’t noticed before.

Stories lived in those marks.

But tonight, he was telling hers.

Her nails teased the edge of obedience.

And the room leaned closer.

She pressed her palm to his chest.

His heartbeat pounded against her skin.

Fast.

Loud.

Real.

She leaned in, lips barely ghosting the shell of his ear.

“Breathe for me.”

He did.

She kissed him—not on the mouth.

On the shoulder.

A soft, reverent claim.

Then, slowly, the Mistress raised her hand.

Time to switch.

The ring of Obey slid onto Dominique’s finger.

She didn’t fight it.

Her breath hitched as Wolf removed the blindfold.

And for the first time—he touched her.

One hand, cradling the back of her neck.

The other, unbuttoning the invisible parts of her—the pride, the walls, the armor she wore even in silk.

She tilted her head back.

Eyes fluttering closed.

A gasp caught between denial and desire.

He didn’t force her down.

She sank.

Willing.

Trembling.

Alive.

His lips ghosted over her collarbone.

And for a moment—

Time shattered.

She forgot the crowd.

The stage.

The rules.

There was only breath.

Pressure.

Electricity.

And a voice—his voice—so close to her core it felt like prophecy:

“Now you see why I’ve been watching.”

She opened her mouth to speak.

But nothing came.

Only a sound that was half-whimper, half-laugh—everything and nothing at once.

And then—

The Mirror cracked again.

And her reflection blinked.

Eyes wide.

Mouth open.

Completely, utterly undone.