All Chapters of Masked: Ruin Me, Daddy (MM Taboo collection): Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Bellevue Ballroom cast a harsh, brilliant light over three hundred of the city’s elite.It was the annual Metropolitan Heritage Gala—a night of black-tie attire, expensive champagne, and networking. For Dean, it was an obstacle course of immense risk.Underneath the stiff collar of his tuxedo shirt, the narrow leather day-collar rested against his throat, warm from his body heat. Every time he turned his head to speak to a board member or answer a polite question, the leather gave a subtle, persistent tug against his pulse point. A silent, constant reminder of the contract locked in Kellan’s safe.Standing near the tall mahogany bar, Dean held a glass of sparkling water, forcing a polite, measured smile as Arthur Vance—a long-time family friend who had attended Kellan’s wedding to Dean’s mother years ago—draped a hand over Dean's shoulder."Look at you, Dean," Arthur chuckled, gesturing with his scotch glass. "Working high-level consultancy, keepin

The heavy iron deadbolt of the basement door clicked shut, locking out the quiet house above and the rest of the world along with it.In the center of the concrete room, Dean was secured to the heavy steel frame. His ankles were locked flat into the cold, fur-lined steel cuffs Kellan had bought at the club, keeping his legs spread and anchored to the floor ring. His wrists were pulled high overhead, bound in thick leather cuffs fastened to an iron beam. Exposed, completely immobilized, and stripped down to his dark briefs, Dean’s breath hitched in fast, shallow gasps.The air in the room was thick, warm, and charged with an intensity unlike any session they had shared before.Kellan stood directly in front of him. He had removed his jacket and tie, rolling his dark shirt sleeves up past his elbows. He didn't pick up a leather crop. He didn't pick up a whip. Instead, Kellan brought a heavy wooden stool, dragged it to the front of the frame, and sat down mere inches from Dean’s tremblin

The morning light that filtered through the high windows of the estate was cold, grey, and entirely devoid of warmth.Dean hadn't slept. He had spent the night staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, listening to the agonizing silence of the house. The leather day-collar still rested around his neck, but it no longer felt like an anchor or a mark of protection. It felt like a band of ice choking the life out of his throat.At seven in the morning, Dean walked down the grand staircase, his heart performing a desperate, erratic rhythm against his ribs. He needed to hear Kellan’s voice. He needed to know that the nightmare in the study yesterday hadn't erased everything they had built.He found Kellan in the kitchen.The sight made Dean freeze on the threshold.Kellan was dressed in a razor-sharp charcoal suit, his silk tie knotted flawlessly at his throat, his cuff links gleaming beneath the recessed lighting. The dark lounge pants, the rolled-up sleeves, the tender caregiver of the base

The fog of sub-drop didn't clear with time; it cleared with white-hot, agonizing clarity.By Thursday evening, the quiet misery in Dean’s chest transmuted into something entirely new: fury. Not a wild, screaming rage, but a sharp, iron-willed resolve. He was done shrinking into the corners of the house. He was done being treated like a fragile piece of glass that Kellan had broken and refused to touch.At eight o'clock, Dean walked down the hallway toward the study. He didn't wear a high-collared sweater. He wore a dark t-shirt that left his throat completely bare, his posture straight, his chin held high.He didn't knock on the heavy oak door. He turned the brass handle and walked right in.Kellan was sitting behind his mahogany desk, surrounded by financial reports. The moment the door swung open, Kellan’s head snapped up. His dark eyes darkened with immediate, instinctual pushback."Dean," Kellan said, his voice dropping into that cold, stern register he’d used for the past four da

The autumn sunlight streaming through the arched windows of the master suite was crisp, pale, and warm.Dean lay in the center of the broad bed, the heavy linen sheets draped loosely over his hips. The steady, rhythmic sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom echoed softly into the quiet room. On the nightstand sat a fresh mug of black tea, steam curling slowly into the cool morning air, alongside a neatly arranged binder of Dean’s weekend schedule—not dictated by Kellan, but built together during their Thursday night check-ins.Beneath the collar of Dean’s soft cotton t-shirt rested his day-collar: a thin band of black leather fitted with a small, custom-engraved silver lock. It wasn't hidden. It didn't need to be tucked beneath a silk tie out of shame or terror. It sat openly against his throat, a proud, constant symbol of a choice made in full light.Three months had passed since the night the storm broke in the study. Three months of rebuilding their world from the gr