Learning Curve - Discipinary Action #2 - Ch. 7. (Patreon)

Unbeta'd/Unedited. If this isn't your jam, don't read it. Its all good. Try to remember this is a work in progress and may change before release. The storm from last weekend is now coming tonight and tomorrow 4-9" of snow but my laptop is fully charged and we have the generator so I'm going to keep writing.

Matteo

Matteo would almost swear he’d had some kind of out-of-body experience, like he was standing there, body in flames, watching himself melt into a puddle under Evander’s soul-searing kiss. He might have convinced himself it was some kind of hallucination if not for the way his lips and scalp still tingled long after Evander released him, like his nerves hadn’t caught up to the fact that it was over.

When Evander dismissed him with a low good boy, Matteo had moved on autopilot, knees rubbery, mouth swollen, dick half-hard in his pants, quickly escaping down the hall. His feet barely felt like they were touching the floor. Once safely in his room, he collapsed on the edge of the bed, just sitting there, fingers pressed to his lips, trying to figure out why Evander’s kiss had detonated a bomb inside him. Why his body felt like it was still braced for impact.

He glanced at the door, half-expecting it to open again, half-hoping it wouldn’t, then slipped his phone free, pulling up Cal’s number, hands trembling as he fired off a text. He was probably still in class.

Matteo: I’m freaking out! He said he owned me. He called me his pet. He said if I couldn’t pay financially, I’d pay with my body. He pulled my hair. He kissed me.

Matteo was about to set the phone down and start unpacking when he saw the three dots begin to dance. Cal was either home or bored in class. Matteo imagined law school was a real snooze-fest, endless lectures and cold fluorescent lights.

Cal: I told you to call this whole thing off. You can’t handle him. I know trained subs who would run screaming from him. Do you really need money this badly? If it’s just money, I can give you money to get back on your feet. It’s better than earning it from someone who doesn’t value you.

Matteo shook his head even though he knew Cal couldn’t see him. He wasn’t explaining this well at all—but there were so many feelings swirling around in his head that he didn’t even know where to start, or which one scared him the most.

Evander did value him. More than Matteo valued himself, anyway. Evander looked at him and saw potential—real potential, not the hollow kind people talked about to sound kind—and Matteo didn’t know how to deal with disappointing someone else when he realized they were wrong about him.

That was what scared him. Not Evander’s ownership. Not his threat of punishment. Not being called a pet, or the idea of paying him back with sex. It was how easily something had cracked open inside him the moment he heard Evander’s praise. His heart was still racing, his skin still tingling, his body still humming like it had been tuned to Evander’s frequency. He could already see himself growing addicted to this—to Evander—to his praise, his touch…everything.

Evander thought he could fix Matteo. Thought he could make him into something someone could be proud of. Something worth the attention he’d been given. But Matteo had a long history of disappointing people who were stupid enough to believe in him. If disappointing people was an Olympic sport, he’d have gold, silver, and bronze.

Matteo had accepted long ago that his role in life was to be the villain in every ’90s teen movie—the rich, spoiled kid who sneered at the less fortunate and ruined every opportunity his wealth and privilege afforded him. The cautionary tale. The wasted potential. The guy everyone loved to hate.

Matteo: You don’t get it. I’m not freaking out because he said it. I’m freaking out because I liked it. No—that’s not even the right word for it. It was… I don’t even know. Hot? He called me good boy and I just melted like butter on cement. 🥵 What the fuck is wrong with me?

Cal: 🤣🤣🤣🤣 You’re screwed. I can’t say I didn’t see this coming, but I truly thought you’d last longer than an hour before you crumbled like a cheap pastry. I still think you’re in way over your head with this. It’s dangerous. You have to really trust a dom to do some of the shit that was in that contract, man.

Matteo did trust Evander. That was what was so weird. Unsettling, even. Maybe he was naïve. Maybe he was just really fucking stupid. But he believed—deep in his bones—that Evander would stop if Matteo used his safeword. He believed Evander wouldn’t go out of his way to humiliate him or destroy him publicly. That whatever cruelty lived in Evander was deliberate, controlled, not careless. He didn’t know why he believed it, but he did.

Matteo: I should be scared, right? Freaking out? And I am—but not for the reasons I should be.

Cal: So why are you freaking out?

Matteo: Because I really don’t know how to do all the things he wants me to do. Cook? Clean? Make beds? Do laundry? Like… do you know how to do any of that shit? We grew up with maids. Housekeepers. I never had to learn that stuff. Did you?

Cal: I didn’t learn until my dad went to prison. Then I had to learn to do everything—even survive on the streets. Which I failed at. Miserably. Our parents didn’t do shit to prepare us for a normal life, just a privileged one.

Matteo’s stomach churned, guilt shocking through him like ice water to the gut. He was doing it again. Making everything about himself. And Cal—even now—was still helping him. Still steady. Still there.

What had life on the street been like for Cal? Micah had said he’d heard through the grapevine that Cal had been homeless for a few days before he’d almost died from his type one diabetes. That someone had stolen everything from him—even his shoes. Matteo swallowed hard at the thought.

Matteo: Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t think before I say shit. You know that about me. I’m just kind of spiraling now that this is real.

Cal: It was a long time ago. You don’t have to keep apologizing. Strangely, I would do it all the same way if it meant getting to have everything I have now. Well—except Alexa getting hit by a car. That I’m still pissed about. You owe her a million pig ears.

Pig ears? What the hell did that mean?

Matteo felt like there was a baseball lodged in his throat. Heavy. Immovable. He wished he could take it back. He wished he could take everything back. He still had nightmares about the way Alexa had yelped when she’d gotten hit by that car—sharp, panicked, wrong in a way his brain refused to soften even years later.

Maybe that was why he didn’t have Baby now. Maybe the universe had a way of karmically punishing people who hurt animals, whether they meant to or not. Maybe it kept a quiet tally. The cat distribution system had revoked his status.

He started to type out a response a dozen times before finally just settling on the lamest one possible.

Matteo: Is she okay?

Cal: She’s good. Spoiled rotten. Living her best life with her equally spoiled siblings. Didn’t you have a pet? A cat?

Matteo nodded like an idiot in the empty room, chest impossibly tight as he thought of his cat. Baby’s soft weight on his chest, the way she’d headbutt his chin like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Matteo: Baby. Pretty sure my dad got rid of her the same way he did me. She was too old to be adopted. She’s probably dead.

Cal: Jesus. No offense, but your dad is a bigger asshole than mine.

Matteo: None taken. He really is.

Matteo: I miss her. I hope she didn’t suffer.

Matteo watched those dots dance, feeling almost hypnotized by them. His thumb hovered uselessly over the screen, skin buzzing with a restless ache. So much so that he snapped out of it only when he saw Cal’s message.

Cal: Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been in his house less than an hour and you’re already having some kind of existential crisis.

What did he say to that? How did he explain something he didn’t even understand himself? When he’d come up with this plan to seduce Evander, Evander had been an abstract concept—a means to an end, a villain he could manipulate if he was clever enough.

But the moment they’d met face to face, Matteo had been sucker-punched by the reality of the situation.

He had no power. Evander had all the power. The money. The leverage. The house. The rules. The ability to decide whether Matteo stayed or vanished without a trace. That thought should have terrified him.

The idea of swearing fealty to the man he’d once tortured for sport should have made him sick.

But there was a weird sort of peace in it.

Did that make him pathetic?

Matteo didn’t make good decisions. If anything, given two choices, Matteo would pick the wrong one every time. He’d built an entire personality around that inevitability. Maybe it was better if someone else made the decisions for a while. Maybe it would be a relief to stop pretending he knew what he was doing.

What the fuck was he even saying right now?

Matteo: Do you think even someone like me can change?

Matteo’s heart was in his throat by the time Cal answered. He barely breathed, like movement itself might jinx it.

Cal: The old Matteo never would have apologized to me, not even for advice. Looks like you already are changing.

Matteo: Thanks, man.

Cal: Keep me in the loop. I’m invested.

Matteo: 👍🏻

Matteo finally looked around his new room. It was hardly a servant's quarters. Two of the walls were made entirely of windows, stretching two stories high, the city beyond them muted and distant, like something he was observing rather than part of.

There was a king-size bed anchoring the space, flanked by two perfectly symmetrical side tables, each topped with a boring brass lamp. The linens looked comfortable and plush—but they were white and khaki, almost utilitarian. As if comfort here was permitted, but only within very specific parameters.

He also had a large dresser with a mirror and a chest of drawers that were empty, just waiting for his sparse wardrobe. The emptiness felt intentional, like an expectation rather than an oversight. There was only one door besides the entrance. Matteo assumed it would be the closet, but instead found a large bathroom. On the right was a shower with a tub inside—deep enough to disappear into—on the left a vanity and a closed door which he assumed held the toilet.

A quick walk through the space led to an enormous walk-in closet with solid oak shelves and drawers and a lighted mirror built into the corner. Everything smelled faintly of clean wood and something sharper—cedar, maybe, or polish. Velvet hangers hung on the rod, swinging lightly when he tapped them, soft and soundless, as if even the air here had been trained not to make noise.

He sighed, a long, quiet thing that felt like surrender more than relief, heading back to the kitchen to ‘straighten up’ before he put his clothes away. When he entered the living room, he found Evander sitting at the concrete slab that Matteo supposed was meant to be the dining room table. The thing looked less like furniture and more like a monument—cold, immovable, built to last, a sacrificial altar with premium seating.

When Evander didn’t look up from his laptop, Matteo went into the kitchen, gathering the dishes and setting them in the sink. The clink of ceramic against metal sounded too loud in the cavernous quiet. He waited for him to acknowledge him—a glance, a word, anything—but he just…didn’t.

Somehow, that felt worse than a punishment. Worse than being ordered. Worse than being watched. Being ignored made him feel small in a way that sank straight into his bones, like he’d already failed some invisible test he didn’t remember agreeing to take.

###

Who knew belonging to Evander could be so…boring.

Seven days had passed since his arrival. Seven days of non-stop careful correction that was slowly driving Matteo mad.

You folded the towels correctly, but not my way. Start over.

The corners don’t line up. Look again.

You missed a spot. I can see it from here.

Plates go left to right by size. That one doesn’t belong there.

Those can’t air dry. They’ll warp.

You didn’t check the pockets. You destroyed that silk handkerchief. That’s a deduction.

That lint filter should be cleaned every time or it could cause a fire.

You overloaded it. That’s why they didn’t rinse properly.

You shrank my cashmere sweater. That’s another deduction.

You broke three Spode dishes. That’s coming out of your allowance.

This keeps happening because you’re rushing. Slow down. You’re already at seventy-eight percent of your allowance.

The words looped in Matteo’s head like a metronome, steady and unforgiving, each correction landing with surgical precision. Not shouted. Never shouted. Calm. Exact. Worse than anger.

Matteo both dreaded Evander returning home and craved it, the isolation making him a little stir-crazy. The house itself felt like a snitch, every polished surface watching him, waiting for him to get it wrong, ready to tattle to Evander that he’d done something wrong…again. 

He wasn’t banned from leaving the house. He hadn’t even been limited to where he could go. It wasn’t like Evander couldn’t find him. He had a tracker on his phone. For safety. Whatever that meant.That one had rankled a bit, but Evander pointed out that Matteo’s phone tracked his location as well, which did take the sting out of it a bit. Evander hadn’t raised his voice when he’d explained his rationale for that either. He’d just looked at Matteo like the answer was obvious, like Matteo was the one being unreasonable for bristling at it.

No, Matteo’s isolation was of his own accord. His and the thousands of people bullying him on social media anyway. The headlines were brutal, saying things like: From Playboy to Pauper to Penthouse Living or Roger Koch says grandson ‘has no relationship’ with Evander Frost. That his grandfather might even be aware of Matteo’s situation with Evander was freaking him out a bit. He didn’t want them anywhere near this situation.

His father and grandfather ruined everything. Every time. Without fail.

But as bad as the headlines were from ‘legitimate’ news sources, the Reddit comments were worse. So much worse.

If you look at his past behavior, this outcome was inevitable. He’s always been a loser.

Classic narcissistic collapse.

He was propped up by wealth and nothing else.

No real skills, no resilience, no accountability. What’s left but sugar baby?

He was always a fucking douchebag.

Poor little rich boy.

Each comment sank in like a bruise, blooming beneath his skin. But those ones didn’t hurt as much as the ones where people just…felt sorry for him.

I hope he gets help.

He seems lost.

I heard he’s a drug addict.

How do we know Evander Frost isn’t taking advantage of him?

Someone had accused Matteo himself of secretly writing that comment, which would have made him laugh if he was capable of it.

He’d like to say he was the bigger person. That he let it all roll off of him, but that would be a lie. Every word was a wound, shallow and sharp. Death by a thousand cuts. The worst part wasn’t that they hated him. It was that they thought they understood him. Yet, he couldn’t stop reading them. In between chores, while he was running on the treadmill, at night before falling asleep. Alone. Again. He just doomscrolled.

And every time the front door clicked open somewhere in the house, every time he heard Evander’s footsteps or the low hum of his voice on a call, Matteo’s pulse jumped anyway—traitorous, hopeful, terrified.

He was doing his best. He followed Evander’s schedule, even his stupid fucking journaling prompts. Sure, most of his entries were sarcastic and even sometimes a little mean, but what did the man expect? He was being asked to excavate himself with a pen and paper like it was nothing, like self-reflection didn’t scrape bone.

Still, Evander never commented negatively on the journal entries. He never sneered, there was never any hostility or venom in his tone no matter how badly Matteo messed up. It was just this constant quiet correction, this soft but stern way of telling him it wasn’t done to his standards, then showing him once more how he wanted it. Close enough that Matteo could smell his cologne. Close enough that Evander’s presence pressed into his space without ever touching him.

That was the thing about Evander. He was steady, unwavering. Militant in his schedules and his rules. His morals and values etched in stone. Matteo wished he’d just beat him. Wished he’d snap, lose patience, give Matteo something sharp and obvious to react to. When he’d fantasized about what was to come that first night, he’d envisioned punishments with far more intensity, like the ones Evander had mentioned in the contract. He’d thought he’d get what Cal had mentioned—severe correction followed by aftercare and babying. 

Something that burned hot and ended clean. But instead, all he got were soft words and soft looks, followed by a swift dismissal.

At least physical punishments had an ending. Evander’s disappointment in him lived in his head rent free. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the way Matteo replayed every interaction, every pause, every unreadable look. Despite all of that, there was one thing Evander insisted on nightly that drove Matteo mad.

Every night, before bed, Evander entered his room and asked him three questions:

Who do you belong to?

Why do I correct you?

What happens when I stop correcting you?

Matteo’s answers to these three questions varied just like his journal entries, ranging from rude to angry, but Evander never wavered. Never argued. Never corrected the tone, only the substance. After Matteo’s final answer, he’d kiss his forehead and say, “Goodnight, hatchling,” and leave him to his sleep.

That kiss was the worst part. Warm. Brief. Gentle. A reward he hadn’t earned and wasn’t allowed to chase.

In the grand scheme of things, this was life on easy mode. He didn’t have to fuck Evander or get spanked or used. He just cleaned and wrote and answered a few odd questions every night. But instead of being grateful, it was making Matteo crazy. His skin buzzed with unused energy, his thoughts looping, his body aching for something he didn’t have the language to ask for. He wanted more. He wanted what Evander promised in that contract.

So, tonight, he was going to make him give it to him.

One way or another.

Matteo was leaning against the kitchen counter on his phone when the door opened and closed. He forced himself not to run and greet him at the door like a needy dog but it was good to just know someone else was in the house, even if his heart was galloping and he was close to breaking out in a cold sweat. He hated how quickly his body reacted to Evander’s presence, like it had been waiting all day.

Evander entered the main area and stopped short, almost like he sensed something was off. Which it was. The dishes from breakfast and lunch were still in the sink. There were crumbs on the counter. The towels sat unfolded on the ugly coffee table. Matteo was about to climb out of his own skin waiting for Evander’s reaction. Every unfinished task screamed at him, a list of failures laid bare. But it was different this time. This time Matteo had made a choice, a dangerous one, but a choice nonetheless. 

He waited for the eruption, the disappointment.

Instead, Evander walked into the kitchen and did something entirely unexpected.

He kissed his forehead just like he did every night. “Hello, hatchling.” 

Matteo froze.

“I think I’ll skip my workout today,” Evander said. “Did you workout today?”

The question landed softly. Casually. Like everything wasn’t already unraveling inside Matteo’s chest.

Matteo’s chin came up. “No. I didn’t feel like it.”

Evander nodded. “Alright,” he glanced at the dishes in the sink. His gaze lingered there for a beat longer than necessary, not accusatory—observant. “Are you planning on doing the dishes or should I just order dinner in?”

“Is this the part where you tell me I don’t get to eat until I do the dishes?” Matteo asked, crossing his arms over his chest, posture defensive even as his pulse thudded in his throat.

“I’m not going to deny you food,” Evander said. “Are you going to do the dishes or no?”

Something about Evander’s calm had Matteo contemplating walking back his childish stand. That calm was worse than anger. It didn’t rise to meet Matteo’s defiance; it absorbed it. No, he was sick of this monotony.

“You should probably order food,” Matteo said by way of an answer.

Evander nodded. “Any preferences?”

Matteo’s mouth was dry. His tongue shot out to lick his lower lip. “You know what I like.”

“Mm,” he said. “I do.” 

There was something unreadable in his tone, a quiet acknowledgement that made Matteo’s stomach twist.

By the time Evander returned, his blonde hair was damp, his feet bare as he padded quietly toward Matteo. He wore loose-fitting black pants and a t-shirt with his company logo on it. Comfortable. At ease. Entirely unbothered.

“Food will be here soon,” he said, his hand grazing Matteo’s hip as he passed.

The touch was brief. Incidental. And it sent a jolt straight through Matteo’s spine.

Evander had ordered dinner from a local restaurant. Healthy, clean…delicious. Matteo could barely eat, his spine rigid, hyper-aware of every single micro-expression that crossed Evander’s face. 

After thirty minutes of Matteo pushing his food around his plate, Evander wiped his mouth and set his napkin down, standing and taking his plate to the sink. He returned to the table, but not to his own chair—to stand beside Matteo instead.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Matteo craned his head up to look at him. “Sorry?”

Evander gave him an almost apologetic look. “You’re not yet, but you will be. Come with me.”

Fear—and something else—shot through Matteo. Anticipation. Relief. A sick, traitorous thrill. His bravado evaporated in an instant. He was trembling, trying to decide whether he was willing to push Evander further.

He wasn’t.

He followed without question.

They entered Evander’s room.

Matteo had the obscene urge to laugh. This was his first time seeing his bedroom. It was lavish, but almost like it was decorated by a supervillain. The walls were a dark charcoal, the headboard a floor-to-ceiling marble slab with a fireplace built into it. His bed sat on top of a huge wooden platform with hurricane glass in the corner. There was a thick sofa, two chairs, heavy drapes still open to reveal the city below.

It was less a room and more a lair.

The lighting was low, casting an amber glow wherever it pooled, softening edges while making shadows deeper, more deliberate.

“Undress,” Evander said softly.

“Wh—What?” Matteo said, not because he hadn’t heard him but because he was caught off guard. “What are we doing?”

“I’m going to give you what you’re clearly begging for.”

Matteo’s breath hitched. The words settled into him slowly, spreading heat and dread in equal measure.

“Why do I have to take everything off?” Matteo countered.

He wasn’t shy necessarily, but he’d never been completely naked in front of someone who was fully dressed. The imbalance was the point, and they both knew it.

“Do it slowly.”

“Why?” he asked again.

Evander didn’t answer this time either, just moved to sit in one of the large wingback chairs…watching.

Matteo took a deep breath and let it out. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, filled only by the quiet crackle of the fireplace and the sound of his own heartbeat. He reached for the buttons of his shirt.

“Look at me,” Evander said.

Matteo’s gaze jerked to his without thought, his face flaming as he unbuttoned his shirt with clumsy fingers. The simple command hit harder than a shout ever could, snapping his attention into place like a leash pulled taut. Evander watched him, his unwavering attention heavy—measured, unblinking, patient in a way that made Matteo acutely aware of every acknowledging inch of his own body.

Evander crossed one leg over the other, settling deeper into the chair, a study in deliberate stillness, letting Matteo feel seen as he revealed skin inch by inch. Matteo dropped the shirt on the table beside him, then reached for his pants, once more fumbling as he struggled to maintain any sense of composure. His fingers felt thick, uncooperative, like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

The room felt too quiet. Too big. Every rustle of fabric sounded obscene in the space between them.

Once he was nude, Evander tilted his head, drinking him in, gaze lingering on Matteo’s erection for a beat—not approving, not condemning, just acknowledging—before saying, “Fold them. You won’t leave my room the same mess you’ve left the rest of our home.”

Matteo shivered.

Our home.

The words echoed in his skull, settling somewhere deep and treacherous. It was weird folding his clothes while nude, hyper-aware of the chill on his skin, of the way exposure made him feel smaller and more visible all at once, setting them on the table in front of the sofa in a neat pile. He refolded the shirt once, twice, because the edge didn’t look right the first time.

Only then did Evander stand.

The shift in height alone made Matteo’s pulse spike. Evander crossed to him, close enough that Matteo could smell him—clean, restrained, something faintly metallic and expensive—and took his hand, firm but not rough, leading him to the far end of the room. To the one empty space in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows where the city sprawled beneath them, glittering and indifferent.

“Kneel.”

Matteo’s gaze jerked upward. “What?”

“Kneel,” Evander said again, voice placid, unyielding.

Matteo hesitated. Just long enough.

“Or would you rather end our arrangement now?”

Something shriveled inside Matteo, sharp and sudden, like a door slamming shut. Pride. Defiance. Whatever fragile illusion of control he’d been clinging to—it collapsed under the weight of that single sentence. He lowered his gaze and knelt on the cold floor, the shock of it biting into his knees.

“Sit back on your heels,” Evander coached. “Palms on your thighs. Spine straight. Eyes on me.”

Matteo didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Evander said, “Breathe.”

He sucked in air, chest shuddering, the simple act suddenly foreign. Evander crouched down before him, weight balanced on his heels, bringing them eye level. Up close, his presence felt immense—contained, controlled, inevitable.

“You’re going to kneel there until you remember how to follow instructions without forcing my hand.”

Matteo’s mind skidded uselessly. This is it? No spanking. No raised voice. No overt punishment. Just stillness. Just obedience. Just being made to exist inside his own body with no escape.

Evander gripped his chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing his gaze upward. The touch was brief but precise, positioning rather than affection.

“What do you say?”

Matteo felt like he was burning alive from the inside out. Fear. Shame. Want. Need. They tangled together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. 

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

“Good boy.”

The words detonated low in his belly, making his cock twitch. 

Evander released his chin and gently cupped the back of his head, guiding his gaze downward to the floor before standing and leaving the room. Panic flared—sharp and humiliating—at the thought of being left alone like this, exposed and kneeling, but Evander returned moments later with his laptop, settling into the chair with that same infuriating calm. Legs crossed. Computer balanced on his lap.

The sound of keys tapping filled the room.

The next hour passed like molasses. Thick. Slow. Unforgiving. Every second stretched, each one dripping into the next until time lost its meaning. Evander ignored him for the most part, the repetitive rhythm of typing slowly seeping into Matteo’s bones, reinforcing the silence.

His thighs burned. His calves trembled. His back ached with the effort of staying upright.

“Sit up straighter,” Evander said without looking up.

Matteo corrected immediately, spine snapping rigid, a hiss slipping from his teeth before he could stop it. How long had it been? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? His body had lost track of time entirely.

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I can’t help it,” Matteo whined, the sound slipping out before pride could stop it.

“Move again and you’ll be on your knees tomorrow night as well.”

The words landed heavy and final.

Matteo froze, breath shallow, eyes stinging. Tears blurred the marble floor beneath him—not from pain alone, but from the unbearable weight of being seen, measured, and held to a standard he desperately wanted to meet but knew he never would.

By the time Evander finally said, “Are you ready to apologize?” Matteo was unraveling.

He had no idea why he was so emotional. The punishment was more annoying than painful, but still, he felt scraped raw, like all the skin had been rubbed off him from the inside out. Like kneeling there had sanded him down to something soft and exposed he didn’t recognize.

He gave a stilted nod, tears dripping on the floor, but unable to wipe them away. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” Matteo mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then come here,” Evander said, crooking his finger.

Matteo made to stand when Evander shook his head. “No need for that. You’re already down there.”

It took Matteo a full, humiliating second to understand what he meant. The realization slid into place slowly, heat blooming low in his belly. He wanted him to crawl.

And worse—terrifyingly—Matteo wanted that too.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He did as Evander asked, palms flattening against the cool floor as he moved forward, knees aching, heart hammering, stopping only when he was kneeling between Evander’s spread legs. When Evander shifted, elbows resting on his knees to loom over him, Matteo surged upward without thinking, mouth crashing into Evander’s in a desperate, uncoordinated kiss.

It was reckless. Impulsive. Too much.

But Evander didn’t push him away. After a few seconds, he kissed him back, tongue exploring, hand trapped in his hair, holding him where he wanted him.

“Come here,” he said against Matteo’s lips, voice low, steady, utterly unruffled.

The permission—casual, absolute—undid him.

Matteo let Evander guide him up until he was in his lap, not straddling him but draped across his thighs, naked skin pressed against Evander’s clothes. The contrast made him dizzy—his own vulnerability against Evander’s complete composure.

“Why are you crying?” Evander asked gently when he broke the kiss, gently wiping at his cheeks.

Matteo swallowed. His throat felt tight, swollen. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the words cracking as they left him.

“That’s okay,” Evander said easily. “It’s normal. Discipline always brings up big feelings.”

“You didn’t even hit me,” Matteo muttered, the complaint small and confused.

Evander’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

Matteo went quiet.

He let himself sink into the warmth of Evander’s body beneath him, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding him. Evander’s hand rested against his bare stomach, heavy and warm, not roaming, not teasing, not even acknowledging Matteo’s arousal—just there, an anchor point Matteo didn’t realize he’d been searching for.

“In the future,” Evander said calmly, “if you want me to punish you, you don’t have to brat your way into it. You only have to ask. Behaving like this won’t get you what you’re looking for. I know what you’re doing.”

Matteo shifted slightly, breath hitching. “What is it you think I’m doing?”

Evander didn’t hesitate. “You’re restless. You’re scared. You’re overwhelmed.” His thumb traced a slow, absent arc against Matteo’s skin, leaving him longing for more. “You’re sensory seeking. Pain causes adrenaline. Fear causes adrenaline. You’re trying to regulate your system by flooding it with endorphins and you think if you make me angry enough, you can push me into giving you what you need.”

The accuracy of it hit Matteo harder than any strike could have.

He didn’t know how to contradict him—or if he even wanted to. Evander wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. But the idea of asking for punishment, for pain, for attention, felt unbearable. What if Evander refused? What if he smiled like it was cute and said no?

“Would you feel better if we started your maintenance discipline sessions tomorrow?” Evander asked.

Matteo nodded immediately, the movement instinctive.

“Words, Matteo.”

Matteo closed his eyes, forcing himself to stay present, to not disappear inside himself. “Yes,” he whispered, then steadied. “Yes, please.”

Evander’s hand slid up Matteo’s bare stomach to cup his face, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye, turning his head just enough to catch his lips in a soft kiss. It lingered, warm and unhurried, but didn’t deepen.

“You’re being so polite right now,” Evander murmured. “So sweet for me.”

Heat rushed to Matteo’s face. He buried it against Evander’s chest, mortified and relieved all at once.

“Do you understand what maintenance entails?”

Matteo started to nod, then stopped himself, honesty winning out. “No,” he admitted. “Not really.”

“It means I spank you every night,” Evander said evenly, like he was explaining the weather. “Regardless of behavior. It’s not a punishment. It’s not correction. It’s containment. And it exists completely separate from the corrections you’ll receive for disobeying me.”

Matteo stilled.

“Daily discipline isn’t about punishment,” Evander continued. “It’s about reminding you that you’re mine. That it’s my job to bring you back when you start to drift.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “I’m your anchor.”

“Oh.”

Matteo didn’t fully understand it—not intellectually—but something in his chest loosened anyway. It sounded impossible. Unreal. And yet—safe. Was this why Cal was so addicted? Was this how Gideon had convinced him to marry a man twice his age? He pushed the thought aside. He didn’t want to think about anyone else right now. He wanted to enjoy this feeling. Nobody had ever held him like this before. How pathetic was that?

They sat like that for a while, Matteo curled naked in Evander’s lap, head resting against his shoulder, Evander’s fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along his outer thigh, grounding him back into his body piece by piece.

Eventually, Evander shifted, jostling him gently. “Time to get dressed, hatchling.”

Matteo lifted his head, then tried and failed to stifle a yawn. “Is it time for bed?”

“No,” Evander said calmly. “It’s time for you to put your underwear on. You’re going to clean up the mess you made.”

Matteo opened his mouth to protest, but Evander cut him off smoothly.

“And because you did so well for me tonight,” he added, “I’m going to help you. So neither of us are too tired to take care of our responsibilities tomorrow.”

Matteo’s breath stuttered.

Help, in Evander’s vocabulary, meant guidance. Presence. Containment. And Matteo realized—too late to stop it—that he was already aching for it.

Not that he'd ever tell Evander that.

Ever.