A sob broke loose from my chest. “I should have told you. In the study. I should have said the word.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The collar—the titanium band—was cool against my throat. It is not a symbol of my bondage. It is a symbol of my freedom. The freedom to be weak. The freedom to fail. The freedom to be caught when I fall.

I practically danced into the room, holding up the book. He listened with genuine delight as I rambled about the binding, the foxing on the pages, the significance of the edition. He pulled me onto the chaise lounge in the corner of his study, my back against his chest, his chin resting on my head. This is our favorite position. He is my anchor; I am his respite.