It was another restless night for me.
But this time, it wasn't anticipation keeping me awake. It was memory.
I lay in the dark of Suite 3, staring at the ceiling, reliving every moment of Session One. The leather cuffs around my wrists. The blindfold stealing my sight. Meric's hands on my body—smooth, controlled, devastating. The way he'd brought me so close to climax, I could taste it, then stopped completely.
And the forty-eight hours stretching ahead before I could have it again.
My body hadn't forgotten. Even now, hours later, I was still aroused. A low, persistent hum beneath my skin that wouldn't dissipate no matter how many times I tried the breathing exercises, the progressive muscle relaxation, all the clinical interventions I'd prescribed to patients a thousand times.
None of it worked.
Because this wasn't anxiety. This was want.
Raw, physical, undeniable want.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to think about something else. Anything else. But my mind kept circling back to the same moment: Meric's voice, quiet and firm, saying I'm going to bring you to the edge. But I'm not going to let you climax.
And I'd believed it was cruelty.
But lying here now, body still singing with frustrated need, I understood.
It wasn't cruelty.
It was training.
Teaching me to exist in a state of arousal without immediately seeking release. Without controlling, managing, and fixing. Just... feeling.
And I hated how effective it was.
I sat up, abandoning the pretense of sleep. The clock on the nightstand read 4:47 AM. Breakfast wouldn't be delivered for another two hours. Session Two wasn't for another forty-six hours.
I was going to lose my mind.
By the time the sun rose over the fjord, I'd showered, dressed, and decided that staying in my suite was untenable. I needed a distraction. Distance. Something to occupy my brain that wasn't replaying the sensation of Meric's thumb tracing circles against me.
I left Suite 3 and headed to the library.
The East Wing was silent at this hour. Most clients—if there were any others, I still wasn't sure—were probably still sleeping. The meditation room was empty, its circular space peaceful and utterly useless to me right now. Meditation required stillness. I needed movement.
The library was slightly better. I scanned the shelves, looking for something—anything—that might hold my attention. Philosophy. Psychology. Several novels I'd already read. And there, on the bottom shelf, a slim volume I'd missed before.
The Architecture of Submission: Power Exchange as Psychological Framework.
I pulled it from the shelf and sat in the leather chair by the window.
The book was dense, academic, and clearly designed for practitioners rather than clients. It outlined various methodologies for structured dominance and submission, the psychological theories underpinning power exchange, and the ethical frameworks required for safe practice.
I read for an hour.
And realized, uncomfortably, that I was looking for Meric in the text.
Trying to understand his methodology. Decode his techniques. Predict what he'd do in Session Two so I wouldn't be caught off-guard again.
I closed the book.
This was exactly what he'd warned me about. I was analyzing instead of experiencing. Trying to control the Praxis by intellectually mastering it.
But I didn't know how to stop.
Control was the only tool I'd ever had.
"You're up early."
I looked up to find Vigdis standing in the library doorway, two coffee cups in hand. She was dressed in her usual black tactical pants and fitted jacket, blonde hair pulled back severely, but her expression was less remote than usual.
"I couldn't sleep," I said.
"Normal after a first session." She crossed the room and handed me one of the cups. "Especially when you've been denied."
I took the coffee, startled by the directness. "How do you know—"
"I've worked here twelve years," Vigdis said simply. She sat in the chair across from me. "I know what frustration looks like."
I sipped the coffee to avoid responding. It was exactly how I'd made it yesterday—strong, black, no sugar. She'd noticed.
"Can I ask you something?" I said finally.
"Go ahead."
"How long has the Institute been running?"
"Fifteen years. Meric's father founded it. Meric took over when his father died twelve years ago."
I absorbed that. "And you've been here since almost the beginning."
"Since year three." Vigdis studied me over her coffee. "I was military before this. Norwegian Special Forces. When I left, Meric's father recruited me. He needed someone who understood discipline, boundaries, and discretion."
"And Meric kept you on."
"Meric trusts very few people. I earned that trust by being ruthlessly competent and never crossing lines." She paused. "Which is why I'm going to tell you something you need to hear."
My stomach tightened. "What?"
"The Institute has cameras in all common areas. Corridors, library, dining room, meditation space. Not in your suite, not in the session chambers. But everywhere else." She gestured to the corner of the library ceiling. "That's one."
I followed her gaze and saw it—a small, discreet camera, barely noticeable if you weren't looking.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
"Because you're the kind of person who needs to know the rules before you can decide whether to follow them." Vigdis set down her coffee. "The surveillance exists for safety. To ensure clients aren't harming themselves, and to track any security irregularities. The footage is reviewed weekly by me. It's not voyeurism. It's protection."
"Does Meric watch it?"
Something flickered across her face. "When necessary."
"Has he watched mine?"
"I can't discuss what Meric does or doesn't review." Her voice was carefully neutral. "But I will tell you that everything recorded is kept confidential. No one outside this Institute sees it. Ever."
The way she said ever—with absolute conviction—made me believe her.
But it also made me wonder what had happened to make that promise necessary.
"You mentioned a security breach before," I said carefully. "In our first conversation. Has someone tried to access the footage?"
Vigdis's expression hardened slightly. "Five years ago, there was an... incident. A former client attempted to obtain recordings of her sessions. For legal leverage in an unrelated matter."
"Did she succeed?"
"No. But it revealed vulnerabilities in our systems. We've since upgraded everything. Biometric access. Encrypted servers. Air-gapped storage." She met my eyes. "Your sessions are safe. Your privacy is absolute."
I nodded, but something in her tone suggested there was more to the story.
"Was that the Clause 7.3 violation you mentioned?" I asked. "The male Praxist and female client?"
"No. That was separate." Vigdis stood, signaling the end of the conversation. "Different issue, different outcome."
"What happened to them?"
"The Praxist was terminated immediately. The client completed her contract with a different Praxist." Vigdis picked up both coffee cups. "The point is, boundaries exist for a reason. When they're crossed, people get hurt."
The warning was clear.
She thought I was at risk of crossing boundaries with Meric.
Or that he was at risk of crossing them with me.
"I'm not going to violate Clause 7.3," I said quietly.
"I didn't think you would." Vigdis moved toward the door. "But feelings don't ask permission before they show up. So just... be aware of what you're feeling. And why."
She left before I could respond.