By His Rules by J. A. Rock Page A

about something
    stupid—which set of knives could go in the dishwasher
    and which had to be done by hand—when Sloane
    suddenly stopped and apologized. “I don’t mean to be
    so grouchy,” she said. “I’m just a lighter sleeper than the
    other two, and you make it really hard to get a good
    night’s sleep.”
    “What do you mean?” Aiden asked.
    Sloane shrugged. “We’ve all tried to be cool about
    it.”
    “Cool about what?”
    “Come on. Are you telling me you don’t wake
    yourself up, yelling like that?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Every fucking night, you scream in your sleep! It
    wakes us all up. Or it used to wake us all up. Now it just
    wakes me up. Kimmie and Hera are used to it.”
    Aiden’s throat tightened, and he flushed. Was he
    really shouting in his sleep each night? Why hadn’t
    anyone said anything before now?
    “Look,” Sloane said wearily. “I know you’ve had it
    rough—”
    “What do you know about how rough I’ve had it?”
    Aiden demanded.
    “I know your boyfriend beat you up and raped
    you.”
    Aiden slammed down the plate he was drying, too
    angry to speak.
    “Look… ” Sloane frowned. “Maybe you should
    think about seeing a psychologist or something. I know
    someone who—”
    Aiden walked out of the room. He barely spoke to
    Hera when she came home that evening, and he stayed
    awake all night, afraid he’d fall asleep and scream.

Chapter Ten
    Keaton was packing up his office for the day when
    someone knocked on his door. “Come in,” he called,
    hoping whoever it was wouldn’t keep him long. His
    afternoon ceramics class had been fun. He’d had the
    students do “picture rants”—illustrations, in a medium
    of their choice, of something that had been bugging them
    lately. He enjoyed teaching, but it would be a relief to
    get home and spend some time alone in his studio.
    He looked up as Hera Bennings, one of his ceramics
    students, entered.
    “Hi,” Hera said.
    “Have a seat.” Keaton gestured to the chair in front
    of his desk. Hera sat down. “What can I help you with?”
    “I don’t know if you can help me or not. But I
    thought I’d ask.”
    Her seriousness alarmed Keaton. Usually Hera was
    in high spirits, laughing, joking. He’d noticed she
    seemed down today in class. “I’ll try my best.”
    “When we did our picture rants today—” She
    “When we did our picture rants today—” She
    hesitated. “Your rant was about how you spent all that
    money last year to have your guest room redecorated,
    but you haven’t had a single guest.”
    Keaton smiled. “It’s true. I painted those walls by
    hand— and have yet to host overnight company.”
    Hera picked at the chair’s upholstery. “I know it’s
    completely out of line for me to even suggest this. I’m
    presuming something about you that’s unfair and
    inappropriate, and I’m sorry. But I was thinking about
    the de Sade illustrations you showed us the other day,
    and—”
    The smile slipped from Keaton’s face. There’s no way
    she could know…could she?
    “I have a friend who’s involved in the BDSM
    lifestyle.”
    She looked him in the eye, and he struggled to keep
    his expression neutral.
    “I thought—My friend thought maybe he’d seen
    you at a leather club. Obey?”
    Keaton didn’t answer. Letting the wrong people
    know about his interest could cost him his job. Hera
    didn’t seem like she was here to accuse him of anything.
    He waited.
    Hera sighed. “I’m making a mess of this. He—my
    friend recently had a bad experience with his top. He
    was injured, and now he’s… it’s bad. He gave up his job
    was injured, and now he’s… it’s bad. He gave up his job
    and his apartment for this guy, and he’s got nowhere to
    go. I just thought… if you were part of the BDSM
    community, maybe you understand more about these
    things than I do. Maybe you could talk to him. I’m not
    trying to like, pawn him off on you. I was just—Even if
    you could