Chapter 77 77: The Surrender of God
It was nearly 11:00 PM by the time Cam finally dropped Baby off at the apartment. The "6:00 AM" call time was looming like a threat.
Baby pushed the door open, expecting darkness. Instead, he found Saint sitting on the kitchen counter, illuminated only by the light of the open refrigerator. He was holding a cold bottle of water against the back of his neck, his shirt discarded on the floor.
"You're awake," Baby said quietly, closing the door behind him.
Saint didn't move for a moment. Then, he hopped off the counter, the light from the fridge casting long, jagged shadows across his chest. He walked toward Baby, stopping just outside his personal space.
"Why are you late?" Saint asked, his voice low and gravelly. "Because you're late because you're hiding from the man who loves you?"
"I'm not hiding," Baby snapped, but his eyes betrayed him. He looked at Saint—really looked at him—and the "Golden Boy" mask crumbled. "I hated it, Saint. The way you looked at me in the locker room. It felt like we were back to the beginning."
Saint stepped into the light, his eyes softening into that raw, grey devotion that made Baby's knees weak. He reached out, his fingers grazing the sleeve of Baby's shirt.
"We are never going back there," Saint promised. "But tomorrow... the lake house... It's just us and the cameras. We have to be perfect, Baby. For the Consortium. For our parents."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against Baby's. "But tonight? Tonight, I don't want to be a captain. I just want to be yours."
"I'm sleepy," Baby said, stepping away from Saint.
He was about to leave but stopped, "Actually, no. I'm not sleepy," he faced Saint, "I'm hurt. I know you've apologised, but I'm still hurt, there should be a limit to your shadow acting. Just be polite, not harsh. So... I just want to sleep." He folded his arms, feeling better after letting it off his chest.
Saint nodded slowly, covering the distance between them as he wrapped his arms around Baby's waist.
He pressed their forehead together, gazing gently into Baby's blue eye, "Okay. You're heard. I'm sorry." He whispered, rocking their bodies together.
"I won't repeat such an act, I'll just be polite as you asked, nothing too much. Okay?" He asked, pressing his lips on Baby's cheek.
Baby sighed, hugging Saint gently, "We have a photo shoot by morning. Let's rest." He murmured, detangling himself from Saint.
Saint stood still, his face fallen as he watched Baby move toward his room.
He had just wanted to appear normal in front of people, but he ended up offending the person he loved.
"Hey," Baby called from his door, frowning slightly.
Saint lifted his head, his eyes searching Baby's face.
"Do you... Are you letting me sleep alone?" Baby asked softly, smiling.
Saint's face lit up, "Of course not." He said, his legs moving instantly.
Baby didn't stop smiling as he pushed in his door, and headed into his bathroom.
"I'll be right out," He said, placing his hand on Saint's chest, who was about to follow him into the bathroom.
"Right... of course. I'll be on the bed," Saint smirked as Baby closed the door.
He walked over to the bed and sat down, staring at the floor as he waited for Baby.
Something suddenly caught his eye in the slightly opened bedside drawer.
He leaned over, pulling it open to see what was glittering under the light.
It was a pair of polished, stainless steel handcuffs, catching the low light of the room with a cold, metallic glint. Beside them lay a small, black velvet pouch that had spilled open, revealing a silken cat tail attached to a smooth, weighted plug.
Saint stared at the items, his hand hovering over the drawer. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, charged with a different kind of electricity.
He wasn't naive. He knew who Baby Danvers was before they became this—this revolution. He was well aware of the "Golden Boy's" reputation: the whispered stories in the locker rooms, the long trail of beautiful women who looked at Baby with a mix of exhaustion and absolute worship. Baby hadn't just been a player on the ice; he had been a god in the bedroom, a man who treated pleasure like a high-stakes career, mastering the art of the "conquest."
These weren't just toys; they were remnants of a version of Baby that used to belong to everyone and no one at the same time.
Saint felt a sharp, sudden pang in his chest, but it wasn't the jagged edge of jealousy. It was a realization. He looked at the cuffs—tools of surrender—and then at the bathroom door where he could hear the faint sound of running water.
The man behind that door had spent years pleasing others to feel seen, using these very items to anchor people to him when he couldn't anchor them with his heart. But now, the "God" had stepped off his pedestal. The "Sex God" who had mastered every role-play and every dark corner of desire was now the man who had just stood in this room and whispered, "I'm hurt."
Saint reached out, his fingers brushing the cold steel of the cuffs. He didn't feel a need to throw them away or demand an explanation. Instead, a slow, possessive heat began to simmer in his gut.
Those women were the past. They had the "God," but Saint had the man. They had the performance, but Saint had the soul.
The only person Danvers would be pleasing from now on—whether it was with his mouth, his hands, or the clever use of the items in this drawer—was the man currently sitting on his bed.
The bathroom door clicked open, and a soft cloud of steam spilled out. Baby stepped out, wearing nothing but a pair of loose silk pajama pants, his skin still damp and glowing. He stopped when he saw Saint leaning over the drawer.
Baby's expression faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting to the glitter of the steel. He didn't move to close it; he just stood there, his pulse visible in the hollow of his throat.
Saint looked up, his grey eyes dark and unreadable, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I see you were well-prepared for your 'conquests,' Mr. Danvers," Saint murmured, his voice dropping into that low, possessive register that made Baby's knees feel like water.
Baby cleared his throat, trying to regain his "Golden Boy" footing, though his cheeks were flushing pink. "It was... a different time, Saint. I told you, I was a player."
Saint stood up, the handcuffs dangling from his index finger, the clink of the metal sounding loud in the quiet room. He walked toward Baby, his eyes never breaking contact.
"Good to know," Saint whispered, stopping inches from Baby's chest. "Because tomorrow, we have to be perfect for the cameras. But tonight?" He lifted the cuffs, the metal brushing against Baby's collarbone. "Tonight, I think I'd like to see if the 'God' still remembers how to take orders."
The air in the room shifted, the vulnerability of their earlier argument replaced by a thick, heavy tension that pulled at Baby's lungs. He stared at the handcuffs dangling from Saint's finger, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat radiating between them.
"Saint," Baby breathed, his voice a mix of warning and invitation. "You don't know what you're asking for. Once I start... I don't know how to do 'halfway.'"
Saint's smirk didn't falter. He closed the remaining distance, pressing the cold steel of the cuffs against the pulse point in Baby's neck. "Then don't do halfway. Show me the man who had the whole city at his feet. Show me why they called you a god."
## The Surrender of the God
Saint didn't wait for a response. He backed Baby up against the bedroom door, the click of the lock echoing like a starting pistol. In a fluid motion, he brought Baby's hands together, the clink-click of the metal ratcheting shut around his wrists sounding final.
Baby's head fell back against the wood, a low, broken moan escaping him. Being restrained usually made him feel in control—a paradox he'd mastered over the years—but with Saint, it felt like a true surrender.
"The tail, Saint," Baby rasped, his eyes blown wide and dark. "In the bag."
Saint reached back, his fingers finding the silken cat tail. He weighed the smooth plug in his hand, his gaze never leaving Baby's. He realised then that Baby wasn't just giving him his body; he was giving him the keys to his most guarded secrets.
"You want this?" Saint whispered, grazing the silken fur against Baby's cheek.
"I want you to take what's yours," Baby countered, his hips jerking forward instinctively. "Stop talking and be the Captain, Saint."