The gentle melody of birdsong drifted in through the window, coaxing T.B. from the realm of sleep. The warm, golden sunlight of an Alaskan summer streamed into the room. In this brief window between mid-June and late August, the days stretched far longer than the nights, offering an almost unending glow that seemed to belong to another world entirely. It was an ethereal quality that Alaska, for all its harshness, seemed to reserve for its summer months.
T.B. opened the window, breathing in the crisp air as it mingled with the scent of pine from the nearby trees. His eyes wandered across the garden, where a small chickadee perched on a branch of a towering Sitka spruce. The bird flitted about with an energy that felt contagious—acrobatic, agile, and infused with a cheerfulness that seemed at odds with the world around it. The chickadee was a fixture in these Alaskan woods, its stark black-and-white plumage always seeming to stand out among the darker shades of the forest. T.B. watched it for a moment, caught by its simple joy before the thought of the woman lying behind him tugged at his mind again.
He turned back to Kimberly Smith, her face half-hidden by the pillow, the morning light painting a soft glow on her features. Her beauty was almost unreal, a stark contrast to the broken woman he'd found just days before, her body scarred, her spirit fractured. In the light of day, she seemed so different—vulnerable, serene, her expressions soft and unguarded. His hand, almost instinctively, rose to stroke the dark, silky curls that had fallen across her forehead.
T.B. chuckled to himself, a quiet, almost amused sound that felt out of place in the silence of the room. Her sexual habits were indeed peculiar, strange even, but who was he to pass judgment? The thought lingered in his mind, pulling his attention away from the intimate scene before him, like a strange puzzle he'd never quite figured out. Since when had he assumed the right to judge anyone's private desires? His job didn't require him to understand the intricacies of what people did behind closed doors, yet here he was, caught in the complexity of it.
For countless nights, his life had been a strange kind of voyeurism. As a silent observer, he'd sat before the eight flickering monitors of the security room, staring at the small screens that each displayed live footage from the hidden cameras scattered across William Smith's restaurant. There were sixty-four of them, cameras placed in almost every conceivable corner, some in plain sight, others cleverly concealed—watching everything. From the mundane—servers pouring wine and guests laughing—down to the more intimate moments, the quiet secrets of lovers and strangers, all captured without their knowledge. His job was simple: observe and protect. But over time, the images on the screens had begun to blur together in a strange mixture of routine and fascination.
He'd seen it all—the whispered promises shared over candlelit dinners, the soft, secretive touches beneath the table, and the more private moments when those same people let down their guard. Sometimes it was the early morning hours, when exhaustion had softened their inhibitions. Other times, it was midday, and yet the cameras never lied. It was like watching a dance, a performance, an unwritten story being acted out again and again. He had watched bodies entwine, passions flare, and desires whispered into the darkness. And he'd watched it all with detached curiosity, never once feeling the need to involve himself.
T.B. knew humans were a sexually active species, more so than most other animals. The complexity of human intimacy fascinated him. It wasn't just about reproduction, as it often was with animals; it was a blend of emotions, power dynamics, vulnerabilities, and an endless variety of expressions. The variety was overwhelming, sometimes even confusing. There were as many ways to love, to crave, and to need as there were people. No two experiences were the same. The sheer diversity of desires humans harbored—what they sought in their lovers, the ways they sought it—was staggering.
But for all the things he had seen, he had never been part of it. He'd never crossed the line, never gotten involved in the tangled mess of other people's relationships or sexual lives. He remained an outsider, a watcher. He had no right to judge them. He wasn't a participant in their stories, just a silent observer. In the end, everyone's habits, their fetishes, their passions—whatever they were—belonged to them. They were private. Personal. T.B. had never allowed himself to get emotionally invested in any of it. He was a protector, not a judge.
Even now, as he stood over Kimberly Smith, he realized how ridiculous it was for him to think in terms of right or wrong. He didn't know her, not in the way a lover did. He didn't share her desires, nor did he feel the need to understand them. He was simply there to do a job, and if that meant participating in a night like the one they'd just shared, then so be it. He didn't need to like it, didn't need to agree with it. But it didn't matter. He wasn't here to fix her, nor was he here to pass moral judgments. He was here to respond, or not. If he chose to step back, to disengage, then the moment would pass. He would cease to be part of it, and she would cease to be his responsibility.
So, he let it go. He didn't have the right to judge her, or anyone else for that matter. Desires, no matter how strange or unfamiliar, were not for him to dissect or understand. They were simply part of the chaotic, unpredictable mess of human nature. A mess he was not a part of, and that was fine with him. It wasn't his place to interfere or pass judgment. He was just there to observe, to protect, and to follow orders. Anything else was beyond his reach. And for now, that was enough.
Her face, a lovely picture of maturity and grace, calmed his mind. She was gentle in these moments, a stark difference from the chaos of the night before. He could see now the delicate curve of her jaw, the soft flush still lingering in her cheeks from the heated moments they shared. For a moment, he could almost forget the tumult that existed between them, the raw violence, the strange mix of pain and passion.
His fingers grazed her wrist gently, lingering on the thin scars that marred her skin. The scars were horizontal, a lingering reminder of her darker moments. He had learned that Kimberly, in an attempt to hide these marks, wore heavy bracelets and applied layers of powder. A thin film of white dust clung to her skin where it met the bracelet, a futile attempt to hide what was so painfully visible.
His gaze lowered as she shifted in her sleep. Slowly, her body turned, and for a brief moment, he took in the vulnerability of her figure, her back to him. The bruises and marks from last night's indulgence were still fresh—a reminder of her requests, her need for something beyond the usual. T.B. carefully moved his hand to her lower back, brushing it with the same tenderness he'd shown earlier. His touch was a mix of gentleness and restraint; he had learned the hard way the fine line between what she craved and what she could handle.
It had been a cold night, colder than any other he had experienced in recent memory. That night had begun in the sterile, dim-lit security room where T.B. sat in front of multiple screens, the hum of machinery and the flicker of CCTV feeds his only company. It was then that the call came from William Smith. The voice on the other end was steady, calm, and tinged with the control he wielded even from miles away in New York.
T.B. had known immediately what was required of him. "Check on Kimberly," William had said. "Something's not right."
T.B. hadn't hesitated. He'd broken down three doors that night—each more stubborn than the last—and found Kimberly in the bath, her fragile form slumped in the crimson water. She was lifeless, save for the soft rise and fall of her chest. Blood from the deep cuts on her wrists stained the water, and in that moment, T.B. had known that whatever this woman was dealing with was far beyond the reach of the Smith family's influence. He had patched her up as best as he could and rushed her to the nearest hospital, his mind racing with unanswered questions.
A month later, Kimberly had called him again, asking him to come to her room. This time, it was different. She was a woman with secrets, with pain she had buried so deep that no one could reach it. He didn't question her when she asked for his presence. But what had followed had been something he hadn't expected—not from her, not from anyone.
She had lost a lover, a man T.B. knew nothing about, and in her grief, she had turned to him. She had asked him to hit her, to strike her with the kind of force that would leave an imprint on her soul. T.B. had complied, unsure of what to make of the situation but recognizing, as always, that his role was to be the protector. Her desires were her own, no matter how strange or foreign they seemed.
Now, with her lying peacefully beside him, T.B. looked at the marks left on her body from the night before—bruises, swelling, and a faint trace of blood. It had been a brutal release, and yet, he knew she would want more. He had struck her with precision, always careful to avoid the areas that might break her—always aware of her need to feel the right kind of pain. But even as he administered the punishment, he knew it was for her. She had asked for it, needed it, in some deep, almost primal way.
T.B. retrieved a small bottle from the nightstand—a balm, its scent earthy and strong, a product from an Inupiat Eskimo herbalist. He had no idea how it worked, but he knew it soothed the pain, sped up the healing process. He applied it carefully, his hands gentle as he worked it into the swollen skin of her back and hips. The ointment would leave its mark, but it would also heal. The scars would fade over time, but the memory of what had happened would remain.
He paused for a moment, considering her. She was not a woman of simple needs. T.B. couldn't quite wrap his mind around the complexity of her desires, but in his line of work, he had long ago abandoned the notion of judging others. His role was to observe, to act when necessary. In his years of service, he had seen things—countless acts of passion, violence, and love that blurred together in the shadows. He knew, as he had always known, that he had no place in such things. He was not a participant, not a judge, not a lover. He was a protector, and that was enough.
Kimberly stirred then, a soft groan escaping her lips as she shifted in the bed. She stretched her body, arching it slightly, as if inviting him to see her. Her breasts, full and round, thrust upward, inviting his attention.
"T.B.," she said, her voice low and sultry. "Last night was wonderful. Not many men can endure me the way you do. How did you manage?"
T.B. met her gaze, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I held my breath, closed my eyes, and imagined someone else."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but the smile that followed was knowing, almost amused. "You treacherous thing," she murmured.
Before she could say anything more, T.B. sprang from the bed, shifting his body so that his legs straddled her face, his back to her. He spoke softly, but with a voice heavy with intent, not expecting her to hear his words.
"All night, I did it your way. Now it's your turn to do it mine."