Chapter Text

Moodboard/manip fabulousness by @ChibiReylo! 

anticipate

Six months later, somewhere off the coast of Spain—

Ben drowses next to me in the afternoon sun, and from behind my sunglasses, I surreptitiously watch the wind playing with his hair. Like gentle fingers, the breeze ruffles his silky dark locks as if even Mother Nature appreciates how pretty he is when he appears ever-so-slightly disheveled.

He’s finally lost that half-starved, wolfish look he developed ages ago, after Snoke’s attack and everything after that. Now he again reminds me of a large, sleek, well-fed predator in his prime, just as he was on the day he came to my shitty apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and rescued me from…well, from him.

The soft movement of the yacht on the water is enough to lull me into dozing, and I bask in the sun, soaking in the glorious rays. After all that time in foggy San Francisco, I think I had forgotten just how lovely it is to have a true afternoon siesta on the water.

Someone sets a frosty cocktail on the table next to my lounge chair, but I’m feeling too lazy to reach for it. The service is so good that if I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think anyone else was here except for me and Ben.

Of course, our host is around somewhere, and his other guests, too.

And, Beebee is also wandering around, probably sunning himself in the starboard lounge where he prefers to remain under the cool, dependable air conditioning. Ben and I quickly found that, while our cat doesn’t seem to mind the yacht, he is not a fan of the unpredictable Mediterranean gusts out here on the deck.

I think, out of everyone, Beebee was the least disturbed by our absence and subsequent reemergence into the land of the living since that day when Mitaka came to San Francisco and confirmed that the threat to Ben’s life was truly gone.

By the time Ben and I had trekked back from the wharf to our little apartment on the corner of California and Leavenworth, I knew that the world would soon be laid at my feet once again.

After delivering his news, Mitaka departed back to New York, finally declaring himself retired. Ben swore that he made sure Mitaka would have enough money to live out the rest of his life in luxury, and I remembered Mitaka’s erstwhile promise to host us wherever and whenever he settled down.

Like Mitaka, we could have left San Francisco right away, but, well, we opted to stay and celebrate our victory, just the two of us. We needed time to say goodbye to that humble little life we had built.

I needed time.

It was like a dream I never knew I wanted to have. But it was just a dream, after all, and reality was waiting for us. We had to get back, eventually, and I won’t lie, I’m glad we did.

However, coming back from the dead has been a slow, sometimes aggravating process, and I’ve been impatient, maybe even restless for things to return to the way they were before.

As much as I wanted to move on or move back or whatever, it was harder than I thought it would be to say goodbye to our apartment and the coffee-shop-bookstore and even the laundromat across the street. I told Ben I wanted to keep some of the things we’d collected from the thrift stores, though, and he agreed, baffled, and amused, to help me pack some of our odds and ends and arrange to have them shipped back to New York.

The very first thing Ben did, of course, was to ensure we had a serious influx of money back into our bank accounts and at our immediate disposal. And then, quietly, confidently, and without hardly a blip, he took over the reins of our lives once more.

Vowing never to fly commercial again, Ben chartered a private plane to fly us to New York. There, he resumed control of his fortune, and our lifestyle improved overnight.

Everyone in the family was notified right away—his mother, first, then my friends. They were all eager to have us back, but everything felt different, somehow.

During an emotional reunion supper with Finn, Poe, Rose, and Hux—while their children were with nannies for the evening—I informed them that we would be making our reappearance on the New York social scene only after an extended visit with Ben’s mother.

There were a lot of questions, of course, and we spent most of that reunion answering questions. Hux was the least surprised by our resurrection. I wonder if he had his suspicions after Mitaka initiated some legal proceedings that would delay the disposition of Ben’s assets in light of there not being any bodies to prove we had actually died.

But Ben and I hardly had time to explain the full sequence of events before Rosie was tearfully telling me that she had to get back to their baby girl, named after Hux’s mother, Beatrice.

“Beatrice Rey,” Rose had emphasized, which made me too weepy to properly acknowledge the honor. Then Finn gave me such a long, emotional hug and reminded me that his daughter—Raisa Janae—was named after me and our favorite foster mom, and I started bawling and couldn’t stop for hours after they left.

We met again briefly the next day, but Ben was already antsy to fly to France and Naboo and his mother, who was, according to him, quite anxious to see him—and me—and make sure the past months hadn’t just been a horrible nightmare.

I was almost happy to leave New York. Coming back, I felt sort of drained and empty and weirdly disappointed. I think I know why. It’s sort of that same feeling I had when Rose got married, and Finn before her, although the sensation was not as painful as expected.

My friends had moved on without me, after all, and while I know they were—and are—so glad to have me back, I also know that they have their own families now, their own legacies to build.

Only it’s not exactly the same this time. Now I have a family, too.

And Ben’s, or what’s left of his.

Ben’s mother was surprisingly stoic when we finally arrived in France. I think she was overjoyed to find out he was alive and happy, but I think so many losses—her husband, her brother, her mother, her best friend, and Ben, or so she thought for a little while, at least—took a toll. She looked much older and frailer than the last time I saw her, though she was as kind and gracious as ever.

After an emotional few weeks with Leia, Ben decided that he would take over his grandmother’s estate. He didn’t say why out loud, but he didn’t need to. Running the vineyards and handling the huge, sprawling old mansion was far too much for Leia to manage. Leia wanted to return to Vermont and be able to enjoy the social season in New York again. But Ben and I agreed that we needed to get any residual restlessness out of our systems before being tied down again so close on the heels of being stuck in San Francisco.

So, we took up Mitaka on his offer and joined him on his yacht for a few weeks. The yacht is ten feet longer than Ben’s, he smirkingly informed us, and by the competitive gleam in Ben’s eye, I have a feeling we’ll be in the market for a new one sooner rather than later.

Nonetheless, Mitaka seemed genuinely thrilled to host us, and he happily arranged for Finn and Poe and Rose and Hux and the babies to come along, too.

Ben was surprised that I even wanted to board a boat ever again after what had happened on his grandmother’s yacht. But I wanted to see my friends and spend some real time with them after our rather disconcerting visit with Leia. Perhaps living in the country vineyards of Naboo will be heavenly—it’s beautiful there—yet I think I will miss the sultry bustle of California and the rapid-paced flash and glitter of New York.

And I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The visit with Leia was not as therapeutic as I envisioned it would be for Ben. I think he needs to ease back into our old life as much as I do.

We decided my identity should remain a private matter, especially now that my grandfather is gone, again, thanks to Mitaka, and the Palpatine fortune has been confiscated by the powers that be. It’s for the best, I think.

I don’t want it.

I only want Ben.

And that cocktail. I tilt my sunglasses down my nose and stare at the condensation beading on the glass. I’m gauging whether or not I should trust what’s in it when Ben catches my gaze and huffs, offended and haughty when he correctly reads my hesitation.

Oh, he’s still furious about the finger, even though he’s totally fine—practically good as new, now—although it was a little nerve-wracking while we were waiting for the doctor to get here after the accident.

I think if anything, he’s more pissed off that I drugged him, not that he didn’t deserve that, too.

He probably has every right to be a bit miffed with me. I’m sure his finger hurts dreadfully, and I have no doubt that he’s plotting some horrid revenge, even if he swears he isn’t. He can’t hold a fork or brush his teeth or zip up his trousers or do anything without my help, so I guess I’m going to have to be extra careful until his temper settles down.

Honestly, it was the least he deserved after we came back to the penthouse—left intact thanks to some hasty maneuvering of Mitaka’s and in spite of the Manhattan real estate vultures circling—and Ben finally showed me the safe room.

Maybe it was a delayed reaction to all of it, the years of living with trauma, the stress, the gaslighting, the lies, and the secrets.

Definitely for having me framed for my boss’s murder.

And the stalking, which was certainly uncalled for, even if, in retrospect, I still don’t see myself ever reaching out to Ben if there hadn’t been a stalker.

Nevertheless, as I looked around that little room and found the little scraps from my old life that he’d stolen away, I got sort of pissed off to be reminded so bluntly that Ben had orchestrated all of this, planned it down to the minutest detail, including upping my rent after buying my whole fucking neighborhood, apparently.

And maybe I was stressed out from traveling back to New York or maybe I was simply annoyed with Ben for being stupid enough to kill some mafia head and forcing us into hiding in the first place. Or maybe I was still disturbed by the terrorizing events that his family put me through when I was a child and then again not too long ago.

So, I decided then and there that only some good, old-fashioned revenge would give me any real closure.

The object of my vengeance is lazing on the lounge chair on the other side of the table, throwing me an occasional stern glare whenever our eyes meet, and draping his heavily bandaged finger over the edge of his armrest—a bit melodramatically, I think—so that I can see it at all times, a constant reminder of my wayward behavior.

He probably wants me to feel guilty, but, considering all the shit he put me through, I’m having a hard time conjuring too much sympathy.

Besides, like I said, he’s fine.

Three days ago—

When Mitaka’s butler leads us to our room on the yacht, Ben notices the restraints installed on the headboard right away and shoots me a downright evil smirk.

“We’ll have to thank him in the morning,” Ben purrs.

I know he thinks he’s getting a repeat of our honeymoon, but I’ll be damned if I let Finn or Rose hear me hollering and have them come running in here to save me. Besides, he’s frowning, and I know why.

“Daddy,” I tell him, dancing away from his grasping hands, “You’re not going anywhere in the morning.”

He stops dead in his tracks, looking confused. His frown deepens and he stumbles forward.

“Oooh, that cocktail must have packed a punch!” I exclaim, knowing full well that I put enough night-night juice in that drink to knock him on his ass for at least a few hours.

He drank almost the whole thing as we came onboard. Along with Mitaka, one of the staff was waiting to welcome us bearing a tray of cocktails, and I took one tiny sip from mine before passing it to Ben, saying, “I don’t like this flavor. Drink it for me, won’t you? So Mitaka doesn’t think I’m being rude?”

We’re Mitaka’s guests, and if Ben’s done anything, then it’s certainly to impress upon me the importance of showing good manners to our host.

Now, Ben sniffs and narrows his eyes, regarding me with belated suspicion. When comprehension dawns, he growls, “You’re in deep shit, baby girl…”

A horrifying bolt of terror zings up my spine.

But he’s already weaving on his feet, and all I have to do is stand next to bed. My gloating smirk entices him into coming over here, and he does, the big, predictable brute. I swerve and step to the side before he can get his paws around my neck.

And with nothing more than a light push from me, he drops onto the mattress face-first.

After a few seconds of struggling, he turns around to fix an infuriated glare on me.

“…not fair…” he groans, right before his eyes roll back in his head.

For a minute or two, I stand slightly out of arm’s reach, just in case he’s faking, watching him until I’m sure he’s going to stay put.

When he starts snoring, I know it’s safe to cut his clothes off with the safety shears that someone so courteously left on the nightstand, and then I cuff him to the headboard.

Before I leave, I drape a light blanket over him, so he doesn’t get too cold.

I can visit with Mitaka and Rose and Finn while I wait for Ben to wake up.

I stop by the painting before making my way to the upper deck where everyone is supposed to meet for drinks. To my surprise, Mitaka is here.

“Is this it? The, uh, Kenobi?” I ask, still too unsure of my expertise in anything art-related to sound very confident.

“Yeah. This is the one.”

“Dryden Vos told me that the Hutt family wanted this painting.”

I say this carefully, making sure there is no hint of accusation or reprimand in my voice. I don’t want to offend Mitaka after everything he’s done, but I’m not at all eager to piss off another mob family again so soon after the last one.

“They did want it. But…didn’t Mr. Solo tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“He offered them something better in trade.”

“He did?”

“The Order of 1866.”

Knowing that Ben gave up his precious Palpatine almost makes me feel bad for drugging him and chaining him to our bed in the guest suite.

Almost.

“But…why would they want something painted by…him?” I can’t say my grandfather’s name out loud if I can help it.

Mitaka shrugs. “It’s worth a ton more than the Kenobis. Padmé Amidala ensured that Kenobi’s lifelong work became more of an oddity in the collector’s market than anything of actual value.”

“Oh.”

“Palpatine’s work is well-established, despite the blight on his reputation. And, from what I understand, the Hutts are fond of hanging their victory trophies on their walls.”

This observation vaguely reminds me of something Snoke once said to me, and I swallow and stare at the painting for a long time. I know it’s been carefully restored to have my mother’s bloodstains removed, but I imagine I can still see it as it might have looked on that horrible night, so long ago.

“It’s really beautiful,” I murmur after an awkward pause.

Mitaka is looking at me closely, and I wonder if he’s thinking about the blood that once tainted the painting and how it’s running through my veins, or if I’ve reminded him of the filthy blood of my grandfather.

I wonder if some part of him hates me, hates where I come from and the horrible things my ancestors did to his.

“Miss Rey?”

“Hmmm?” I turn to him, eager for the distraction.

“About your parents…”

I frown.

I still have some very conflicted feelings about my parents. Even Padmé Amidala knew that they left me all alone so they could save this very painting not three feet away.

“…they were trying to do more than just prevent a work of art from falling into the wrong hands.”

It’s uncanny how well Mitaka seems to know what I’m thinking or at least how well he can read the direction of my thoughts.

“Nobody knows that for sure, Mitaka.”

Just because they were your parents doesn’t guarantee a goddamned fucking thing.

I hate to assign any kind of false nobility to their actions when we all know, as Ben told me long ago, they mostly subsisted on junk art dealing and forgeries.

A tear has fallen down my face, unnoticed until now, and I hastily wipe it away, trying to be careful of my makeup. Ben would chide me that one should always look composed, and for some reason, I think of his grandmother, immaculate and beautiful, even when she was behaving like an utter monster.

“I know you’re thinking of them leaving you all alone that night when Snoke came to your home,” he says.

The boathouse, the fire. It’s all there in my head. The bodies spattered in red, it was them, my parents, dead for nothing.

“They did leave me,” I insist. “Ben never talks about it. But I remember.” Then I look at him, confused. “How do you know what happened?”

Mitaka nods. “He told me once.”

“He did?”

“In San Francisco. He told me everything.”

“Oh.”

“He said he saw them die. He said they wouldn’t call out for you. He said your father and your mother…they wouldn’t try to lure you to them, not even with a knife at their throats. He seemed so…disturbed by it, how much courage it must have taken to know…they were going to die no matter what. But they didn’t call out for you.”

“He never told me that.”

“I think he was trying to spare you the pain of knowing.”

Look away.

“Just like how you tried to spare me?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Although, I think you’re tougher than he realizes. But you should know they died protecting you. Not this painting. You.”

Something hot and horrible crawls up my throat, and I stare at him. If I know anything, it’s that Ben’s parents, his father at least, would never have thought to protect him like that.

“You’re worth more than your grandfather’s legacy, Rey.”

He’s never called me just Rey before. A humorless chuckle comes up out of nowhere.

“I know,” I finally admit. Somehow I’ve always known. “You’ve been busy, Mitaka. I don’t know how you managed to find the time to do so much.”

“Ah. That’s because I have special training that lends itself to exceptional time management skills.”

A laugh bursts out of me, then another as I realize that I genuinely like him, despite all of the dirty work he’s done for Ben.

Mitaka has returned his attention to the picture, but he’s still grinning.

“You don’t think my Grandfather Kenobi destroyed all that art?” I ask. Kenobi’s name is easier to say aloud, and it’s probably because I still think about why he left the safety on that gun.

“No, it’s out there. We’ll find it,” Mitaka assures me.

I hope so. With Ben’s resources and my tenacity, I think we just might. Then we can make sure that the art gets back to its rightful owners and make some small attempt at repairing the heinous damage that was caused by greed…and hate…and…

I don’t know what else would make people behave so horrendously.

Those men are dead now.

“I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done, Mitaka.”

His grin turns into a beaming smile, and for a moment, he looks closer to my age than Ben’s.

I change the subject to something lighter. “By the way, uh, Ben wanted to say thank you for the, erm, accommodations in our room.”

“Did he?”

“He’d tell you himself, but he’s a little tied up right now,” I giggle.

“Excellent.”

Mitaka’s smile is infectious, and he offers me his arm and leads me up to the lounge for a celebratory beverage or two.

By the time I get back to Ben, I’m slightly tipsy. The past months in California, while leisurely, didn’t give a whole lot of time for recreational drinking. I think my tolerance for alcohol is at an all-time low, not that it’s ever been very high.

Fucker drugged me at Rose’s Christmas party, too. One more reason he needs some punishment.

My cavalier attitude lasts long enough to get me back to our room. Before I go in, I pause and take a deep breath. Honestly, I feel like a lion tamer about to step inside the cage, and this feeling only intensifies when I slink into our room and find Ben—still shackled to the bed, thank goodness—naked, awake, and livid.

I have a moment of doubt. But then I sort of realize that if I don’t lay down the law now, he’ll only steamroll over me for the rest of my life.

“Hey, Daddy. You awake?” I murmur into the half-gloom.

“Rey? Get over here.” This command is blunted by a pillow since I had to put the cuffs on with him face-down. He turns and glares over his shoulder.

Ooooh, he’s pissed off. I think I’d rather walk up to a hornet’s nest and give it a whack.

“I thought you’d still be sleeping.”

“I have been awake for the past hour,” he bites out. “So, I’ve had plenty of time to think about all the ways I’m going to punish you. I don’t recommend dragging this out. Now, come here.”

Oh, shit. I must have miscalculated how much night-night juice to give him. Clearly, it wasn’t nearly enough.

But I hold onto my courage, well, whatever scrap of it is left, and taunt, “You’re not going to punish me. Not with your hands cuffed like that.”

I move deeper into the room. His shoulders are quivering.

Is he laughing?

Wait, does he think this is funny?

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve done this, huh?”

“The question did cross my mind.” He tugs on the restraints and my heart palpitates at the ominous rattle of the chains against metal. God, I hope Mitaka used extra-strength bolts or whatever to install those fucking things.

He yanks again, and I have a brief moment of terror when I wonder how secure the headboard is.

The headboard doesn’t budge, and I think if Ben really has been awake all this time and trying to pull himself free, then it all must be pretty fucking secure.

This bolsters me even more.

“You owe me—”

“—I am giving you to the count of ten, Rey—”

“—an apology!”

“For what?”

“For…for everything!”

“Ah, fuck.” Exasperated, he sighs and groans, “All right. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not sincere!”

The briefest chuckle comes out of him, but he quickly follows it with, “Well, then how do you want me, baby whore?”

This question brings me to a halt. I honestly don’t know how I want him. Usually, I like it when he’s a bit feral, rough, and he knows this very well.

It’s tempting to go closer, what with the way he’s sprawled out on the bed like a big, sexy slab of meat. He’s managed to kick the blanket away, so there’s nothing to obstruct my view, and I rake my gaze over his large, beautiful feet, up the backs of his well-formed calves and thighs dusted with dark hair, over his lean hips and butt.

His broad back is straining slightly, and his arms bulge as he pulls himself up and twists around so he can stare me down.

I bite my bottom lip.

“Daddy…” I whine, swaying my hips as I walk up to the bed. “You always say I can have whatever I want.”

“You can, princess,” he croons back with a false sweetness to match my tone. “How about you turn me loose and I can get it for you?”

“But I want you to say you’re sorry. And mean it.”

I pout, even though he’s turned back into the pillows and can’t see my face.

“Mean it? If you don’t…fucking…let me…loose…” He rattles his chains again, but I think he’s losing steam. Maybe those drugs haven’t fully worn off, yet.

I sidle to the nightstand and pull open a drawer, staying well out of range of those long legs of his.

Ben cranks his head around to see what’s in the drawer.

I’m curious, myself, to know what else Mitaka left for us. The top drawer is shallow, so there wasn’t much in there, but the bottom drawer…

No ball gags. But there is a tube of lube and some condoms and—

I lift the riding crop out of the drawer and give it a swing.

“—Rey! No—”

Ben yanks on the cuffs again, and I look at his wrists, worried he’s going to chafe himself into a bloody pulp. I mean, yes, the leather is a bit more forgiving than metal but—

“Are those tooth marks?” I ask, peering over his shoulder. 

“Maybe?”

Motherfucker was going to chew his way free? My belly swoops at the thought, and I swing the crop again. It swishes a little closer to his head than I planned, though it doesn’t hit him.

“Whoa! Rey, I swear to fucking God if you—”

“If you’re not going to say you’re sorry—and mean it!—then I think you need to shut…up.” I tickle the tip of the riding crop over the back of his leg, and he jumps like I just tasered him.

“Baby, I—”

“Shut…up.” This last I punctuate with a firm smack on his rump with the flat of my hand, and I must say it makes a very satisfying sound.

He breathes in and out, and my hand stings a little.

“That was just for starters,” I inform him, trying with all my heart to sound as menacing as he can.

“If you’re really doing this, then we should have a safeword—” I think he’s laughing again, the demented bastard.

“A safeword?” I cry, incredulous. “When did I ever get a safeword?” I punctuate this with another smack of my hand, and he grunts.

“I only wonder how we’re gonna fuck if I’m face doww—oww!”

The riding crop is entirely different than my hand, I realize right away.

“You’re damned lucky Mitaka didn’t leave any ball gags in here.”

I swat him with the crop again and his butt flexes against my strike.

“That’s because I told him not to!” Ben cries. He sounds truly aggrieved and I almost reconsider and let him go. Then I realize—

“You told him? You told him not to? Why?”

“Because I know you don’t like being gagged, and I wanted you to have fun, baby.”

I fucking knew it. Ben planned this all out and—

“You put poor Mitaka up to this?”

“Yeah,” Ben groans when I whack him with the crop again. “Ow, sweetie, you really should—”

“He’s retired, Ben,” I scold. “That’s very rude to make him cater to your perverted…twisted…sick…sex fantasies…when he said…he’s done…accommodating…them!”

“Well, I’m sorry!”

“I’m sure you are!”

Ben buries his face in the pillow when I smack him with the riding crop again. He isn’t writhing in pain as he should be. After a few more swats, it becomes clear that Ben’s time at military reform school prepared him to hold out a lot longer than I ever could, and unless I really want to hurt him, which I don’t, my arm is going to wear out long before his hindquarters ever will.

I stop, sighing.

“Baby? Aren’t you done punishing me, yet?”

“Humph.”

Honestly, I don’t know what to do. So, I put the riding crop away and grab the shears, thinking to cut one of the cuffs off of him so he can flip over, we can fuck, and then, once he’s sated and a little less volatile, I’ll cut the other one, and eliminate the chance that he can wrangle me into the cuffs when I inevitably turn him loose.

And my plan works great. I have to be careful because the leather is tight, but I tell him to hold still, and he does. When only one hand is restrained, I say, “Flip over, Daddy.”

He rolls toward the middle of the bed, sending me a cocky smirk in the meantime. He must know that none of this is going to work without his…cooperation, but he doesn’t try anything else, just lays there sprawled out, totally unselfconscious of his glorious nudity, while I consider what to do next.

“Why don’t you climb on up here, princess, and let me show you how sorry I am?”

This offer sounds suspicious, but I can see him rousing as I strip off my clothes. Maybe I can punish him in a different way.

And I do try. But when I do as he suggests and straddle him, I have to use both hands to pin his free one down. He leans up to kiss my chest and grunts, frustrated when I hold myself just out of reach.

“This works a little better if you let me—”

“No,” I tell him. “I wanna hear an apology first. A real one.”

“I’ll never be sorry for doing everything it took to make you mine.”

I snort.

He’s not lying, at least. I rub against him, grinding down on his crotch. I can feel him, and I know he wants me.

“Now what happens?” he smirks, knowing we’re at an impasse unless I ease up. I rub against him, trying to drive him crazy, and he moans a little.

“Now what happens is you shut up and fuck me, Daddy.”

I have to let his hand go so I can brace myself on his chest and rub my hips up and down the length of him until his breathing is rough and his free hand is draped over my thigh. He’s being frustratingly passive, and a light is glinting in his eyes, one that tells me he doesn’t care what I do to him, so long as I know my place. Which is right here, with him.

Finally, he lifts against me, grunting, and I realize this is his way of asking…

“More.”

“Okay.”

I shift and he positions himself between my legs and as I sink down, I watch his face.

“You just love this don’t you?” I breathe.

“Yes.”

I move and his hand slides up to grip my hip and hold me in place. And when he bumps his pelvis up and jolts my legs open wider, I see it in his eyes, that endless, hungry thing in him that will never be truly sorry for anything if it means he gets to have me.

He takes my hand in his and tugs, pulling my fingers to his mouth and kissing them while I ride him, our movements growing hasty and harsh. And he knows when I need more because he grips my hip again and moves me the way he wants while he plunges up, hitting so deep it makes me cry out with every thrust.

Even with one of his wrists still attached to the headboard, he’s somehow managed to take over.

And I love it, love him. I tell him so as he orgasms, his fingers digging into my flesh so hard that I know it’s going to bruise.

But he loves me too, and I get too caught up in the moment to remember all the reasons why I’m still, if not furious with him, then perhaps resentful.

He stays quiet, sensing my inner conflict, and I’m glad for a minute or two to get my thoughts in order.

But after we finish, in that brief moment of repose, I reach for the shears too soon.

And he fucking figures out my plan to cut the other restraint and render it useless. He does that terrifying thing where he literally slips on a mask, right before my eyes. We have a brief, wordless struggle, only made worse by the fact that we’re both buck-naked and worn out.

All charm, he grins at me, and with his free hand, he tries to grab the shears. He’s reaching up, trying to unhook his wrist before I can cut the leather around it, but I’ve got the shears open, ready to snip. I take the shears and he’s grunting with the effort of trying to take them away from me before I can—

“Let me just…hold still!”

“…just gimme the…” he growls and then promptly roars when I accidentally snip off the tip of his finger.

“Yeeow!”

Oh, fuck.

“Hold still!” I bellow, this time running the scissors under the leather restraint with the proficiency I used on the other cuff, earlier. I snip it clean through, and Ben flinches and immediately grabs his bleeding finger.

I shuffle off of him, still holding the shears, wide-eyed. As if they’re suddenly on fire, I fling them across the room. A lamp or a picture—I don’t fucking know what—breaks and smashes to the floor. But I can only stare, horrified, at Ben.

“Call…the…doctor…” 

“Right.” I can’t move, though. I feel woozy. There’s blood all over the place and—

“Rey.” Ben looks a little pale, too, but he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and I jump away and snatch up the control panel on the bedside table. It’s some fancy tablet-screen-thing that I have no idea how to use.

“Yes, yes, this is why we have a safety protocol, even in the bedroom,” I babble, scanning the various icons on the touch screen. “Safety plans are important…for just these sorts of emergencies.”

Some of the pictures seem obvious enough, a lightbulb, the thermostat, the one for the blinds, I think, but there’s a bunch of other shit that I don’t know how to decipher. I stare at the screen, helpless, and starting to freak out.

Ben, moving in silence, comes over to stand behind me, and he reaches around and smashes a bloody knuckle against one of the icons.

Of course. The phone-shaped thingy.

A voice promptly intones, “Good evening, Mr. Solo, Mrs. Solo. How can I—”

Ben hollers, “Get a fucking surgeon up here! Now.”

There’s a brief, muffled, “Uh, yessir, we’re…sending someone up right away, sir,” and a bit more scuffling around on the other end of the line.

I finally glance around to look at him only to find him still looming, naked and dripping blood all over, and looking as if he wants to murder me just a little.

“Um…do you need help with that?” I ask, watching dumbly while he strides to the closet and tries to put on his robe while gripping his bloody fist in his uninjured hand. The robe, once pristine white, is now streaked with what looks like a…lot of red.

“No,” he wheezes, clearly in pain as he shrugs the robe over his shoulders. “But it would be great if you could find the other half of my fucking finger, sweetheart. So, the doc can…maybe reattach it.”

Right.

Right. Reattach it.

His finger.

Right.

“I’m in a lot of trouble, aren’t I, Daddy?” I breathe, a little nervous about what’s going to happen when I actually find the fucking finger. I’m not generally a sympathetic puker, but I have a feeling I could have exceptions, at least when it comes to shit like this.

He stumbles to a chair and breathes through his nose, glaring like he wants to choke me.

But he can’t choke me, I recognize after a beat or two, and this realization makes me feel a little bit better.

“Good thing we have that doctor on call, huh?” I chirp, trying to stay positive. “Safety first, that’s always important.”

Still jabbering, I scan the bed for—

Oh, there it is…

I can feel nausea riding up the back of my throat, but I tamp it down. Someone is outside, pounding on the door. That was fast.

“You think we have a surgeon on board?” I ask weakly. 

A steward with hopefully more medical training than I have comes in, takes a look at the scene, blinks once, and scoops Ben’s fingertip off of the pillow and into a little paper cup.

Another person very respectfully scootches past me and by the glower on Ben’s face, I realize that I’m still fully nude. And also covered in blood.

“It’s okay,” I gasp to Ben. “It’s okay. We can tell everyone it was a sex thing gone horribly wrong.”

Ben only grunts, and I’m not sure he heard me. Now is probably the worst possible time to make my point, but I return Ben’s glare with a stern gaze of my own. Maybe it’s better to get him to say it in front of witnesses, after all.

“Now, wasn’t there something you wanted to say to me sincerely, Daddy?”

“Yeah.” Ben’s glower turns downright stormy. “Ow.”

We’re leaving the yacht tomorrow, early, and driving through France to finally go and look at Bugattis. After that, Ben and I will be going back to Naboo. We could be there for a while, he warned, although I think he’s looking forward to having something productive to do with his time.

I’m already exhausted just thinking about all of the traveling, though. I’m tempted to tell him we ought to set up another charity instead of buying a stupid car we’ll never drive.

“I’m not ready to say goodbye,” I mutter to Rose.

“You’re not saying goodbye,” she murmurs back, hugging me so suddenly and ferociously that I laugh a little. But I hug her, too.

“You’ll come to see me? In France?”

“Of course I will. I think Armie is going to be taking some serious time off from the law firm once I convince him I’ve developed a taste for yachting and travel and being best friends with someone rich.” She looks over at Hux who is deep in conversation with Mitaka and Poe. They all burst out laughing, and I smile.

Finn wanders over, looking curious and as if he isn’t sure he ought to interrupt. I drag him into our hug, and we stand there together.

“The Three Musketeers did all right for ourselves, didn’t we?” he chortles quietly.

“We sure fuckin’ did,” Rose answers.

And I add, “Yeah, we did. We’re gonna be okay.”

We all grin at each other, but Finn knows it’s time, too. His gaze falls on my fake passport, sitting next to the brand-new bag that Ben had couriered here from 3PO New York, along with a beautiful, handwritten apology he’d tucked inside and a gorgeous pair of diamond earrings to match my diamond tennis bracelet.

Ben really does have lovely manners when he wants to.

“Rey Skywalker?” Finn asks, flipping open my passport and staring at the picture inside.

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Since we’re front-page news again, and until the media circus dies down a little, Ben has informed me that we’ll be traveling incognito. He says the paparazzi can get very creative in their attempts to uncover a scoop, and he wants a peaceful trip. Well, peaceful the rest of the way.

“And Ben, is he going by Skywalker, too?”

“He loathes it!” I giggle, recalling his sneer when the suggestion was made. “But he knows it’s better if we try to stay out of the spotlight for a while.”

Speaking of the devil, Ben saunters over and lurks behind me. His bandage is bright white and draws everyone’s attention, especially after we were forced to explain his accident, as I’d suggested, as a sex thing gone horribly wrong.

I think he’s finally forgiven me for snipping off the tip of his finger by mistake, especially now that it’s been sewn back on, but I’m keeping a wary eye on my drink just the same.

Ben must sense my suspicion, though he only breathes a soft kiss over the back of my neck, and I have no doubt he’ll be dragging me back to our suite for one last hour or two of privacy before we depart.

“Mrs. Solo, there’s a call for you,” someone in a crisp white uniform announces with just the right amount of hesitance and servile authority to let me know the call is important enough to risk disrupting us.

“Who is it?” Ben asks, perking up and frowning.

Unsure of whom to address, now that he’s interrupted our conversation, the steward looks back and forth between the two of us before deciding to answer Ben. “Um. She says it’s Mrs. Solo’s grandmother.”

“Grandmother?” I blurt out.

“Calling from where?” Ben asks at the same time.

All drama of the past week is forgotten in an instant as we exchange an incredulous look.

“She’s calling from Mandalore.”

“Mandalore? But that’s in—”

“She says her name is Sabine Wren, and she has information about…how to find the Kessel Run.”