Chapters (30)

I encourage you to care for and prioritize your mental and emotional health while reading In His Hands. And I hope, in the end, you’ll find Cade and Olivia’s love story—and their happily ever after—to be as beautiful and valid as I do.

For more detailed content warnings for In His Hands, and all the books in the Perfect Taboo series, please visit the Books Page of my website, www.hannahmurray.net.

Trademark Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Benadryl: Johnson & Johnson

Camry: Toyota Motor Corporation

Coke: The Coca-Cola Company

Julie & Julia: Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.

Kryptonite: DC Comics, Inc.

Stingray: General Motors Company

Tiffany: Louis Comfort Tiffany

Epigraph

It’s easy to fall in love. The hard part is finding someone to catch you.

—Bertrand Russell

Chapter One

Olivia stared at her boyfriend in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

Kyle raised one blond eyebrow, which unfortunately added a layer of smug condescension to his Generically Handsome White Guy face. “Do I look serious?”

“Yes.” His usual affable smile was missing, his mouth pinched tight. “You look very serious.”

“Well, then.” Kyle took out a pen and tapped the thick sheaf of papers on the table between them.

“You’re telling me if I don’t sign that, we’re done.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

This didn’t make any sense. “I don’t want a Master/slave relationship, Kyle. You know that.”

He laid the pen on the table. It was the fountain pen she’d given him for his birthday last month, she noted. It was made in Germany, by some company that was apparently the world leader in fancy fountain pens, and had cost almost as much as her share of the monthly rent. It had a black lacquer finish, gold trim, and a gold nib that squirted ink all over her fingers every time she used it.

“It’s not about what you want, but rather, what you need,” Kyle said, and Olivia narrowed her eyes. He only used words like ‘rather’ when he was trying extra hard to be taken seriously.

“I don’t need a slave contract—which, by the way, is not in any way legally enforceable.” She paused to take a calming breath. If she started yelling, he’d just shut down, and they’d never get anywhere. “I need you to talk to me. I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, his expression shuttered. He looked the way he did when he was trying to bluff his way through a crappy hand at the poker table, or when someone disagreed with some political talking point he was repeating. Like he knew he was fucked and wanted to walk away, but his pride wouldn’t allow it.