Married life was a bore, so I got a canary to spice things up. Who knew word would get back to my husband of convenience? From that day on, he started coming home. A lot. And he got… creative. Until one day, he asked me, “When are you going to let me meet this canary you’re keeping on the side?” “What’s so special about him?” I froze. “You want to meet him?” When he said yes, I took him to see my bird. A Gloster canary. 1 Peter Fairchild and I were husband and wife, courtesy of a business arrangement. We’d known each other since we were kids, but we were never close. After the wedding, he was consumed by his empire, and I by mine. We were apart more often than we were together. It was our normal. Lately, Peter had been tied up with an overseas partnership, vanishing for weeks at a time. My friends loved to tease me about it. “You always joked about wanting a husband who’s never home and just sends money,” one of them said, swirling her wine. “But Peter is a god-tier catch. With him gone, I can’t decide if you’re winning or losing.” “...” “Seriously, Alison,” another chimed in, “your married life looks exactly like your single life. All work and schmoozing. Aren’t you bored? Haven't you thought about finding… other ways to have fun?” Bored? Maybe a little. That’s probably why, when I drove past a street market with a flower stall and a pet shop, I pulled over on a whim. I walked out with a bouquet of white lisianthus in one hand and a birdcage in the other. Inside was a fluffy, bright yellow ball of feathers. The shop owner called it a Gloster canary. Its cheerful, insistent chirping was a melody that made my own heart feel a little lighter. I didn’t take the canary to the house I shared with Peter. Instead, I set him up in a villa I owned, with a housekeeper to look after him. Our marital home was shared space. I couldn’t just bring an animal into it without his say-so. The day I officially became a bird owner, I had to share my excitement with my best friend, Sophie. The background on her end of the line was a chaotic roar of voices. She could barely hear me and had to put me on speaker. I raised my voice. “I said, I’m keeping a canary on the side now—” The word hung in the air, and then, inexplicably, her end went dead silent. The entire party seemed to hold its breath. “Sophie?” Her voice came back, a frantic, hushed whisper. “Alison, are you insane? You can’t just say things like that! Do you have any idea where I am?” “What?” I was genuinely confused. What was wrong with getting a bird? “Is that not something I can talk about?” Sophie hissed, “Keep your voice down! Is it something to be proud of?” “...” In the days following that bizarre call, I started catching whispers about me and a “canary.” People would go quiet whenever I walked into a room. But I was swamped with work and didn't have the energy to figure out what they were gossiping about. Tonight, I came home late from the office and sensed something was off the moment I stepped inside. The air felt… different. I looked up and saw a silent figure sitting on the living room sofa. The man I hadn’t seen in half a month was back, without a word of warning. 2 “Peter?” I walked toward him, dropping my purse on the console table. “I thought you weren’t back for another week.” While we weren’t a love match, I at least kept track of his schedule. “You don’t want me back?” His voice was strange, laced with an unfamiliar edge. “What?” I didn’t understand. He opened his mouth as if to say more, then shut it, a muscle clenching in his jaw. His expression was dark, almost stormy. I reached out and touched his cheek. “Are you feeling alright? You look pale.” No fever. The next second, his arm snaked around my waist, pulling me into him without warning. I landed on his lap, straddling him. Before I could process it, his mouth was on mine. It wasn't a welcome-home kiss. It was a storm. A desperate, claiming kiss that tasted of something I couldn’t name. As it deepened, the taste soured with something else—possession, maybe even anger. I tried to pull away, murmuring that I hadn't showered, but he just swept me into his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, and stood. He started walking toward the bathroom. Peter worked out. The hard planes of his body were a testament to that, and he held me with an effortless strength that always left me a little breathless. But tonight was different. He was fierce. So fierce I cried, but he didn’t stop. He just kept asking me, his voice a ragged whisper against my skin, who he was. Peter… husband… my love… None of my answers seemed to satisfy him, but he demanded them anyway. The bathroom filled with steam, and I felt like a castaway clinging to a raft in a churning sea. My body was pushed to its limits, and somewhere in the dizzying haze, I heard him whisper in my ear, “You’re mine.” Of course, I was his. But I was too exhausted to answer. It was like he’d never seen a woman before in his life. It wasn’t until the next morning that I had the strength to ask him about his schedule. He stood by the bed, his gaze intense as he looked down at me. “The project is wrapping up. I handed off the final stages. I’ll be staying in the country for a while.” “But you said it was a critical deal. That you had to see it through yourself.” Peter nodded slowly. “There are… other critical things here that need my personal attention.” I didn’t catch the hidden meaning in his words. 3 From that day on, Peter was a different man. Logically, with our demanding jobs, we should have barely seen each other. But he started coming home. Early. Most days, he was already there when I walked in. Tonight, I came home to find him in the kitchen, wearing an apron and carrying a platter of food. I stopped in my tracks. It wasn't just that Peter was cooking. It was the way he was dressed. He had on a black tank top that did nothing to hide the sculpted lines of his muscles. That, paired with his handsome face, sent a wave of raw sex appeal crashing over me. The apron only amplified it. A dash of husband material. It was dangerously attractive. He looked at me, his expression softening. “You’re home. Go wash up, dinner’s ready.” It was the first time my husband had ever cooked for me. Our marriage was a contract; domestic skills weren’t part of the deal. We had staff for that. I had no idea he was this talented. “Is it good?” he asked, watching me take a bite. I nodded like a bobblehead. “Delicious.” Then he added, his voice layered with meaning, “If the food at home is this good, you won’t have to eat out. It’s not healthy.” I only heard the surface-level meaning. “Absolutely not. You’re too busy. You can’t come home from work every day and cook.” Peter just stared at me. “…” Later that evening, while he was in the shower, I called Sophie. Her voice was conspiratorial. “Is your husband around?” “No, why?” “Just checking. How’s your little canary doing?” My canary? “Oh, he’s great! He’s started rubbing his head against my hand to be cute.” My little bird had a wonderfully sweet personality, very affectionate. Sophie let out a strange, almost pervy giggle. “Alison, I never would’ve guessed you were into that type. Look, don’t say I never help you out, but you’re a married woman. Even if it’s a loveless business arrangement, you’re keeping… that… on the side. You need to hide it well.” “Hide what…” I was about to ask her what there was to hide when footsteps padded up behind me. Peter was out of the shower, a towel slung low around his hips. I watched as a single, perfect drop of water slid from his chest, tracing a path down his abs before disappearing beneath the towel. Silent, raw sensuality. “Who was that?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. “Sophie,” I said, belatedly turning my phone screen to show him. But she’d already hung up. 4 Peter’s eyes landed on my phone screen. He didn’t say anything, just reached out, took the phone from my hand, and set it down, screen dark. He leaned in, his handsome face filling my vision. He took my hand, lifted it to his cheek, and gently nuzzled against my palm. All the while, his gaze never left mine, intense and unwavering. “Do you like this?” he murmured. In that moment, my mind went blank. I barely registered his words. Peter and I had a marriage of convenience, but we fulfilled our marital duties. I just never imagined the composed, always-in-control Peter would do something like this. “Peter, did you overhear my call?” His eyes darkened, a furrow forming between his brows. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Alison, if this is what you like, I can do it too. You don’t have to look for it outside.” Peter had no idea how dangerously sexy he looked right then. I only processed the first half of his sentence before his mouth crashed down on mine, and the world dissolved into a storm of sensation. Lost in the haze, a single thought surfaced: I was talking about my bird. Why was Peter competing with a bird? Did he really hate them that much? I decided then and there to scrap any plans of bringing my canary home. Tonight, Peter was different. He was clingy, whispering things in my ear that sent shivers of pleasure and shame through me. He was usually so quiet in bed. Now, every word was designed to unravel me. I was lost in a sea of illicit pleasure, drowning with him. Who the hell had reprogrammed my husband? Peter’s new routine was intense. He was always home, and he suddenly cared about my every move. After work one day, I stopped by my private villa to see my bird. He was getting delightfully chubby, his little head a perfect, fluffy sphere. Even though I wasn’t his daily caretaker, he still fluttered down to land on my hand the moment I walked in. I hadn't kept him in a cage; I’d had a whole room converted into a custom aviary, full of plants and natural light, temperature-controlled for his comfort. I was cooing at him when my phone rang. It was Peter. "You're such a good boy, so attached to your mama..." I murmured, just as the call connected. “Peter?” Silence stretched from the other end before he finally spoke. “Where are you?” My husband had become remarkably possessive lately. I instinctively thought he was calling to hurry me home. “I’m on my way back now,” I said quickly. Another long pause. Finally, a quiet, “Okay.” That night, as we were tangled in the sheets, he leaned over me, his voice a cool, suppressed whisper in my ear. “Mama, was I good?” My eyes shot open. A tidal wave of speechless, searing shame washed over me. I had no idea how my husband of six months had transformed into this… this incubus. My last shred of composure crumbled under that one word. As I drifted into an exhausted sleep, I thought I heard him murmur a complaint. “Why didn’t you call me your good boy?” It felt so surreal, it must have been a dream. 5 My husband’s antics were getting more and more elaborate, sometimes to the point where I couldn’t keep up. I’d had a lot of work events lately and came home late one night, a little drunk. Peter had a sweet, hangover-soothing broth waiting for me, which he fed to me spoon by spoon. I looked up at him and noticed the darkness clouding his features. He looked miserable. Drunk as I was, I didn't overthink it. I just reached up to smooth the worry from his brow. “Don’t frown.” He steadied me, his unhappiness palpable. “Why did you drink so much?” I cupped his face, studying him for a long moment before breaking into a wide, happy grin. “Hubby.” He froze. A few seconds later, I heard him sigh again. “Why do you keep sighing lately?” I asked. His answer took a moment to come. “Because I despise myself.” I was baffled. “You’re amazing. Why would you ever despise yourself?” Peter had been the golden boy his whole life, the kid other parents compared theirs to. I couldn't understand this self-deprecating act. “Do you love me?” he asked suddenly. Love? We weren’t in bed. The question caught me completely off guard. I was fond of him, I liked him, but I didn't know if it was love. My hesitation was answer enough. Peter didn't press the issue. He knelt, slipped off my heels, and carried me to the bathroom. I used to be mortified when he bathed me, but Peter’s stamina in bed was relentless. More often than not, I was too spent to move afterward, and he would clean me up himself. Again and again. Habit is a terrifying thing. I loved Peter’s kisses. They were always so tender. But tonight, after he laid me on the bed, he didn't kiss me. My head was fuzzy, my vision blurred. Through a drunken haze, I saw him pick up his tie from the dresser. ? His thumb stroked my wrist as he whispered, “Want to play a game tonight?” I pointed a shaky finger at the tie. “You’re going to tie me up?” “Can I?” I shook my head. “I don’t want to.” He stopped, his hand hovering. He just looked at me for a long moment, then asked, “What if you tie me up?” Tying Peter to the headboard… His eyes were dark pools, drawing me in. On a strange, devilish impulse, I nodded. With his hands bound, Peter looked completely at my mercy. It sparked a thrilling sense of control. I didn’t think I was a wicked woman. But tonight, the alcohol must have corroded my inhibitions, because all I wanted was to see him lose control. He’d also prepared a black silk sash. I used it to cover his eyes. He couldn’t see me, so I felt bold, liberated. It was a wild, chaotic night. So wild that when I woke up the next morning and remembered, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and disappear. Especially when I saw the faint red marks still visible on his wrists. How could I be that kind of person? But god, Peter, blindfolded and bound… he had been so unbelievably sexy. His suit jacket would hide the marks, but the thought of him going to work, being the decisive, powerful CEO with the evidence of my wildness hidden beneath his clothes, sent a secret thrill through me. I was a little bit bad.
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