His dark eyes are unreadable, absorbing every detail. My fear, my shame, the terrified hitch of my breath. The way my body trembles as one man after another has their way with me, as they fuck me, as they force their cocks in me and he in turn forces my body to come over and over like I really am just a mindless whore…
My face ignites, a scalding wave of heat that spreads from my cheeks down my neck and across my chest.
The memory is so visceral, so sharp that I can almost smell the cigar smoke and cheap perfume again. A dual torrent of emotion floods me; a shame so profound it makes me nauseous, and a humiliation that feels like a brand on my very soul.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images are burned onto the backs of my eyelids. A low, pathetic whimper escapes my lips. What have I done? What kind of person have I become, has he turned me into?
Desperate for a distraction, for any anchor in this spiralling panic, I turn over. The other side of the massive bed is empty. A confusing mix of relief and acute loneliness washes over me.
And then I see it. A single, heavy piece of cream paper, folded neatly and leaning against a crystal lamp on the nightstand. My name is written on it in a bold, slashing script.
With fingers that feel numb and clumsy, I reach for it. The paper is thick, expensive.
‘You were sleeping so beautifully I didn’t want to wake you. Come find me when you are ready.
Antonio’
The words are almost tender, but they feel like a collar. He watched me sleep, after everything he put me through yesterday. The intimacy of it is more violating than if he’d simply shaken me awake. He had full access, uninterrupted, to my most vulnerable state, just as he had last night.
I gulp, the sound loud in the silent room. My throat is parched.Come find me.The instruction is clear. This is part of it, this is my purpose; I am here to be available to him. I am his obedient pet.
Moving mechanically, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The polished floor is ice-cold under my feet. My body protests every movement, each ache a fresh reminder of the previous night. A black, silk robe is draped over a chaise lounge. His, by the size of it. I slip my arms into it, and the sleeves swallow my hands. I belt it tightly around my waist, enveloping myself in his scent; that same hit of sandalwood and power.
It’s like being wrapped in him, and I hate that a part of me is already so used to this that it feels normal.
Barefoot, I pad to the bedroom door and open it. The hallway outside is a cavernous expanse of more dark wood, more sombre artwork, more polished floors. The mansion is a maze, silent and imposing. I have no idea where to go.Come find me.I suppose I’m just meant to wander until I do.
I start walking, the cold floor seeping into my soles. I turn a corner into a grander hallway, and I stop dead.
They are everywhere. Men in dark, tactical clothing. Armed. Their postures are relaxed but alert, their eyes constantly scanning. They stand at intervals along the hall, by doorways, at the top of a sweeping staircase. As I walk, they don’t move, but their eyes track me. Every single one of them. Silent. Assessing.
Do they report to Antonio, or the Grand Master?
My skin crawls as I contemplate which of those scenarios is worse. Were they there last night? Did they watch me being carried back in? Do they know what happened at that club? The heat returns to my face. I feel like an exhibit, a strange, fragile creature let loose in a fortress of predators.
I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, on the endless Persian runner stretching down the hall. I can feel their gazes like physical touches, and I pull the robe tighter around me.
I pass a set of double doors that are slightly ajar. Inside, I see a room dominated by a massive desk and walls lined with books.It feels like the heart of this place, and exactly where my Master is sure to be.
I push one door open and step inside.
Antonio is there behind the desk, his head bent over a spread of documents, a sleek laptop open beside him. He looks every bit the powerful Kingmaker dressed in a tailored navy shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing the tanned, corded strength of his forearms. The morning light from a tall window highlights the sharp planes of his face, the slight frown of concentration.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. I stand there, frozen in the doorway, my hand still on the cool brass doorknob.
My body moves without consulting my brain. My knees bend. The plush rug muffles the sound as I sink onto it. I lower my head, my gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the carpet, my hands resting on my thighs. I am on my knees before him.
The scratching of his pen stops. I feel his attention shift, the weight of it settling on me. I don’t dare look up. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I can hear the steady, slow tick of a grand old grandfather clock in the corner.
Then, I hear it. A low, soft chuckle. It’s not unkind. It’s pleased.
I risk a glance upward. He is leaning back in his leather chair, his pen discarded. He’s looking at me with an expression that makes my stomach clench. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated pride. The way a Master would look at a well-trained pet that has performed a particularly clever trick.
“Good morning, Pet,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. “How are you feeling?”
The question is so mundane, so utterly at odds with everything that has happened that my mind goes completely blank. How am I feeling? Sore. Used. Terrified. Ashamed. Humbled. Filled with a confusing, traitorous thrill at the approval in his eyes.
My cheeks flame for what feels like the hundredth time this morning.
