A sharp, hot pain lances through my right knee; a protest from a joint that has been locked in place for too long. I shift, just a fraction of an inch, trying to redistribute my weight without drawing his attention. The relief is instantaneous and fleeting. A moment later, a fresh wave of stiffness sets in, even worse than before. I can’t help it. I fidget again, a tiny, desperate roll of my hips to try and get the blood flowing.
The scratching of the pen stops.
The silence that follows is heavier, more deafening than any sound. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. I don’t dare look up.
“Stop.” His voice is low, a quiet command that vibrates through the room and coils tight around my spine. It’s not loud, it’s worse than loud. It’s absolute.
A hot flush of shame and frustration washes over me. Hours of silent obedience, and I’ve ruined it with a single, tiny movement. The ache in my body, the humiliation of my position, the sheer exhaustion of maintaining this façade of placidity all boils over before my brain can engage its filter.
A low, guttural sound escapes my lips. It’s not quite a word, more a grumble of pure, unadulterated irritation.
The silence that follows this time is lethal.
I hear the soft thud of his pen being set down. Slowly, so slowly I force my eyes to travel upward, past the pristine cuffs of his white shirt, the strong line of his forearms, the breadth of his chest in that perfectly tailored waistcoat, to finally meet his gaze.
His eyes are black ice. There is no anger in them. Not yet. There is only a cold, distant assessment, as if he’s looking at a piece of furniture that has unexpectedly made a noise. It’s terrifying.
He doesn’t look away from me as he reaches for the antique brass bell on the corner of his desk. He picks it up and gives it one sharp, clear ring. The sound seems to hang in the air, like a death knell for my momentary rebellion.
Panic, cold and sharp, explodes in me, instantly vaporizing my frustration. “No, no, I’m sorry, I…”
The door to the study opens. The man I know to be his brother stands there, waiting for instructions, as though he is nothing more than a servant.
I haven’t seen Mateus in years. He used to attend my father’s dinner parties sometimes with his brother. I stare at him, waiting for the recognition but his eyes are carefully blank, seeing everything and acknowledging nothing.
“Mateus,” Antonio says, his voice still that same, chillingly calm tone. “My pet is finding her current position uncomfortable. Escort her back to the Doghouse. She can reflect on her behaviour there for the remainder of the day.”
The Doghouse, where I know Felice and Julie are waiting for me. The thought of being dragged away by Mateus, of being locked in space with them sends a bolt of pure terror through me.
“No,” The word is a sob, ripped from my throat.
I break my kneeling position, scrambling forward on my sore knees to clutch at the leg of his trousers. The rough wool is a familiar texture against my desperate fingers. “Please, Master, please don’t. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll be good, I swear it. Please, don’t send me back down there. Don’t let him take me.”
I am babbling, my forehead pressed against his shin, my whole body trembling.
The degradation of begging is a hot poison in my veins, but it’s nothing compared to the fear of being taken away, of being returned to the very pits of hell.
Antonio looks down at me, his expression unchanging as he lets me cling to him, let’s my desperate tears soak into the fine fabric of his suit.
Then, he speaks. His voice is a soft, venomous whisper that slithers into my ear and freezes the blood in my veins.
“You dare grumble at me?” he asks, almost conversationally. “You forget yourself, Pup. You forget what you are.”
He leans down, his fingers tangling in my hair. Not pulling, just holding me in place, forcing me to listen. “You are not special. You are a dog. A beautiful, well-bred expensive dog, but a dog nonetheless…” He finally yanks my head back, forcing me to look up into his merciless face. “And a dog is easy to put down and replace.”
His words shouldn’t hurt. I know what I am to him, but hearing it stated with such cold, brutal clarity shatters something inside me.
“If that’s the case, why did you even purchase me?”
He pauses, running his eyes over me in a way that feels so familiar and yet so clinical. “You remind me of someone.” He says before waving his hand to dismiss me like the conversation is over.
His brother takes a step closer, and I know if I don’t seize this moment then it’ll be gone and I’ll be back, in the doghouse and in my cage. I’ll be back at the mercy of Felice and Julie again.
“I remind you of her.” I hiss. “I remind you of my mother. The one woman you couldn’t have.”
His eyes flash, and he’s on his feet, snatching at my throat before I can blink. “You think I haven’t fucked her?” He retorts. “You think half the Lords in England haven’t all had a good turn with her since she’s been in Oblivion?”
I screw my face up as a disgusting image fills my head, and I let out a sob of despair. My poor mother. She deserved better. She deserved far fucking better than what fate handed her.
