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Tim patted his knee again. Stood. “I promise it’s not as dire as it sounds, Daniel. You’ll be fine. Just . . . no discussing active investigations or rankings or ad strategies, okay?”

Daniel nodded, because what else was he supposed to do but agree, and also because maybe, just maybe, Tim was right. NewWorld had always taken care of him before, hadn’t they? Surely they wouldn’t endanger him now. Besides, he was just as clever as Carl was. He’d find a way to make it work. NewWorld trusted him to find a way to make it work.

“It’s time to get back to work now, I’m afraid.”

Of course it was. He’d lost half the morning already to his own bad behaviors and fears. “Can I do it from the couch?”

“Sure. I’ll go get your laptop.”

Daniel spent his afternoon working on his belly, his entire back side covered with chemical ice packs courtesy of Tim. Focus shot, he accomplished little, but he trusted in his staff to pick up the slack. Though he didn’t remember it happening, they all must have seen him stumbling back from the elevator, clinging to Tim, tears staining his face; he knew most of them would put their hearts into making his life a little easier this afternoon. Maxwell never hired anyone who had issues “working for” a slave, and certainly plenty enough of them were slaves themselves, well familiar with the pain of a hard strapping. Tim wasn’t pushing him at all, and even Maxwell admitted that after so severe a punishment, he’d expected to have to call in a sub for tonight’s broadcast. Daniel was adamant that he could do it himself, though. He didn’t think Mr. Foster would be as understanding as Maxwell, and it wasn’t like he’d get to go home to his little cubbyhole anyway.

Really, all he wanted to do was crawl off and be alone, lick his wounds in private, but he had a new master now, and what he wanted had never mattered very much anyway. He shuddered at the thought of his master making him strip again, studying him like a fucking bug, pressing fingers into his welts and bruises and getting off on his pain.

Maybe, he told himself, it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the master really wasn’t a sick fuck. Maybe he’d even ignore Daniel.

Sure, yeah. And maybe Daniel would sprout wings and fly to freedom in Scandinavia. Because the only other way he was getting out of his obligations was in a fucking wooden box

Tim returned a few hours later with three more Tylenol, two fresh ice packs, and a sandwich that was most definitely not from the slaves’ cafeteria.

“Thank you,” Daniel said, swallowing the pills and sitting on the ice packs, but eying the sandwich warily. He was still hurting just enough to be queasy and didn’t much feel like puking.

“Nonoptional,” Tim said, plunking it in his lap. “Eat. You missed lunch, and the pills will upset your stomach if it’s empty. On a different note, there’s a production meeting in twenty minutes—think you can make it?”

Daniel took a bite of sandwich—BLT on whole wheat, just how he liked it: lightly toasted, no mayo, extra tomato—and shrugged. It was a stupid thing to do; abused nerves fired from his shoulder to his tailbone, and he hissed, swallowed a piece of bacon the wrong way and spent the next thirty seconds trying to cough up the food and half his lung.

“Just not your day, is it?” Tim said when Daniel could breathe again, half teasing, half deadly serious. He hovered close, but when it was clear that Daniel was done coughing, he pointed a finger at the sandwich, said, “Eat,” one more time, and left Daniel’s office, closing the door behind him.

Blissfully alone, if only for the moment, Daniel did as he was told. Surprisingly, he felt a bit better after eating. He even managed to drag his sorry ass to the production meeting, and while it wasn’t one of his shining moments, at least he got through it. When he fell asleep for an hour on his couch afterward, nobody seemed to notice. If they did, they held their tongues.

Tim returned again at seven with more food, a Percocet, and a large espresso. Daniel raised his eyebrows at the combination.

“The consensus is that a sleepy you is better than a sweating you,” Tim said. “This ought to let you grit through the broadcast without drooping too much.”

“Thanks,” Daniel said, and not just to be polite. It wasn’t often that a slave got nursed through discipline on painkillers of any sort, let alone narcotics. He didn’t like espresso, but he knew the drugs would knock him cold without the caffeine, so he took a sip anyway.

“And I gotta tell ya, this whole waiting hand and foot on a slave thing is mighty inconvenient. So next time you’re thinking about doing something stupid and getting your ass beat, could you maybe, you know, not? Or at least do it on a Friday?”

The apology was already passing through Daniel’s lips when he glanced up and saw Tim’s smile. He smiled back, touched his fingers to Tim’s arm, and looked him straight in the eye. “Really, Tim, I mean it. Thanks.”

The broadcast was its own special level of Hell, but they’d arranged the night’s rundown without panels or long interviews, minimizing his camera time. He stood through all the pretaped packages and sat on ice packs during the intros and extros, careful not to lean back against his chair. His skin still felt too tight, terribly oversensitized, burning like he’d been dipped in menthol, and he’d been unable to suppress more than one wince when he’d moved a little too much or too fast. But at least the pain kept him alert, actually helped him to focus—if for no other reason than it served as a constant reminder of what would happen if he screwed up again.

They let him go at 9:05, after taping a quick look-live for the morning. Tim was waiting for him in his office, and Daniel’s heart double-timed it when he saw him. Had he done something wrong again?

“Easy,” Tim said, as if reading his mind, or perhaps just the fear on his face. “You were fine. I just came to give you this for the road.” Another Percocet was sitting in Tim’s upturned hand. “Our secret, okay?”

Daniel took it with a weary nod, stuck it in his pocket. The two of them stood silently then, Tim focused on Daniel, Daniel too tired to focus on much of anything at all.

“You should change,” Tim finally said. “You’re on borrowed time now, remember?”

Daniel nodded, started fumbling at his tie with clumsy fingers. After a few failed attempts at loosening the knot, Tim nudged Daniel’s hands away and untied it for him.

“I can’t wear the suit out just this once?” Daniel asked. Just the thought of pulling his formfitting jeans over the welts on his calves, thighs, and ass made him grimace.

Tim shook his head. “You know the rules, Daniel. Come on, I’ll help you.”

Tim started making work of the buttons on Daniel’s shirt, and with a heavy sigh, Daniel pulled the pill from his pocket and swallowed it dry.

Daniel fell asleep on the short ride to his master’s, sprawled on his belly across the back seat of the sedan. He awoke with a gasp when the doorman opened the door and gave his shoulder a shake. The man snatched his hand back with a hasty apology, but then leaned in again, helping to extricate a sweating, swearing Daniel from the car.