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Daniel rolled onto his back again and blinked up at her, completely unprepared for that offer. It seemed intrusive just to go into their room, let alone to lie in their bed where they lay together every night, where they talked and slept and made love. He didn’t know how to respond.

Fortunately, Jane had it covered. “Come on now, darling; the sheets are clean, I just changed ’em. Up you go.”

She peeled back the blanket she’d presumably covered him with earlier, took him by the arm, and pulled him from the couch. He shuffled along, passive and mute, let her deposit him into their freshly made bed. It was no less decadent than the master’s, he noted with surprise. Just as large, covered in sheets just as fine and a down quilt just as thick. She pulled the bedding up to his chin and patted him on the chest.

“There now, isn’t that better than the couch?”

Too sleepy to answer her clearly rhetorical question, he smiled and let his eyes drift shut. He heard Jane wind the blinds closed, but never heard her leave; he was asleep before she’d closed the door.

He woke up to her again sometime later, which cut down significantly on the strange-bed disorientation, though it still took a moment for things to slot into place. She was smiling patiently, holding a pile of folded clothes. “It’s nine,” she said.

Daniel frowned, wondering why the master had let him sleep so late, wondering if the next hour would be filled with last night’s silent, jagged tension.

Jane, as if reading his mind, said, “Don’t worry, darling, Master’s off to work already.” She put his clothes on the nightstand and slipped from the room, adding at the door, “I’m making breakfast.”

Daniel mumbled a groggy thanks and followed her out, heading straight for the shower. As the hot water worked the couch-related kinks from his body, he realized, amazed, that he’d slept for over thirteen hours. He felt pretty damn good, though; even the cuts and bruises from the strapping only hurt if he leaned on them. Even better, he’d be back at work—his passion, his haven—in an hour, away from this place and focused on what he did best. Set to tasks about which there was no question, serving where his place was clear and valued. He rinsed off, shaved, dressed, and brushed his teeth quickly. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

But really, there was no point to rushing. His car wouldn’t be here until ten. Still, he couldn’t help himself. He slid into a chair at the kitchen table at exactly 9:20. Leg jiggling compulsively, he read the paper and ate ridiculously amazing homemade fruit crepes that made him wonder who had owned Jane before. The way she was feeding him, he’d have to spend some extra time in the gym burning off the calories, but that was just fine with him. He enjoyed the soothing, empty-minded focus of a long workout, the sense of effortless strength and the satisfying fatigue that followed, and Tim never begrudged him the time for it once the afternoon production meeting wrapped. Pain had kept him from those pleasures for four long days, and he was as eager to return to them as he was to the newsroom.

He greeted his driver warmly, smiled at the guard as he carded through the security gates at NewWorld, nodded cheerfully at two slave production assistants he passed in the hallway. He was still smiling as he strode across the newsroom floor, but his happiness faded as he approached his office and saw the door open, then disappeared altogether when he stepped inside and saw Tim, working at Daniel’s desk and looking the kind of deadly serious that could only mean trouble.

Before he could even open his mouth to ask, Tim stood and said, “Mr. Foster wants you downstairs. Now.”

Daniel’s knees nearly unhinged, and he clutched at the doorjamb to steady himself. He couldn’t . . . It was too soon after the last time, too—

“He didn’t tell me why,” Tim said, no doubt sensing Daniel’s looming panic. “Maybe it’s not . . .”

Except Tim didn’t bother to finish that sentence, because there was never a happy reason for Mr. Foster to pull a slave from work. Which meant it had to be about his new master. The man must have called, complained. And didn’t that just piss Daniel off, because if the master wanted him punished, he should have been man enough to do it himself. What kind of weak, weaselly, pathetic little man was Carl to do this, to play at master but shun the responsibilities of the title, to pass him off like some . . . some fucking unwanted dog he couldn’t be bothered to train, let alone discipline, as if he was worried Daniel might try to bite back, or maybe just have the audacity to bleed when he struck him. The master obviously had no stomach for it, thought buying lives was some kind of game; or maybe he was just some bastion of bullshit left-wing liberal guilt who couldn’t bear to do his own dirty work but had no questions of conscience when it happened out of sight.

Jesus fuck, he was furious.

Tim must have mistaken Daniel’s rage-induced shaking for fear, because he came around the desk, cupped Daniel’s biceps in a steadying grip, and said, “I’m sure it’ll be okay. I’ll come with you, okay? I won’t leave you alone.”

Daniel barked out a strained laugh that deepened the worry lines on Tim’s face. At least one person in his life was willing to own up to who and what he was.

Anyway, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe Mr. Foster just wanted to talk, to warn him with words instead of the strap. Such mercy had been much more common under Mr. Krantz—especially for Daniel, for whom the man had had a soft spot from the day he’d bought him for NewWorld—but still, it wasn’t unheard of now.

Daniel held on to that hope, and to his fury—it was easier to be angry than afraid—until they crossed the newsroom, and he saw Harper Bailey working at the guest desk near the hall. His knees failed and his mind blanked of all but terror at the sight; the guiding hand on his arm had to dig in to keep him upright.

They’d brought in a substitute. A fucking substitute.

Harper gave Daniel a knowing look—a wash of sick, distant sympathy—and turned back to his work.

“Breathe,” Tim said, propping Daniel up against the elevator wall and pushing the B1 button. Daniel thought that a remarkably wise suggestion, and even tried it for a while, but then he was breathing too fast and started feeling dizzy on top of everything else. So he went back to holding his breath, watching the indicator lights as the elevator descended.

Five. Four.

“I didn’t know,” Tim said.

Three. Daniel turned his head toward his handler but said nothing.

“About Harper. They didn’t tell me they were bringing in a sub for the broadcast tonight. I would’ve told you. I didn’t know.”

Two. One. Daniel nodded once, silently absolving Tim of whatever guilt he was carrying. None of this was Tim’s fault, and at least he had the guts to stand with Daniel when things got ugly.

The doors opened, and Tim had to physically remove Daniel from the back wall, where somehow, he seemed to have gotten stuck.

Daniel slowed as they neared the room where he usually went, but Tim pulled him past the door, shaking his head. Daniel couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or a bad one, didn’t know if there were other rooms down here with soundproof walls and whipping posts or if that was the only one. Didn’t know if there were rooms even more sinister, rooms that held even darker fates.