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He supposed that was true of more than just her hands.

“I have some salve for the burns,” she said, “and for the, uh . . .”

Well, wasn’t that unlike Jane, to be flustered speechless?

“But I’m afraid I’ve got nothing to help with the cramps.”

“S’okay,” Daniel said. “I just need some sleep.” Well, sleep was a good start, anyway. The cramps would fade with time, mellowing in an hour or two, disappearing altogether by morning. They were just damn miserable in the meantime, but it was better than before, better than—

Whoa. No going there. He was trembling bodily, clutching at the blanket like a shield, and Jane gave him that look again.

“Really,” he said. “Just tired.”

And then, as if to prove his point, he fell dead asleep.

The nightmares were bad, and he woke up with a jerk so hard he fell off the couch. He felt like he’d barely slept at all; a quick glance at the clock confirmed that it was just a little after four in the afternoon.

The apartment was silent and felt empty. Running errands, said a note on the coffee table. Be back around 5. —J. Beside the note was a chemical ice pack with its own note (For your finger), and her jar of salve. Daniel’s legs seemed to be working again, so he took the jar into the bathroom and dabbed it over the contact burns he could reach, the blossoming bruises at his biceps and hips, forearms and wrists, the bite mark on his shoulder. The salve was cold, numbing relief on the surface, though pain still burned beneath. His hands shook when he glopped some on his fingers to smear on his ass, and he remained just levelheaded enough to marvel at Mr. Foster’s power, at the man’s capacity to make even Daniel’s own touch revolting. That it hurt didn’t help, but the salve worked fast, numbing the sharpest edges away.

He rummaged through the medicine cabinet with only the slightest shiver of apprehension at touching the master’s things, came up with a roll of medical tape, and buddy-splinted his left pinkie to his left ring finger. It didn’t seem misaligned, but it hurt enough to justify immobilizing. He’d have to get it looked at tomorrow.

With nothing else to distract himself from his thoughts or his exhaustion, he returned to the couch and conceded to sleep again.

Some hours later, he was back on the floor, lurched from a nightmare by his own scream. The sun was down and the room was dark, the clock not visible through the gloom. He smelled chicken cooking, or maybe turkey—strong and unappetizing in his current state—and heard soft sounds drifting through the closed door of the slave quarters. Dave and Jane, hopefully enjoying some downtime together. He was grateful she’d left him alone.

He crawled back onto the couch, retrieved the blanket from the floor and the remote from the coffee table. Though he knew it was illogical, downright absurd, he felt better stuffed into the corner, his back to the armrest and his knees to his chest. Even though there was nothing to hide from here.

Not yet, anyway.

He turned on the TV, skimming through the channels, not really processing what he was seeing. He settled on something colorful and bright, some Japanese cartoon that would probably induce seizures if you watched it too long, and muted the sound in deference to a budding headache. The show made for a lousy distraction; his mind kept turning back to this morning, to what would happen when the master came home this evening. To what he’d need to do if he didn’t want to end up at Mr. Foster’s feet again, begging for mercy that wouldn’t come. Not even his anchor chair would save him if the master decided to return him for good. He couldn’t let that happen.

He stared at the television screen, half watching the battling robots, half watching a whole different kind of violence playing in his head. He hugged his knees tighter to his chest and rested his chin atop them, pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders to ward off a core-deep chill.

Daniel was jerked once more from sleep by a flash of light. He blinked against it, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, pulled them cautiously away. Not a flash; the room was still bright. Master’s living room. Overhead lights. Someone had turned them on. Probably the same someone calling his name.

“Daniel!”

Shit. The master. His tone suggested he’d been repeating himself for some time already and wasn’t at all happy about it. Daniel snapped from his stupor, unfolding quickly—too quickly, with a sharp hiss—to stand in his master’s presence, but the man was already towering over him, both hands gripping Daniel’s shoulders, holding him in place.

“What happened?” the master said. “Why aren’t you at work?”

His voice was hard, stern. It had every right to be. Daniel had screwed up again, of course he had, or he wouldn’t be here now. And of course the master would be angry; his expensive little appliance had done nothing but malfunction from the moment he’d brought it home.

No more, though. He couldn’t afford to fuck up again, couldn’t bear another correction at Mr. Foster’s hand. Had no more pieces left unbroken anyway—gluing himself back together how the master wanted should be easy now. He’d convince the master to keep him no matter what it took. He’d make the master happy.

“I’m here to please you, Master,” he said, passably convincing.

The master’s hands tightened on his shoulders, and Daniel leaned in close, lifted fingers to the master’s belt buckle and began to undo it.

“What are you—?” The master pushed his hands away. “Stop that. Wait. What are you doing? What happened?”

Daniel shook his head, brought his hands back up to his master’s waist. He could see a bulge forming already in the man’s pants, knew he was turning him on, so why was the master shoving him away? Fuck, couldn’t he do anything right?

“I’m sorry, Master,” he said, attacking the buckle again and again getting thwarted by the master’s hands. He slid to his knees at the master’s feet instead, pressed his cheek to the master’s hip, his lips a hairsbreadth from the erection tenting the man’s pants. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “I—”

A hand touched his head, and though he dreaded the condescending intimacy of being petted like some child, some creature, he wished for it more than anything when instead the master’s fingers came to rest on his forehead and pushed him back. If he were rebuffed . . .

“What the hell’s gotten into you, Daniel? What are you—?”