by Kitty Thomas
“She was just testing the remote.”
Marcus glanced briefly at her, then nodded and went back to his post outside the door.
“I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast,” Quill said. He shut out the gallery lights. The switch echoed in the large, hollow room. His footsteps receded, clicking over the marble.
But even with the lights off, it wasn’t dark. The moon outside was full, shining almost directly over the skylight, casting a pool of bright illumination over the cage. A surreal sort of feeling swept over her—as if she were about to undergo some monstrous transformation under the light of the moon, and caging her was merely a precaution meant to keep the villagers safe from her evil.
She peered through the bars at the paintings. All these women were inside their own cages, trapped behind glass—desperate eyes looking into her, following her every movement in the cramped quarters she’d been reduced to.
Saskia shifted and fluffed the bedding, pulling the blankets over her. She tried to curl up and sleep, but every time she shut her eyes, she saw the club. She kept seeing that moment... the potential moment of her redemption which she’d squashed like a helpless bug in her frantic bid to stay with a man who simply brought her home and made her sleep in a cage.
She couldn’t believe she’d chosen to come back with him. She didn’t know where Ari would have taken her or what he would have done with her, but she felt certain that if she’d gone with him, she’d be sleeping in a real bed right now either alone or with him. Both options were better than this.
If she could just find sleep, it wouldn’t matter. It would be as if only a few minutes passed, then it would be time to get out. This didn’t have to be the end of the world.
But it was.
The footsteps returned. At first she thought Quill had changed his mind about the sleeping arrangements. But the cadence of the steps was different. The length of the stride was different. She knew it wasn’t Quill well before Marcus reached the cage.
Even after his head had been between her legs in the studio, she still worried something more might happen between them. And yet...she hadn’t had an orgasm since the last one with Marcus. She was sure Quill had intended for it to happen at the club before things had gotten out of control with The Viking.
Marcus sat on the ground, his back pressed against the bars looking in the other direction at some undefined patch of white wall across the gallery.
“Are you going to let me sleep?” she asked.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
His hand was propped on the floor beside the cage. Without thinking about what she was doing, Saskia reached through the bars, her hand covering his. She didn’t want to be by herself in here. Even though she was afraid of what could happen with the whole night stretched before them and Quill asleep in the house, she’d do anything Marcus wanted if he just wouldn’t leave her alone.
Their eyes met.
The intensity of his stare held the same frightening edge as Quill’s. She tried to pull away, but Marcus threaded his fingers through hers, his grip stopping her retreat. After a while, his thumb began to stroke the back of her hand, and she relaxed into his careful caress.
This was how she found sleep in the cage with her arm stretched out holding her guard’s hand in Quill’s gallery.
A throat cleared, causing Saskia to jerk awake.
“Sleeping on the job, Marcus?”
“No, sir, I mean yes, I...”
“At least you were with her and not sleeping where she couldn’t reach you.”
Saskia pulled her hand back through the bars and watched Marcus get up and wander out of the gallery without even a backward glance in her direction.
She’d thought he’d take advantage of his position of power over her. The last thing she’d expected was for him to sit silently next to the cage until they both fell asleep.
No words had passed between them after their hands had entwined—just a long hollow silence. She hadn’t known such large open rooms could be so loud by the sheer force of their existence. She wondered which of them had fallen asleep first. Had Marcus watched her sleep before he’d drifted off himself?
When the outer door clanged shut, Quill turned back to her, his arms crossed over his chest. “Is Marcus your boyfriend now? Are you two going steady? I wonder if he’ll carve your initials into a tree.”
She stared at the bars. “I fell asleep. I guess he fell asleep, too.”
“Thrilling narration. Should I add that to the list of skills I’ll be finding a way to monetize?”
She shook her head quickly. Why was he being so weird about this? He was the one who hadn’t wanted her sleeping in his bed. He was the one who’d given Marcus free reign with her with few boundaries. Was hand holding on the banned list now? She didn’t dare ask. Saskia liked to think she had more sense than that.
If he was going to be so goddamned jealous, he didn’t have to let Marcus do anything with her. He could pay him overtime or shift pay or whatever like anybody else. He’d probably add whatever he paid Marcus to guard her to her growing debt, anyway. They both knew he never intended on releasing her. It was all a charade.
He’d probably never stop punishing her for what must in reality be the equivalent of stealing twenty dollars from his pocket.
Quill unlocked the cage. “Go get dressed. I’ve laid clothes on the bathroom bench for you to wear. Then you will join me in the dining room for breakfast at the main house.”
Saskia was surprised he’d allowed her clothing. It was only a short, green sundress, but it was something. Kind of. The dress was the right size, but the straps didn’t want to stay up. As usual. At least the bodice would keep the dress mostly in place. He’d left her no panties or bra. Though he’d thoughtfully brought her a pair of strappy gold shoes.
If he’d thought about shoes, the lack of undergarments wasn’t an oversight. When the dress was on, she stood in front of the mirror, staring at the black diamonds at her throat. She could never seem to resist pausing in front of any mirror or reflective surface to catch another glimpse of it now.
While she’d never engaged in a long-term BDSM relationship, she wasn’t a stranger to the scene. She’d played a few mild games with some friends. She’d dabbled. She knew enough to know that this thing with Quill wasn’t a real BDSM relationship. It might have the trappings, but it wasn’t the real deal.
He wasn’t asking her permission, and the concept of a safeword was nonexistent with him. With his friends? Yes. With him or Marcus? Not on her life. She wasn’t foolish enough to think she had such a lofty right with her captor. Still. In that world, collaring someone meant something. Some took it more seriously than a wedding ring. It meant things to them that a ring just couldn’t convey.
It signified a kind of belonging to another that came with deeper affection and protection. She knew Quill understood that world. Even without the club the night before, Saskia would have believed he knew. How else could he paint women the way he painted them? How could he seem to understand his subjects like he did and get inside their minds so deeply, otherwise?
Every time she looked at her collar, she knew it didn’t really mean the same things it meant to people who lived in this arrangement willingly. But she wanted it to. Couldn’t it? Even with the way they’d come to this place? Or was it forever tainted by her theft and his abduction?
A relationship like this had to be built on honesty and communication. Those things weren’t possible now with Quill.
Saskia looked away from the mirror before she could catch herself crying like an idiot. There was a deep rift within her. On the one side, she wanted that connection with Quill. And on the other, she didn’t want to let herself be taken in by him—or at least not pulled under his charm any further. She wanted to forget who he was and somehow erase the childish fantasy she’d created around his image.
He’d laid out makeup for her on the counter. She might have missed it if not for the embarrassment that had cau
sed her gaze to drop from her reflection.
The makeup wasn’t in some large, undifferentiated pile. He’d chosen specific colors. Not a pallet with forty shades of shadow, but a single pot of lavender. A single light pink blush. Powder, concealer, foundation, mascara. Clear lip gloss.
Quill clearly liked the “natural look”. He liked makeup that took just as long to apply as all other makeup but allowed him the illusion that a woman just looked this way rolling out of bed. And of course, he insisted she create and go along with this illusion. Next to the makeup was a bottle of pale pink nail polish—a color so translucent, it seemed somewhat pointless to put it on. More “natural” perfection.
Saskia combed and blow dried her hair, applied the makeup laid out for her, and polished her nails. She would never admit it to Quill, but the polish looked nice. It was so understated and subtle that someone might look at her for fifteen minutes, studying every inch of the facade and still not figure out what it was that made her look so pulled together. It was the kind of secret she wished another woman and pulled her aside and told her about years ago.
She gave herself one last assessing look in the mirror, and then headed for the main house.
For such a big house, there were only a few servants. She’d met Marcus and Lacy—though if not for hearing Quill speak her name, Saskia never would have known it. She’d seen four other servants drifting from place to place blending into the background. Seen and not heard. There could be more, but she somehow doubted it. Did they think she was here voluntarily? She’d certainly walked onto the plane of her own volition. No one had dragged her here in chains.
Saskia wondered if Marcus slept in the house. She wanted to see where he slept. She peeked into several doors until she found the one her guard slept in. She pushed the door open, cringing when it creaked. Marcus shifted in the bed. Saskia held her breath, but he didn’t wake. A white sheet bunched around his waist, revealing sleek, tan muscle and a tattoo of a black dragon that started on his back and wrapped around his side.
The room was a light blue with white furniture. It looked like something out of some Cape Cod cottage in a beach architecture magazine. It didn’t look like how he might choose to decorate on his own.
Had he simply been assigned a guest room? Was this the least offensive of his options? Or had he just been too tired to make it to wherever he normally slept? She watched him for several minutes. Yes, he looked very much like a bodyguard. He felt very much like her bodyguard.
She jumped when she realized he was staring at her. She started to back out of the room, but he raised a hand off the pillow and motioned her closer.
“Sit down,” he rasped in that husky half-asleep voice some men had.
Saskia sat carefully on the edge of the bed, her thigh inches from the tip of the tattooed dragon’s tail. She scooted away from it, as if the ink might somehow pierce her skin. Marcus took her hand in his and squeezed.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She nodded and used her free hand to wipe the tears that already moved down her cheeks. She believed him. She trusted he wouldn’t hurt her or destroy her in any outward or inward way. But Quill’s bed was still the one she wanted to be in. Even though he wasn’t half as kind.
“He’ll be upset if you keep him waiting,” Marcus said. “Let me sleep, love. I’ll see you tonight. We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”
A phantom chill swept the room, and goosebumps popped out on her arms.
“Y-yes, sir.”
Marcus pulled his hand away and closed his eyes, dismissing her for the day.
10
Quill glanced up from his paper. “You’re late.”
He was dressed in an uncharacteristically casual white T-shirt and faded jeans.
Saskia was just as uncomfortable and nervous this time as she’d been the last time he’d spoken those words to her. Why couldn’t he be more approachable?
He hadn’t given her a time limit. She’d gotten ready according to his exacting specifications. Surely he didn’t think she could just wave a wand, and it would all be done instantly. It took time to look like you’d rolled out of bed perfect.
“I’m sorry, Master. My nails were drying.”
That was true. Kind of.
He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort and went back to his paper. “Sit.”
At the table? Like a real person? To what did she owe that grand honor?
She slid into the chair opposite from him while he read. Occasionally he brought a white porcelain coffee cup to his mouth. It clinked back against the saucer as he set it down, immersed in the financial news.
A servant brought out a plate of food. “Coffee, ma’am? Or something else?”
Saskia was taken aback by the respect. She’d assumed that if she was crawling around on the floor in Quill’s collar, that the rest of the household would treat her like a dog as well.
“Coffee is fine.”
The servant disappeared from the room for a moment and returned with the coffee.
“Leave the pot,” Quill said not looking up from the paper.
“Yes, sir.”
When they were alone, he snapped the pages of the newspaper shut and put it on the table beside him. His plate was already empty. He hadn’t bothered waiting for her.
“As soon as you’ve eaten, we’re going to start working in the gallery,” he said.
Saskia’s heart leapt into her throat. “You’re going to paint me again?”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course I’ll be painting you again, but that’s not what I meant. We’re going to work on your work. You will paint. I will instruct you and observe.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
Saskia put a bit of butter on her croissant and let it melt into the bread while she ate her eggs.
“And Saskia?”
“Yes, Master?”
“Please do not disturb Marcus like that again in the mornings. He works long hours and needs to be rested to properly care for you at night.”
Had one of the servants told him? Maybe she hadn’t been as sneaky as she’d thought. Or perhaps he had a tiny screen upon which he watched and tracked her every movement.
She expected some punishment to be announced. But he simply drank his coffee and waited for her to finish the food on her plate.
After breakfast, Quill took her back to the gallery. Unexpectedly, he picked Saskia up and sat her on top of the cage she’d slept in. He unbuckled the straps on the gold shoes and slipped them off her feet.
“You can’t paint in these.”
Saskia may have fantasized about being in Joseph Quill’s bed—of being his muse—but if she were honest, she’d fantasized even more about being taught by him in a studio.
The latter had felt sillier and somehow more embarrassing because of its unlikelihood. She could imagine him fucking her, even painting her. But the idea that he’d take her artistic ambitions seriously enough to waste precious hours of his time teaching her seemed absurd.
He helped her off the cage and led her to the studio. “Stay here. And don’t touch anything until I return.”
Saskia took a moment to fully appreciate the space. The last times she’d been in this room she’d been too consumed with anxiety to fully absorb it all.
The evergreens outside stood like distant sentinels. The trees were a narrower fir that didn’t bush out unnecessarily. Even so, they were far enough away not to cast shadow directly into the studio. Except for a few trailing vines that grew over parts of the glass walls and ceiling, it was full, unobstructed natural light on the southern-most end of the property. Quill must have liked to paint in the mornings. This was the best time to get the cleanest light from this angle.
The wall that connected with the rest of the building had a large stainless steel sink. There were endless rows of brushes and tubes of paint and sticks of charcoal of varying hardness. All of it was kept in contai
ners, coded by color.
She couldn’t believe how organized he was. She’d always been a messier painter.
The small room in her apartment she’d used to paint in stayed a disaster as if a powerful storm had just blown through. She probably spent more time hunting for a tube of cadmium red than she did putting the damned pigment on the canvas.
Quill returned with a brush and a hair elastic. “Turn around.”
When she turned, he brushed her hair and pulled it back into a low ponytail. He set the brush down on an island counter that was built into the floor near one of the glass walls. He retrieved an artist’s smock from a hook in the corner.
It was huge—made for a man. It was already covered in paint, and she found herself wondering if she’d seen any of the paintings that had been brought into the world while leaving all these stains. Despite how organized and clean he kept his studio when not in use, he wasn’t nearly so pristine in the act of creation. That made her feel a little better about things.
Quill helped her into the long white shirt and buttoned it up, concealing her sundress beneath it. “Now you’re all safe,” he said, smoothing the fabric, his hands lingering over her breasts.
If only.
“Where are the turps?” Saskia asked, wondering about the absence of the turpentine. Something had felt off about this room. The distinctive odor she’d come to associate so strongly with oil painting wasn’t there. Maybe he used odorless mineral spirits or had exceptionally good ventilation. Now that she thought of it, she hadn’t noticed the smell in the gallery while he’d been painting her, either.
Quill began to lay out paints and brushes. “I don’t use turpentine or other harsh solvents. I’m going to teach you to paint solvent-free so you can still breathe when you’re ninety.”
“But you can’t paint without solvents,” Saskia said, starting to doubt her own knowledge even as she said it. After all, if he painted that way, it was clearly possible. She’d seen his work.
