Seeming to be searching for what to say, a rare moment of indecision for a man renowned for always saying and doing the right thing in any given circumstance, Marshall finally heaved a breath, pinned her with another soul-piercing stare, and said, "You know no one expects you to be perfect, don't you?"
Miranda startled. "You were listening?"
"No. Don wrote me a letter, asked me to keep an eye on you." Ice blue eyes narrowing slightly, Marshall said, "He asked me to tell you you're going to be fine. My instinct is to agree with him, but maybe the person we should hear that assurance from is you."
A whole new sting of tears swept up the back of her throat to burn her eyes. Miranda made herself smile through them. "Marshall," she offered, her throat so tight there was barely any sound to it. Having already fallen apart once today, she pressed her lips tightly together and waited until she knew for certain she wouldn't do it again. "I am not fine," she finally managed. "But I will be. Eventually."
"We all will be," he softly agreed. "Eventually."
He was, just as Don had been back when she had first met him, very good at what he did.
"Go home," Marshall told her. "Be with your girl."
"Are you going to stay?" she asked.
He inclined his head. "For as long as it takes. Do you want me to let you know when the… situation changes?"
Her chest squeezed in, smothering her heart. As if it were happening to someone else, she felt it when she shook her head and, as Kade had said before her, whispered, "I've already said everything I need to."
Marshall offered no hint of censure. He only nodded, then tipped his head, giving her feet the permission they seemed to need to break the roots holding her to the sterilized ICU floor tiles.
The second she was out of the automated hospital doors, with the cool air of a late summer breeze washing in an unexpected gust over her, Miranda dug her phone out of her pocket. Needing nothing more than to hear Ana's voice, she dialed. As before, it went to voicemail. Miranda hung up on the dispassionate voice telling her that the box was full and no further messages would be allowed. She had to go home. She had to make amends, soothe away any hurt feelings that might have resulted in her disastrous decision to leave when she had instead of… instead of bringing Ana with her?
Yes, she realized, that was exactly what she should have done. She had been so determined to shelter Ana from having to carry any more unpleasant burdens, but wasn't sharing the bad as well as the good part of building a strong relationship? Wasn't a relationship exactly what she wanted with and from Ana? They should have opened their lives to one another days ago and, at the risk of making herself seem like anything less than the perfect Domme, Miranda should have told her exactly what her 'emergencies' were.
It wasn't too late. Setting the phone on the passenger seat, Miranda headed back to the Castle. The sadness in her was still there, but there was anticipation there, too. The anticipation that came from knowing that in just half an hour or so, she was going to have Ana back in her arms, and she was going to do whatever she had to to make things right between them.
That anticipation kept Miranda company all the way home until, sliding her key into her apartment lock, she discovered her home was empty. Ana, her bag and her cell phone were gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"How could you do this to me?" Ana shouted.
"Calm down," Peyton drawled. "People are starting to stare."
Pacing frantically back and forth between the coffee shop and the now empty bus depot, Ana clutched her bag to her chest and fought back the fast-rising tide of her own panic. She had no car. Peyton refused to give her back her phone, and the barista had confirmed, when she'd asked, that Granger was too small—there was no taxi service.
Ana was one paper bag shy of full-blown hyperventilating hysterics.
For the fourth time now, the phone in Peyton's hand began to ring. She looked down at it, a corner of her mouth quirking upward in smug victory before she folded her arms back across her chest, tucking the phone securely against her side.
It had to be Miranda again.
Dropping her bag, Ana leapt for her. In a rare moment of aggression, she tried to wrench her phone back, but Peyton snapped her arm up and, like any bully on a playground, held the phone well out of her reach.
"Give it back!" Ana hissed, panic giving way to a flash of hot anger.
Every bit as fast, Peyton grabbed a fistful of her hair and propelled her backwards, dragging her around the corner of the coffee shop into the shadows of the building and shoving her hard up against the wall.
"Keep it up," she said coldly. "Make as big of a scene as you want. Who knows, perhaps someone will call the cops. I'd love the chance to explain how eager you are to get back to the woman who beats you. What do you want to bet they bust into the Castle and arrest everyone, including your precious Miranda? I've been reading up on the law. Turns out, the state doesn't recognize a person's right to give consent for the sick abuse you seem to want so badly."
She let go of Ana's hair, but not before she managed to give one last yank. The pain that accompanied the three or four hairs she pulled out of Ana's scalp wasn't anywhere near as bad as what she felt at the thought of Miranda being hauled away in the back of a police car. Her breath caught. How could she have been so stupid as to believe anything Peyton had said to her? How was she ever going to fix this?
The coldness of her expression smoothing into something slightly more cajoling, Peyton held out a hand. "Come on. Let's go sit in my car and talk. Just talk, I promise. Once we've said everything we need to, if you still want to go back, I'll drive you back to the silly place myself."
Ana's legs shook. Already the parking lot around them was clearing out; the other Castle guests loading their luggage into their cars and heading for home. Very few of them remained, and only one of them, a blonde woman at the far end of the parking lot, seemed even remotely curious about what was happening between Peyton and Ana. She kept glancing over at them, but her husband never paused in loading their things into the back of their minivan. In a few minutes, they were going to drive away and there Ana would be, stranded in this remote parking lot on the outskirts of Granger where the only hotel that she could see was a Best Western billboard that promised Wi-Fi and an indoor pool only three miles further on down the road. Ana knew how much money she had, and it wasn't anywhere near enough for a hotel room. In another half hour, the coffee shop behind them was going to close. The baristas were already cleaning up, lifting chairs onto tables to sweep and mop the patrons' side of the counter. She didn't trust Peyton. If she got in that car with her, it was anyone's guess where she'd be by nightfall. If she couldn't get her phone back…
Her stomach rolled.
"I'm going to be sick," she said, her legs quivering so badly they never could have held her if she weren't still leaning against the building.
Peyton tsked. "Baby, don't be like that."
She really was going to be sick. Already her mouth began that ominous salty watering. Clapping her hand to it, Ana ducked Peyton's staying grasp and ran back into the coffee shop. She fled into the bathroom, locking herself in the handicap stall and barely had she hit her knees than did she start heaving. Bile burned the back of her throat, but nothing came up. Clasping her hands over her eyes, Ana struggled to calm herself so the spasms would stop. Concentrating as hard as she was on just breathing, she wasn't aware that anyone was in the room with her until she heard a soft knock at the stall door.
"Hey, are you okay?"
It wasn't Peyton. Pushing herself off her knees, half expecting a trap, Ana unlocked the door and opened it a crack. It was the woman from the parking lot. Her face was somber, her eyes concerned.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "Do you need help?"
The bathroom door was closed and although Ana could see Peyton wasn't in there with them, she knew it was only a matter of time. She looked at the woman, at once both desperate and terrified to think this might somehow b
e a trap. Could Peyton have sent her in here? If she told her anything, how much worse could any of this get?
Closing time was coming. If she didn't do something right now, she was going to be stuck in the parking lot of this coffee shop with no one but Peyton to help her.
That fear, more than any other, spurred Ana to act.
"Please, can you help me?" she begged, so desperate that she reached through the door and latched on to that stranger's arm. Her grip must have been tight. Her hand on the woman's wrist both looked and felt like claws.
The woman barely jumped, though. She looked at Ana's hand, then back up at Ana. "What can I do?"
"Call the Castle," Ana begged. "Tell Miranda where—"
They both jumped apart when the bathroom door opened and Peyton came inside. Ana knew she must have looked like a deer in headlights, but the woman only headed to the sink to wash her hands, saying, "It's called 'Kinky Summer Nights.' I got it at the Castle. I saw you on the bus, didn't I?"
As if they'd just been caught in the most random and natural of conversations.
It was hard to tell if Peyton was more suspicious than jealous, or vice versa. "Are you all right, babe?" she asked coolly.
"I have to go to the bathroom." Ana shut and locked the stall door. Backing up, she leaned against the far wall, hugging herself while the woman finished washing her hands. It seemed to take a long time. Peyton was content to wait, and in the end, the woman left.
Alone with Peyton, Ana shuddered.
"You can't stay in there forever," Peyton pointed out.
No, she couldn't. But she could try and she could pray, and with any luck, the woman would do as she had begged. With even more luck, Miranda would get the message and come for her.
And then what?
Ana had no idea. All she knew was, if she left here with Peyton, anything in the world might happen to her. And if she begged someone to call the police—a lesbian trying desperately to get back to her BDSM-practicing lover—that might make it even worse. What if she ended up in the newspapers? What if her boss found out? Or her parents? What if she spent all night in the bus depot only to have tomorrow's Castle bus driver turn her away because she'd already used her ticket?
What if Miranda was so angry at her for leaving that she refused to come and get her?
Peyton let out a long-suffering sigh when Ana began to cry. "We used to have fun together, you know. Don't you remember? We used to laugh all the time."
Sliding down the wall, Ana crumpled into an angry, helpless, shaky-kneed heap right on the bathroom floor. God only knew what was on it, or how often it was cleaned. She still sat where she'd fallen, hugging her legs to her chest as she watched Peyton's shoes approach the other side of the stall door.
"I know you don't want to believe me, but I never meant to hurt you. That's not who I am." Peyton tried the door, but Ana had engaged the flimsy latch and it didn't open. "You make me so angry sometimes. Everybody but you can see I'm a good person. Why do you do this to us?"
Why did she get into these situations? Though she tried hard not to listen, Peyton's words were conjuring up memories. It was true, they did use to laugh over the stupidest, littlest things. But 'used to' described their situation all too well these days, and memories of funny, private jokes paled in comparison to memories of Peyton's rages. She remembered the raised fists, the knuckles scraping her cheek and lips, the feel of her skin tearing on the sapphire of Peyton's promissory ring. She remembered the cracked tooth; the fingernails drawing blood. Peyton was the woman who didn't bother until competition entered the picture. She was the woman who promised her diamonds, but then held them over her head.
Miranda was her opposite in every way. Miranda, who spanked her, for pleasure and for punishment, but who never made Ana feel anything but safe and loved. Miranda, who made her expectations clear right from the start, who made her elaborate breakfasts, who told her no one was allowed to hurt her, not even Ana herself.
Miranda.
Hugging herself, it was the only thought that kept her coherent while the minutes bled by and Peyton first talked, then cajoled, then barked, and finally smacked the door with the flat of her hand.
"Get out of the damn stall, Ana! What do I have to do before you'll talk to me?"
The door to the bathroom opened, and for one breath-catching moment, Ana's heart soared. Then she heard one of the baristas clear her throat and, sounding uncomfortable, say, "We're closing now. You're going to have to leave now."
"We'll be right out," Peyton said brightly—much too brightly. Although Ana couldn't see it, she probably smiled at her. Her most charming, disarming smile. Ana remembered how beguiling that smile could be.
And Miranda hadn't come. Had she got Ana's message in time? Had the woman, a complete stranger who had cared enough to follow Ana into the bathroom, even tried to call?
Ana felt sick all over again.
"Well," Peyton said, her tone silken and soft. Gloating. "Are you going to come out of there now, or are you going to make them call the police on us?"
Out of time, Ana pushed to her feet. She wobbled. Her head spun. As stately as she knew how—Miranda would be so proud—she unlocked the door and walked out of the bathroom stall. The barista was gone; she and Peyton were alone again.
Edging past her, Ana went to the bathroom sink and washed her face. She barely looked at herself in the mirror, but what she saw was ghastly. She looked pale. Scared. So scared she was past feeling it, really. All she could feel was the rolling in her stomach and the shakiness permeating through her limbs.
Peyton got the door for her and they walked out of the bathroom together. Like lovers. What was she going to do? As they walked through the coffee shop, she saw that the two teenaged attendants were back behind the service counter. They were watching her, clearly not sure what was going on, but the suspicion that something might be wrong was alive on both their faces.
If she went to them…
As if hearing her thoughts, Peyton took Ana's arm, steering her toward the door and removing that possibility just as surely as if they were manacled together. Peyton opened the door for her, too. The sun was setting, painting the sky in a bruise of purples, pinks and blues. All in all, a lovely summer night in which to have everything she held dear ripped right out of her life.
"We'll just go someplace where we can talk," Peyton told her, leading her toward the car.
Her legs shook at every step, but short of sitting down in the middle of the parking lot and bawling like a child, Ana couldn't think how to stop this. She couldn't think how to dig her feet in and say (shout) no loud enough or long enough to make Peyton let her go. She just couldn't think—
Until she heard the screech of tires and an unmarked, white van came peeling off the main road through Granger, turning down the side street that ran parallel with the coffee shop and depot, and then, without slowing down, turned into the parking lot. It came right at them, the tires kicking up dust and gravel as it came to a hard stop directly between Peyton and Ana, and the rental car Peyton was dragging her to.
Ana had no idea who the pony-tailed man getting out from the driver's seat was, but she knew black Castle leathers when she saw them, and her relief was so heavy it nearly dropped her to the ground all over again.
Then the side doors swung open and two more men got out. When Jackson unfolded himself from behind the driver's seat, Ana tried to run to him, but Peyton locked both hands on her arm, jerking her back again. Her grip only tightened when the front passenger door flew open and Miranda launched herself out of the van. They were all of them in their Castle clothes, and none of them seemed to care.
"Get your hands off her, you conniving little bitch!" Miranda spat, coming right toward them with long and angry strides.
"This doesn't have anything to do with you!" Peyton spat back, but with three men and Miranda bearing down angrily upon her, her grip faltered enough for Ana, in a gut-wrenching burst of defiance, to yank free.
Miranda's advance stopped the instant Ana flew into her arms. She snapped Ana in close, hugging her fiercely before scrubbing her hair back from her face in search of fresh blows and bruises. "Did she hurt you? Did she strike you at all?"
"No," Ana cried. "I'm sorry—I thought—she said it—emergency—my father—my father—"
"Get her in the car," Jackson said, as he and the two men with him planted themselves as a very imposing wall between Ana and Miranda, and an increasingly frustrated Peyton.
"Don't go with them, Ana!" she barked, snapping her fingers as if she were a dog to be ordered back to her side. "Come here!"
Miranda could not have helped but feel her shaking. She turned, disregarding Peyton entirely as she helped Ana to the van.
"She has my phone," Ana said.
Waiting until she was safely tucked into the back, with dark fire burning hot in her eyes, Miranda headed back, straight for Peyton.
"I'll get it," the pony-tailed man said, but Miranda stalked around his staying arm.
"Oh, what?" Peyton said nastily. "Are you going to whip me now, too?"
"As if I would ever sully a good piece of kangaroo hide on the likes of you." Looming over her, Miranda held out her hand and waited, demanding without words until Peyton, unnerved by either the line of silently staring men or, perhaps, the sheer imposing size of Miranda herself, dug into her pocket. She didn't hand the phone over, but in true Peyton form, tossed it on the ground instead.
"You deserve each other," she spat.
"From you, I'll take that as a compliment." Snapping around on her heel, Miranda came back to the van, the two unknown men flanking her, and Jackson, walking backwards until he was assured Peyton would be of no further threat, bringing up the rear. Climbing into the back with Ana, Miranda handed her the phone and, because her hands were shaking so badly, buckled her into her seatbelt.
Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (Masters of the Castle) Page 21
