Unforgettable (Black Rose Doms Book 1)

by Rory Reynolds

  I take a deep breath and bravely look Mr. Perfect square in the eyes as I respond. “Punishment.”

  I swear his eyes glow with excitement at the word and his entire face lights with a smile that scares me more than any monster under the bed ever could.

  Several hours later, I make my way up the stairs, quiet as a mouse. My tears dried up along with my screams. This is only the third time I’ve been to the punishment room. With Matthew’s help, I learned the rules quickly and have toed the line to avoid Mr. Perfect’s brand of punishment. I think that actually makes things worse because when he does get the chance to punish me, he shows no restraint.

  My legs quiver as I slowly work my way upstairs. Pain radiates from my upper back all the way down to the backs of my thighs from where he strapped me. All the while threatening to strip me down and give me a “real” whipping. I can tell you what he did felt very freakin’ real.

  Mr. Perfect went to bed a while ago, leaving me with orders to put away his “toys” and then clean the kitchen. “It better fucking sparkle when Mommy Marcia wakes up, or you’ll be down here again. Next time, I won’t go easy on you.” Were his parting words.

  As soon as I shut my door, I put my desk chair under the door handle to prevent anyone from coming inside. Sometimes, Mr. Perfect claims to have a sleepwalking disorder and will end up in one of our rooms. I’ve been using the chair since my third night here. I strip out of my jeans and gingerly climb into bed. A big hand clamps down on my mouth before I can cry out. My brain automatically goes into panic mode, knowing that it’s Mr. Perfect, and my real punishment is about to start.

  My fight or flight response kicks in, but instead of fighting or fleeing, my brain shuts down. I freeze, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for the one abuse I’ve been saved from until this very moment. In seconds, I am hyperventilating, and my heart is beating out of my chest. As quick as the hand reached out, it’s gone, and Matthew’s soothing voice breaks through the haze of panic.

  “Oh, baby girl, shh, I’m so sorry.” He gently pulls me to his chest and runs his fingers through my hair, soothing me. “Are you okay, love?”

  I nod into his chest and ignore my body’s protests as I wrap myself around him like a monkey. “Take me with you tomorrow, please Matty, don’t leave me here,” I beg through my tears.

  He takes my face in his hands and refuses to let me look away. I can just barely make out his handsome features in the dark. “Love, you know I can’t just take you. They will say I kidnapped you and send me to jail. We have to do this the right way. I swear to you, I will find a way to get you out of this place.”

  I push my forehead to his, and he just holds me there. I have a feeling that this will be the last night we have together, and there is so much I should tell him. I know he’s older than me. I know this isn’t right, but I’ve been in love with him since the first time he pulled me out of a hidey-hole on my second day in this hellhole.

  He sees me. He’s been my protector, my friend. My everything. Matthew is the only person who has cared about me besides my mom. And she didn’t even love me enough to stay clean. She died chasing a high that was more important than her daughter.

  We lay snuggled against each other, silently soaking up the last hours we have. When the first light of dawn starts to creep through the window, I roll over so that my upper half is laying across his chest, my chin resting on my folded arms. “Matty, you know I’m in love with you, right?” I ask quietly.

  Pushing his fingers through the mess of my hair, he roughly pushes his lips to my forehead, scratching my skin a bit with his morning stubble. “Yeah, baby girl, I know.” his voice is rough with emotion as he continues, “God damn me to Hell, but I love you too. Doesn’t change anything though, you know that. You are everything to me, but at the same time, we can be nothing more than this until you’re eighteen. You understand that, right?”

  Smiling a sad smile, I nod my understanding then rest my head back down on his chest. “I’m going to miss you, Matty.”

  “Me too, love. Me too.”

  Matthew - Two Months Later

  “What the fuck do you mean she’s gone?” I yell at the asshole behind the counter.

  “Sir, you need to calm down, getting angry will not help anything.”

  I swear I hear his words, but my mind can’t even fathom how this happened. Where the fuck did they go? Just when I was able to find someone who would believe me when I told them that the Grants were abusive. The investigation was supposed to be quiet. The social worker who was assigned to the Grants was caught taking payments and looking the other way on several of her cases. It took a young boy dying for the people in charge to even question the woman, but finally, I was getting somewhere.

  What if someone tipped them off and they ran? I slam my hands down on the counter, causing several people in the small office to jump. “What are you doing to find my girl?” The menace in my voice is palpable, and the man takes a step back, fearing that I’m about to jump the counter. He’s right to be afraid, I am pissed, and right now, he’s the one who’s pissed me off.

  “Matthew, I know you’ve been helping with the investigation. I swear to you we have been watching the house for weeks. We sent the new caseworker in yesterday, and when we went to collect the children today, the house was deserted,” he explains. My worst nightmare is coming into fruition. “We have spoken to the police. They’re looking for them. We’ve got Amber Alerts for all the kids in their care. We will find them.” I can hear the lie in his voice, he knows the likelihood that they will be found is slim to none. I mean honestly, who cares if they disappear? It means the state is free of ten mouths to feed each month. Rose, Benny, Christi, Amy, and all the others are no longer Child Services problem. They no longer have to care what happens to ten unwanted children. To them, their burden just got smaller.

  I walk out of the building, knowing in my heart that my Rosie is lost to me forever.

  1

  Rose

  Ten Years Later

  “Five!” I cry as the cane lashes into my tender flesh again.

  The pain is almost more than I can stand, but I must for my master. The whooshing sound makes me anticipate the blow, and I can’t help clenching before it makes contact. The impact throws me off balance, and my elbows slip off the bench, which is wet from a mixture of sweat and tears. Master grabs my hair, halting my inevitable fall. The vicious grip on my hair is agonizingly painful as most of my weight is supported by the hold he has on my long blonde hair. I quickly right myself on the bench, whimpering in relief when he releases my hair.

  My concentration is broken by a snort of laughter that brings me back to myself fully. I can feel the eyes of our audience pierce through me. I know they’re watching me closely. I’m Damon Savada’s new slave. Everyone wants to see. I’m a novice. Despite my past, I’ve had no formal slave training. I can only imagine the people watching are finding my performance sorely lacking.

  This is my first public scene and my first caning. I knew I wasn’t ready. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to have an audience for my humiliation. But I must endure. I’ve survived worse; besides, this is for a good cause.

  For my future.

  A future free of servitude.

  The irony isn’t lost on me. I had to become a slave to a sadist to earn my freedom. This is still better than— I shake myself out of that line of thinking. I can’t go there right now. Right now, I need to focus on being the perfect slave for my master. I cannot fail in this.

  I suck a quick breath through my teeth, wincing in pain. I’ve unconsciously been chewing on my inner cheek—an old habit I can’t seem to shake—I taste the saltiness of blood as it coats my tongue. I take a few soothing breaths, thankful for the short respite from my punishment. I have no illusions that he’s done.

  The temptation to look behind me to see what has him distracted is almost too much to withstand. I’ve already learned that lesson, though. I’m to keep my eyes on the
floor. Curiosity will only result in further punishment. With a force of will that was hard-won in worse circumstances than this, I fight the temptation and keep my eyes averted. I use the reprieve to try and calm my nerves.

  Several minutes or maybe it was merely seconds later, the cane strikes me on my sensitive upper thighs. My body involuntarily jerks away from the hit, and I cry out like a banshee. Immediately following that stroke, three more come in quick succession all to my upper thighs, each one harder than the last. I’m sobbing in earnest, my throat raw from screaming as line after line of fire is lit on my body. All I know is pain. The blows keep coming, and all I can do is whimper and pray he stops.

  Oh God, please, no more. No more, please, I pray to the same god who abandoned me to the monsters years ago. Despite everything, or maybe because of everything I’ve been through, I still believe. One day, my prayers will be sincere enough that they’re answered.

  I am floating in a sea of lava, my entire body burning. I feel apart from myself. Maybe I’ve finally passed out from the pain? A small part of me hopes that’s the case. For the first time since Damon led me on stage, there is silence. The murmuring of the audience has ceased, and I can no longer hear the whistle of the cane flying through the air.

  Would I still feel the strikes if I were unconscious? Maybe God heard my prayers after all and granted me oblivion. I’m prepared to sink into the nothingness when suddenly I’m jerked up by my arm. I cry out as the sweet numbness that was taking over is snatched away. Damon yanks me to my feet and pulls me against him. My abused back held to his chest. Did I think it hurt before? The rough fabric of his suit is like a million points of pain.

  I attempt to protest, but I haven’t got the strength to do more than whimper and cry. He pushes me forward, and I stumble, kept upright only by Damon’s hold on my arm. His fingers dig into me until I can feel it in my bones. He gives me a shake, and my stomach rolls. I plead with my stomach to save me the indignity of throwing up.

  “She’s mine, we have a contract. This is none of your business!” Damon shouts at someone. I try really hard to concentrate on what’s happening around me, but I keep losing focus in the haze of excruciating pain as Damon shakes me like a rag doll at whoever he’s arguing with.

  “You made this my business when you brought the girl here,” says the stranger. “Now let her go and leave. Consider your membership revoked.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but that doesn’t stop Damon.

  “Like I said, we have a contract, the bitch owes me, and I intend to collect.” Damon shakes me hard, causing my head to flop as if to emphasize his point. I’m no stronger than a limp noodle, and definitely no match for his anger.

  Please, no more. I silently pray and beg for mercy. I was so stupid. I never should’ve made a deal with him, no matter how desperate my situation. If this is any indication of how the next six months are going to go, he’ll probably kill me before I earn my freedom.

  Maybe this stranger’s intervention is the answer to my prayers. I pray harder, pleading for mercy. Begging for him to get Damon to release me. There has to be another way for me to earn my freedom, but I don’t know anyone who could stand against Damon Savada. He’s rich, powerful, and scary as hell.

  I should’ve listened to my instincts that first day when I met him. One of the women at the shelter told me about how he helps people like me. Women who need to disappear. Women who need a new identity. He helps women who are desperate… for a price. Only, Damon doesn’t want money—not that women like me have any—he wants us for six months.

  Six months of servitude. Freedom for the rest of my life in exchange for six months of handing over complete control of my body seemed like a small price to pay. I’ve been paying that price for years on end already. What’s six more months?

  I’m snapped back to the present when Damon shoves me forward. I feel myself falling I mentally brace myself for impact, but just keep falling. I realize that he didn’t just push me to the ground, he actually tossed me off the stage. Even though I tell my limbs to move, my brain can’t make my body listen. I’m going to collide with the ground, and there is nothing I can do to protect myself. Everything seems to move in slow motion while I wait for impact, knowing it’s going to hurt badly.

  Time speeds back up as I finally come crashing down, but instead of the hard ground, a set of strong arms catches me. Honestly, I don’t know what would have hurt worse, the ground or the muscular arms. I can’t hold back the screams that tear through my tortured throat as my body convulses in agony. He murmurs quiet apologies, and I can tell he’s trying to be gentle, but it’s useless. Every inch of my body is in agony. All I can do is whimper and cry as he cradles me to his muscled chest.

  “Shhhh, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” His voice is rough with an emotion I can’t quite place, but it doesn’t matter because he’s carrying me away from my nightmare. I let myself drift as my hero carries me off. I should be worried about being carried off by some strange man, but anything is better than being left to Damon’s tender mercies. I try to stay awake, but the darkness is too tempting. It promises me relief from the pain.

  For now, I’m safe in the arms of a stranger. I let go of the worry and fall headfirst into unconsciousness.

  Slowly, bit by bit, my senses come back. There’s a hushed conversation off to one side of me. The room has a harsh chemical smell to it, almost like a hospital or doctor’s office, but under that is the scent of blood. I shudder at what that could mean, instantly regretting the unconscious movement as pain radiates down my back all the way to the bottoms of my feet.

  My breath hisses out from my clenched teeth. Holy shit, that hurts! Footsteps rush over to where I’m lying, and gentle fingers smooth my hair away from my face. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” I can’t place who the voice belongs to, but it makes my heart skip a beat. His fingers tenderly run over my forehead and cheek, stroking me slowly and softly, soothing me back into the darkness.

  The next time I wake up, the pain hits me immediately. The horrors of what Damon did to me come flooding back. Opening my eyes, I have to blink several times for the blurriness to fade so I can take in my surroundings. The room looks like a cross between a luxury hotel suite and a hospital room. The bed I’m on is much more comfortable than any hospital bed I’ve ever seen.

  There are several seating areas around the room, no hard-plastic chairs, or uncomfortable chair-bed contraptions like you see in hospitals. These are all extremely plush and would look right at home in someone’s living room. There’s a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall at the foot of the bed. From the angle I’m laying at, I can only make out the bottom corner of the screen. I don’t dare move to try to see it any further.

  Slowly, I turn my head to face the other side of the room and notice this side looks a lot more like a hospital room. There’s a step pedal sink and glass front cabinets showing all types of medical equipment and supplies. There are larger machines attached to the wall beside my bed. A heart monitor and some other fancy equipment that I have no clue what their purpose could be. While I’m trying to puzzle out what they could be for, I notice the IV drip bag hanging from a hook. Taking a deep breath, I follow the line it’s attached to with my eyes. By the time I get to the back of my hand, I’m practically hyperventilating.

  There is a needle in my hand.

  A Fucking. Needle. In. My. Hand.

  Oh, God, I’m going to be sick. I’m shouting in my head as I feel the bile tickling the back of my throat. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. I calmly chant to myself. Puking means moving and heaving, and that seems like a really bad idea if the pain radiating from my body is any indication. I try to tear my eyes away from my hand, but I can’t quit staring at the offense piece of plastic that’s buried under my skin.

  I’m so distracted by the fact that there is a needle in my hand, that I nearly scream when someone lightly squeezes the same hand that I am obsessing over. I hadn’t even noticed someone holding my hand. The hand in mine is l
arge and warm, whoever owns this hand is running his thumb gently over my knuckles back and forth. The soothing touch completely distracts me from my mounting anxiety.

  I flick my eyes toward the owner of the hand who has squelched my anxiety so quickly and thoroughly. My breath catches when I take him in for the first time. He is glorious. I know how that sounds, but there isn’t any other word coming to mind at the moment. He has the chair turned slightly so that he can stretch his legs out and still hold onto my hand. His head is tilted to the side, resting on the back of the chair, and his eyes are closed. He appears to be sleeping, but his thumb caressing my knuckles tells me differently.

  Taking a few moments, I study him a little closer. His hair is either the darkest brown I’ve ever seen or black, I can’t tell in the dim light. His jaw looks like it’s been chiseled from granite and is covered with a little more than a five o’clock shadow, adding to his rugged good looks. His nose is perfect, and his lips are full and kissable.

  I should let him know I’m conscious. Whoever this is has obviously been waiting for me to wake up. Opening my mouth to speak, I realize how very dry and sore my throat is. My voice is somewhere between a whisper and a croak. “Wh—” I start, but my voice cracks.

  Just that half-formed word is enough that he instantly becomes alert. Expressive midnight blue eyes are trained on me. I swallow the tiny amount of saliva I’m able to will into existence and try speaking again, thankful my words come out a little more clearly. “Where am I?”

  Not letting go of my hand, he sits up taller in the chair and brushes the hair from my forehead with his free hand. I vaguely remember someone—him, I assume—doing that the last time I woke up in agony. It’s very soothing to have my hair and face caressed like that.