“That hair of hers takes so much maintenance.”
It’s true, it does. I spend more time than I’d like to admit washing, drying, brushing, styling on the days I see Hunter. On the days I don’t, I throw it up into whatever sort of ridiculous topknot I can get to stick. Hunter had relented on my having to dress for him even on the days I’m not with him because it takes so much time.
I’ve liked my hair since I was a teenager after loathing it for most of my childhood. The rest of my family had blond hair. When we were really little, my sister and I used to play Snow White and Cinderella, but when she got older, she’d use it against me. Like everything else. But I’d thought Hunter liked my hair the way it is. It’s longer than I’d like it, but—
“How short do you want to go? Mid-back? Shoulders?”
“I thought she’d look sweet with a pixie cut.”
My fingers clench tight on the arm-rests of the salon chair, and the blood visibly drains from my face. What?
I don’t think of myself as a terribly vain person. My mother’s made sure I don’t think too much of my looks—though she praises them up and down to other people—but my hair… I watch my face in the mirror as if it’s a stranger reflected back at me: eyes wide, jaw flexed. I look like I’ve seen a ghost. He’s going to cut off my hair?
It’s within the terms of our contract, but…my hair.
Hunter lays a hand on my shoulder. “That’s okay, right, sweetheart?”
My chin quivers and my chest tightens. But I can do this. I can give this up for him. Who cares if anyone else thinks I’m pretty? Hunter’s opinion is the only one that matters. I have to convince my heart and my body of it, even though my brain is on board. A few deep breaths. That’s all I need. Hunter. Hunter. The way stars shoot through my insides when I’ve pleased him and he tells me so. That’s what I need to think about. Not my hair.
I’m only a little ashamed when my voice is squeezed tight through my throat and breaks over the familiar, beloved words. “Yes, sir.”
The corner of Hunter’s mouth curls up, and the look of smug satisfaction on his face is like a ray of sunshine through the foggy grey of my days. And that single beam of light, if I could step into it and stay there forever… It’d be worth it. All I have to give up is my hair.
He nods to Alyssa. She gathers my hair into a low ponytail, telling me I have enough to donate if I want. I meet Hunter’s eyes in the reflection and he nods.
“Sure.” Someone else can walk around with my beautiful hair. I’m surprised he doesn’t want to mount it on the wall like some goddamn trophy.
When Alyssa’s through looping the rubberband around my hair, she picks up the scissors—heavy shears to saw through the bundle at the nape of my neck. I get the momentary panic I always do when scissors get too close. Hunter’s fingers tighten on my shoulder and his low voice sounds in my ear. “You’re all right. She’s not going to hurt you.”
I nod as my throat gets tight and my breath hitches. Logically, I know she’s not, but that doesn’t mean the scar on my back doesn’t feel like it’s on fire. It takes effort not to reach down and try to rub out the burn. Hunter pushes me sometimes, but this is too much. That’s not for me to say, however. It’s for him to decide, and if he says I can do this, then I can. I just won’t be able to watch. I take one last look at myself and close my eyes, bracing for the squishy drag of scissors cutting something too thick.
“I don’t think so, baby. Eyes open.”
My lips curl between my teeth, and at first I close my eyes tighter. Sadistic fuck. Most of the time, my love for Hunter is this bright purple thing that lives in my chest, loyalty, lust, respect, trust, and affection all burning for him from the very center of my being. I carry it with me always, turning to it when things are hard, when I wish I could be someone else. It’s part of what keeps me alive. At the moment though, a core of vivid white hatred is throbbing at the center.
When will I be good enough for him? What else do I have to give up? I’ve given him so many things and he’s given me so much in return, but what happens when the only way to please him is to bestow something I can’t give? Where will we go from there? Or will we just…stop?
The idea that I might have to find out someday terrifies me. But it won’t be today. I don’t like it, but I can do it. I will do it, for him. And hopefully, for today, that will be good enough. I blink my eyes open and find his in the mirror. Please, I want to beg, please. Let this be enough.
Under the draped smock I have on, my knuckles must be white as my fingers dig so hard into the arms of the chair I think they might break. And when there’s the distinctive tug and the sensation of strand-by-strand separation, I swear I’m going to be sick. The only thing that stops me from puking all over the floor is the purse-lipped conscience that haunts me day and night. I don’t think Hunter would like that.
So I swallow it, try to feel nothing as the blades gnaw through my hair, through the uneven tug on the back of my head as the scissors open and shut too close to my skull. I’d like to rip them out of her hands and stab Hunter with them. Why did it have to be this? Why is this what he wanted from me? But that’s precisely why, isn’t it? Because it’s so fucking hard for me to give.
For the first time since I’ve been with him, I wonder if this is truly what I want. So much of it is satisfying in a soul-deep kind of way, but this feels like a little death. The destruction of part of me I won’t be able to get back. A flash of wishing he loved me in some other way lights up my chest.
Alyssa finishes slicing through the ponytail and holds it up for me to see, but I don’t want to look. I don’t want to look at anything. I thought submitting to him would give me joy as it has so many times before, but the only feeling I can locate is numbness.
Though it’s usually my favorite part of coming here, Alyssa has to prod me over to the sinks. As she tips me back so my head rests over the bowl, I stare at the ceiling, not really seeing it. I didn’t cry, but I feel the aftereffects as if I had. Stuffy sinuses, aching eyes, emotional exhaustion. I barely feel it as fingers are worked over my scalp in what should be a soothing massage, but it’s just a sensation, something that’s happening to me. Shell-shocked. That’s the word for it.
I suppose I get through the rest of my visit. When we get home, Hunter drags me to the playroom and has his way with me. Over and over. It’s probably his way of showing me how pleased he is, how much this has meant to him, but it doesn’t really register. I come, I think. Several times. I don’t know if that makes him happy. For once, I don’t really care.
This isn’t subspace. Subspace is this blissed-out, floaty feeling—sometimes in air, sometimes in water depending on how’s he’s gotten me there. But right now I feel buried. Like maybe I won’t be able to dig myself out. When he puts me to bed, he kisses me and strokes my hair. What’s left of it. I should enjoy that his touch is so much closer, his skin closer to my skin. I usually thirst for it, crave it, but it doesn’t register. I don’t get that rush I usually do just from his proximity. There’s no contact high.
He tells me he loves me. The rare treat that usually makes the purple ball burn bright and expand throughout my whole body sounds like any other string of words. I say it back because somewhere I do. Just not anywhere I can feel right now.
*
During the days that follow, I spend the bare contractual minimum time at Hunter’s house. I come and go as I’m obligated to, not trying to sneak any extra time with him, but I don’t try to get out of the time that belongs to him, either. He doesn’t ask me why, and I’m glad. I try to forget about what happened, but it’s impossible with the constant compliments. I smile and say thank you, tell my classmates who are still brave enough to talk to me that I just got tired of it.
A knock sounds on my door Tuesday night, and Rey comes in without waiting for my answer. He does a double-take before he can school his expression into that neutral façade I know so well.
“Come talk to me,” he says as h
e toes off his loafers and lies on my bed. He presses his back into the wall and lays on his side, making space for me. When I don’t immediately occupy the slice he’s carved out for me, he props his head up with a hand and pats the fluffy duvet. “Do it now, little one.”
I lie down beside him on my back and look up at the ceiling. I’m expecting him to ruffle a hand through what’s left of my hair, but he doesn’t. Instead, he rests a hand on my stomach, spreading his elegant fingers to cover as much of me as possible.
“How do you feel?”
I know what I’m supposed to say. Happy. That I’m basking in the light of Hunter’s dominance, reveling in the sensation of being conquered. But that’s not how I feel at all.
“Empty.”
He exhales a soft breath out his nose. “Did you forget rule number one?”
“Of course not. I wanted to. It just didn’t turn out quite like I hoped.”
“That’s okay, you know.”
I roll my head to the side. It’s heavier than it’s ever been. “It doesn’t feel okay.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
The corners of my mouth tug down. Do? There’s nothing to do. I’ll get over it.
“He’s not—” Rey’s brows crease for the barest second. He’s never been anything but supportive of my relationship with Hunter. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s listened to me blather on in blissful delirium about being fed from Hunter’s hand, kneeling leashed at his feet when he had a dinner party. Hell, he’s admired the markings on my skin from beatings Hunter’s administered, tweaked the welts Hunter made with his own hands and laughed when I swooned at the memories called up.
But I can fill in the blank. He’s not the only one.
I know he’s not. But he’s the one I want. He’s a challenge I can meet. He is worthy of my body, my mind, and my heart if I can just see my way to giving them to him.
*
When I arrive at Hunter’s on Saturday evening after a day in the library, he meets me at the front door. He never does that. I get instructions from Ben to go to the library or Hunter’s office, occasionally the playroom, or up to my room if he’s very busy. But the man himself, in the flesh? I take a step back because I’m so surprised.
“Don’t do that,” he scolds as he reaches for me. He takes me by the shoulders and looks into my face. “Where’s your favorite place in the house?”
My lips tighten, and I blink at him. My favorite place? He strokes his thumbs along my upper arms, cocks his head to the side, and sighs. Is he exasperated with me already? I just got here. I know I haven’t been on my best behavior this week… No, that’s not true. I’ve been most excellently behaved. Because I’m still under a layer of dirt, breathing it in every time I pass a mirror or go to brush my hair out of my eyes. I don’t have the energy to even think about being bratty. Even in class I’ve been subdued.
“Come on, sweetheart. Where?”
I like all different places in the house. Once I step through the doors, I’m happy. The library where he fucks me on the floor in front of the fireplace, the playroom where he beats and restrains me for the most intimate forms of delectable torture, his office where I get to watch his face set in concentration while he finishes up the business he refuses to dispense more than the barest details about, the dining room where I kneel at his side while he deigns to feed me bits from his very own plate, my room where he leaves me clothes and books and other trinkets he thinks I might like. Everywhere makes me happy in its own way. But my very favorite?
“Your bed, sir.”
If I get to sleep in Hunter’s bed, it’s because I’ve pleased him very much and that feeling would be reason enough. But with the incredibly fine linens and the hard heat of his body next to mine—it’s one of the few places he doesn’t wear clothes—it’s as close to heaven as I’m ever likely to get.
There’s a brief pulse of tightness at the juncture of his jaw, but he nods, crisp and brief. “Come along, then.”
He takes my hand, and I follow behind him up the elegantly curving staircase. What is going on? When we get into his bedroom, Hunter shuts the door and steers me to the foot of his bed. He starts to take off my clothes, folding each piece and laying them on a bureau. He strips me down to nothing, and I’m as confused as ever. Especially when he takes off his suit coat and his tie, unbuttons the top button of his shirt and climbs onto the bed, sitting against the headboard.
“Up here with me.”
I climb onto the bed, and when he pats his lap, I do as I’m bid and settle over him. He draws my head to his shoulder and strokes my neck.
“We need to talk.”
Those have got to be the four worst words in the English language. I stiffen in response. He grips my neck firmly and shushes me, though I wasn’t making any noise. Maybe the tension radiating off my body was so intense he could hear it. If you were going to break up with me, you could’ve at least left my hair.
“Despite my best efforts, it turns out that I’m not actually infallible. I knew you’d be upset about your hair, but I thought…”
No. Don’t admit that you’re not perfect. I need him to be perfect. Because if he is, maybe I have a chance in hell of being perfect, too. Especially if he molds me, shapes me, wrecks me before building me back up, better than ever.
“This isn’t what I had in mind. You’ve been distant and absent all week and it’s going to stop now. You can do whatever you need to. Scream or cry or indulge in other hysterics. You can speak with me frankly, within reason, and you won’t be punished for it. This is your opportunity to get it all out because I won’t have a ghost haunting my house anymore. I want my India back, and you know one way or another, I always get what I want.”
“Yes, sir.” I curl up smaller, closer, and press my cheek to his shoulder as he pets me. After a few minutes, I work up the nerve to speak. “Do you at least like it this way?”
“Your hair?” His fingers stroke at my nape, where the vestiges of my hair narrow into a point. My eyes water. “You’re a beautiful creature. I could shave your head, dress you in burlap, smudge you with soot, and you’d still be the prettiest thing in almost any room. Is that what you’re worried about? That I won’t be attracted to you anymore?”
His amorous attentions over the past week should have been enough to convince me that shouldn’t be a concern. If anything, he’s been more ardent, not less. “No, sir. I mean, yes, I want for you to find me attractive, of course I do, but I…I guess I just want to know if it was worth it.”
“You need to explain, baby. I don’t understand.”
“I think it could be worth it, how much it hurts, if I knew…” If I knew what? What could possibly be enough in exchange for how miserable I’ve been for the past week? For how disconnected my head and my body are, like my thoughts are just knocking around some empty shell. But is that really what I need? Something from him? Or does it have to come from inside myself? If that’s true, what the hell am I doing here? Has this whole thing been a lie?
“If my pleasure outweighed your misery?”
His voice is pitched in a way that’s the entitled amusement I love. Like he’s letting me cheat off his test, crib his notes from a class I missed. This is the right answer, and he’s giving it to me.
“Yes, sir.”
“If that’s true, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He digs the fingers of one hand into my hair, barely makes a fist, and pulls until I’m laying back in his other arm, cradled and restrained. “Nothing’s ever pleased me so much. Do you understand?”
My lips part and my eyes go wide because the sincerity in his expression is so intense. Everything about him is intense, including a growing hardness at my hip. “Yes, sir.”
“I know it was upsetting for you. I know it still is. But every time I look at you, all I can see is the gift you gave me. The gift of obedience, of submission. You look more beautiful to me than you ever have because I know what you gave up. For me. If you wa
nt to mourn the loss of your hair, I’d understand. But that’s not where your value lies for me. It lies in this.”
He wrenches his hand and the answering yank on my scalp makes me gasp before I go soft and pliant, my breasts and pelvis getting that familiar heavy, needy feeling. My blood beckons him to the places I’d like to be touched. I blink up at him in silence, wanting to leave these horrible feelings behind.
“I’ll have Rey take it out of our contract if you’d like.”
My first thought is that it’s done, what the fuck does it matter? He’s already taken it from me, so what the fuck do I care? He’s marked it off on his checklist of What Else Will She Give Me and taking it back would be a formality. But as always, I’m overwhelmed by my desperate need to please him. “No. Don’t. Please. You can have it.”
His smile, laced with triumph, spreads over his face, and I feel a pulse of power. I have the power to say yes or no. I’ve said yes, and some of my agency is restored. He can’t take that from me.
“Good girl. Are you done or do you need more time?”
“I’m done, sir.”
He pins me to the bed with his fistful of my hair and leans over me, licking, sucking, and biting at my neck. I writhe underneath him, needing something in this exchange. He tsks at me before slapping my face—no, slap is too strong word. It’s a much gentler admonishment, not hard at all. The placement is meant to shock, not the strength of the blow. There’s not even any sting where his fingers connected with my cheek, but I take it to heart and still beneath him.
He releases my hair and straddles my ribcage, putting enough weight onto me that I can’t take full breaths, but not so much that I can’t breathe. I’m left feeling delightfully conquered, even with my hands free. He could crush me if he felt like it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he unzips the fly of his Italian wool trousers and takes himself in hand, stroking a few times.
I rarely get to see Hunter naked. He’s usually partially, if not fully, clothed when we play, even when we have sex. Despite being in his bed, this is proving to be no different. He leans forward and leverages his hand against the headboard, pressing his cock between my breasts.
Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3) Page 10
