Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3)

by Tamsen Parker

  There’ll be another beating when I get home to silence their shrill voices for good and to let me get back to being myself. My real self. Not Indie, but India. India, who can eviscerate someone in a classroom debate during the day and curl up contentedly at Hunter’s feet at night. If I can take these last five lashes, surely I can bear the muted agony of three more years of being Indie Burke. Only one way to find out and it doesn’t involve safewords.

  *

  “Baby?”

  I blink my eyes open. Were they closed? So hard to say. My head is spinning and I’m dizzy, though I haven’t tried to stand. I tighten, curl in on myself, and yelp in pain. The clamps. I forgot the damn clamps. Hunter’s hands are warm on my shoulders.

  “Stay still, I’ll get you. Hold on.” My bondage starts to fall away. I’ve been in subspace before, many times. Hunter takes pride in being able to get me there as often as he does, but this is different. Usually I’d liken it to my head floating tethered above my body like a balloon tied around a child’s wrist at a carnival, but this was far more intense. Like my brain was swinging from the chandelier and rubbernecking at what was happening to my flesh, maybe chowing down on some concession-stand popcorn. And being called back to inhabit said body… It’s as if my head’s fallen from a great height and splattered like a watermelon, useless.

  I’m yanked back, willing or no, by the removal of one of the clamps, my breath rushing through my teeth. Hunter’s hand cupping my breast and his tongue laving my freed nipple are some comfort, but shit does that hurt. There’s pained whimpering, and I feel sorry for the creature making the pathetic noise. Until Hunter releases the other clamp and it turns into a desperate mewl. Mine.

  When he’s finished suckling the sharp pain from that nipple, he hushes me, telling me how pleased he is, what a good girl I’ve been. My mouth curls up at the corners, my heart glowing as he praises me. He uncurls my fingers from around the balls, releases the last of my bonds, and has to prop me up to keep me from slumping to the floor.

  “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re going to be all right.” I close my eyes, and he hoists me into his arms. His footfalls are absorbed by the rugs that usually cushion my hands and knees as he carries me upstairs to his room. My skin hits the cool clean sheets of his bed, and a blanket is pulled over me, soft and warm.

  “Open up,” he urges, and then he lays a few dark chocolate chips on my tongue. I close my mouth around the sweet morsels, letting them melt where they are, the creamy sweetness coating my tongue while Hunter strokes my hair. I’m still out of it, but present enough to enjoy the affectionate gestures.

  He feeds me more and presses a glass of water to my lips, keeping me snug and safe against him the whole time. I’ll get to sleep in his bed for the first time in weeks. Tonight it’s not so much a privilege I’ve earned as it is a precaution, dropped as I am, but I’ll take it. He likes me best this way: living, breathing proof of his mastery of his surroundings, a person turned to jelly by his manipulations. Though he’s done this ostensibly to punish me, he’s also done it to silence my chaotic mind, given me something to focus on other than tomorrow.

  “Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I’m answered by a brief press of a kiss to my forehead. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‡

  Year Four

  Ow! Son of a—

  My mother’s tugging at the waist of my bridesmaid’s dress and grazes a couple of fresh welts from the scene I had with Hunter this morning. I knew I’d feel them in the church, smarting against the hard wooden pews—my own version of a hair shirt—but this is a level of hell I hadn’t anticipated.

  “Why is this riding up like this? I told you not to gain any weight after your last fitting. Christ, Indie, with a dress this color, you can’t spill out the top. You look like a burst sausage. Does anyone have an extra pair of spanx?”

  I haven’t gained weight. The dress fits fine. I don’t spill out the top any more than I’m supposed to. For whatever reason, my sister’s wedding theme seems to be cream and cleavage. Except for my dress. Pink. A godawful shade of raw pork. The only comment of my mother’s I give any credence to. She yanks at the fabric again, and I inhale sharply. Mother fuck that hurts like a—

  “And that charlatan of a makeup artist did a terrible job. You look like a street-walker and she didn’t manage to hide your nose at all.”

  I roll my eyes on the inside. Yes, my horrible, hideous nose. The way my mother talks about it, you’d think I were Pinocchio or Cyrano de Bergerac. I’m not. I have the slightest bump near the bridge no one else has ever seen fit to comment on, not even Hunter and he’s got something to say about every centimeter of me. From the day I turned thirteen, she’s paraded me in front of plastic surgeons, all of whom have been professional enough to send us packing, much to her dismay.

  I stand in front of the mirror and tune her out—the insults, the ravings about other people’s incompetence. With each graze of her manicured claws or wrench of the fabric, I’m reminded of this morning, just as Hunter intended. Seven more hours. I have seven more hours to suffer before I go home to him. He’ll be in a foul mood when I get there, but I don’t care. I’ll make him forget, just as he’ll erase this evening from my memory. Seven more hours.

  “Mom!” Ivy shrieks from across the room.

  My mother attempts to smooth my dress down, sending pain through my hips and thighs while muttering something that sounds an awful lot like lipo.

  “You’d best suck it in for the ceremony, Indie. Don’t you dare ruin your sister’s pictures.”

  With that parting shot, she’s gone.

  *

  The wedding goes flawlessly, as it ought to with the amount of money my mother must have thrown at this party. Wedding planners, ateliers, anyone and everyone you could possibly hire for a wedding, my mother has. Samantha Burke’s daughter’s wedding is going to be the event of the season.

  I sit at the head table, watching other people dance in their formal best. I don’t dance. I can affect poise and grace in spades while sitting or standing, but put me on a dance floor and my elegance evaporates. Probably why my mother hasn’t forced me out there. I look like a naked mole rat on ecstasy.

  Ivy’s dancing with her new husband, Tucker. They really are a beautiful couple. Ivy is tall and lean, her long blonde hair piled high atop her head, her cream gown showing her willowy body off to its best advantage. Tuck’s taller by a few inches, his sepia skin glowing next to hers, set off by the black and white of his tux. They look overjoyed to be swaying in each other’s arms, Tuck periodically dipping his mouth to her ear to say something to make Ivy laugh or pressing his lips to hers for a kiss. So public. So sweet. I’m envy incarnate, the green-eyed goddess herself.

  Ninety-eight percent of the time I’m satisfied with my arrangement with Hunter. We don’t have a relationship outside of the kink community and the four walls of his gracious home and that’s okay. But every once in a while, I ache for more. What I wouldn’t give to have him here, sitting beside me. He’d make caustic comments about everyone in the room, pinch and swat at me when no one was looking, and look so goddamn handsome and superior in his tux I’d let him take me on this over-set table if he demanded it.

  I love Hunter, and I have no doubt he loves me. He’s impossibly attentive, he takes care of me, and he’s helped shape me into a person I like so much better than the person I was when I met him. Perhaps most importantly, he understands me.

  I can’t imagine any of the earnest-to-a-fault vanilla men who’ve approached me this evening would be able to set me on fire the way Hunter does. They’d be horrified by how he treats me—the control freakery, the beatings, the crawling, the collar—but I’ve never felt so at peace. I may not enjoy everything Hunter demands, but mostly I do. And for the fraction I don’t? It’s a trade-off I’m willing to make, a part of myself I’m willing to sell to the devil if it means the tigh
tly coiled wire in my core can loosen for days, weeks at a time. No one’s ever done that for me before.

  All I have to give up is a dance—a hand warm through the fabric of my dress resting at the small of my back; a lapelled chest to lay my perfectly coiffed head against; strong arms to take some of the weight off my feet, sore from my beautiful shoes; a whispered I love you when the music fades. That’s all. Is that such a steep price to pay? The song ends, Tuck tips Ivy’s head up with a hand cupped at her jaw and presses a lingering kiss to her lips as my eyes water.

  *

  “How you doing, Rani?”

  My dad’s hands are warm on my shoulders.

  “Fine.” I’m biding my time until I can get out of here. I haven’t spent this much time in direct contact with my family for years, and I’m out of practice with blunting the agony. Concentrating on the marks Hunter’s branded me with this morning by shifting in my seat is only doing so much good. They’ve dulled into a bearable ache, perversely making this more painful.

  My father drops into the seat next to mine, and I can smell the gin from here. He usually sticks to vodka so as not to attract attention, but we’re at a party and he’s the father of the bride. Of course he should be allowed a few (dozen?) cocktails. At least he holds his liquor well and didn’t make an ass out of himself during the toast.

  “You know that’ll be you someday.” A slight slur blurs his speech. I huff and shake my head. I don’t think so. I’ve watched my parents’ marriage. I don’t want a piece of that, thank you. And if I stay with Hunter—and I don’t know why I wouldn’t, we’ve been so happy, so satisfied with each other for four years—a wedding is not in the cards and I won’t be inviting my family to a collaring.

  “It will.” He slips out of his tuxedo jacket and lays it, still warm with the heat from his body, over my shoulders, and I draw it around me. I was cold.

  “Whatever.”

  “I know you don’t hear this often enough and that’s my fault, but you are meant to be loved. Someday, you’re going to find someone who’s worthy of you and you’ll be happy in a way you never thought possible. Someone’s going to make your dreams come true.”

  The channels in my flawed nose burn and constrict, tears threaten at the corner of my eyes. My dad doesn’t often talk to me, never has. My whole life he’s been gone a lot, doing who knows what. When he was home, he’d try to make up for it by spoiling us with treats, new toys, trips to the zoo. Ivy wasn’t so keen on it, acting too cool, but I loved spending time with him. He actually seemed to like me. If he stayed too long, he’d wear out his welcome. I’d hear my parents fighting, my mother railing against him for making us soft, turning us into puppets for affection.

  “Do you want them to fawn over the first man who asks them to spread their legs, Preston? They don’t need that shit. What they need is to understand what sentiment is actually good for: power. They need to be independent, autonomous.”

  “Is that what you are, Sam?”

  I’d preemptively cringe, waiting for the unmistakable sound of a rigid hand colliding with a clenched jaw. Preston and Samantha Burke, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.

  *

  Hunter’s waiting for me in the playroom. Thank god. It’s after one in the morning, and I want nothing more than for him to erase this day. My dress is chafing, my feet hurt, and the dozens of pins in my hair are digging into my scalp and giving me a headache. It’s enough to make me wish Hunter had insisted I keep the pixie cut. But in the year or so that’s passed since that little incident, it’s grown out to my shoulders. I’d like to sink into my tub, but my instructions weren’t to clean up; they were to come straight here.

  I turn the solid knob, preparing to drop to my knees, but I’m caught up short. Hunter’s not alone. Humiliation rips in a wave of red from my chest to my hair. Not that Hunter never plays with other people. He does, infrequently, and I’m always there. It’s in our contract. How could he—

  But when my overtaxed brain sorts the scene, my rage melts away. I know the woman strung up naked against the bedpost, attempting unsuccessfully to avoid the blows of a harsh flogger by dancing on her toes. And I know the woman wielding the flogger, too. Hunter’s merely watching.

  The beating stops, and three heads turn toward me.

  “You’re here!” exclaims Glory, tugging at her bound wrists, her adorably rounded Filipina body bouncing with excitement.

  “Hush, little one,” scolds Constance with another swat of the flogger to a juicy flank, “nobody said you could speak.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Glory’s words are breathy with contrition, but the effect is dulled by the wink she throws me. Someone’s feeling sassy. I kind of want to shuck my shoes and curl up with Glory at Hunter and Constance’s feet so we can chat. But with the cocky look on Hunter’s face as he approaches me, I don’t think talking’s on the menu.

  “Welcome home, sweetheart.” He pulls me in for a kiss with his hands on my hips. He kneads my behind through my dress, making the welts from this morning come alive again. I moan my half-delight, half-protest into his mouth. He pulls away and smiles. “I have a treat for you.”

  I flush with pleasure and blink at him. A treat? For me?

  “Today was a hard day for you, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.” I avert my eyes. I don’t want to talk about this, and Hunter doesn’t want to hear about it. He’s made that abundantly clear. His arm snakes around my waist, and he pulls me tight as his hand clasps my jaw, forcing my eyes to his.

  “I know. And I’m going to take care of it. Constance and Glory are going to help.”

  My lips part and my lashes flutter. I told Hunter ages ago in a sex-induced stupor that I’d fantasized about being with more than one person. In my head, it had been more than one man, but I’d been lucid enough to keep back that detail. Hunter can be a tidgy bit jealous. I’ll not say no to this, though. I’m curious, and it’s heartbreakingly sweet he’s arranged it, even if he may have co-opted my fantasy and made it his own. Constance has no salacious interest in men, but Glory’s firmly bi. I suspect Hunter will be enjoying her charms as well as mine.

  “Mouth closed, baby. I don’t want to make this about punishment, but ten will freshen up the color on your ass.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He’s released his grip on my jaw so I bury my face in his chest, my eyes brimming with grateful tears. This is better than a dance at a wedding; this is a Hunter Vaughn love letter.

  He kneads the nape of my neck while he presses my face into his shirt. My makeup. It’s going to get all over and make my fastidious lover frown when he sees it smudged across the starched and pressed white fabric. “Sir, your shirt, it’s—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But—”

  “I said don’t worry about it.” Though his tone has grown sharp, it doesn’t trouble me. It lets me melt. I’ve been told it’s not my problem, and therefore it’s not. He’s taken responsibility for this so I don’t have to. He holds me to him for another few minutes, rubbing my back and letting me breathe him in. I like being surrounded by him, and thoughts of this horrible day leech out of my body to be replaced by the sensations of Hunter. The cool, precise smell of him; the hard wall of lean muscle beneath his fine clothes; how I know his lips would taste if he gifted me with a kiss.

  “Let’s get you out of these clothes, shall we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  While Hunter was holding me, Constance finished Glory’s flogging and is standing close behind her. The contrast between Glory’s small, tanned, naked body and Constance’s large clothed one is stark as Constance speaks in a low voice only Glory will be able to distinguish. But I know those tones. I like them, too. The gentle praise for a beating well-taken, the stroke of a hand over a hip because you’ve pleased them—there’s nothing better.

  Constance unhitches Glory’s cuffs from the post and rubs her arms. Glory nods and her mouth forms words I can read from here: “Yes, mi
stress.” What has she agreed to? Hunter steers me to stand in front of the low leather couch before he sits and tosses a question Constance’s way. “Is she okay or does she need a few minutes?”

  “She’s fine. Aren’t you, love?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  From the glassy look in Glory’s eyes and the healthy flush in her cheeks, she’s more than fine.

  “Then go be a good girl for Hunter.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Hunter’s played with Glory before, and I have no doubt he and Constance talked before this little interlude. Not to mention Constance will be watching like a hawk. Even though she’s letting Hunter take the lead, Glory is still her responsibility and she takes her obligation very seriously. Constance settles on the couch next to Hunter to watch as Glory kneels in front of him with her back to me.

  “Think they should put on a show for us?” Hunter’s crossed an ankle over his knee and idly drums his fingers on the perfectly shined leather of his shoe.

  “Dinner and a show? You’re too good to me, Hunter.” Envy clutches at my stomach. I would’ve much rather been here with them than suffering through the perfectly done filet at my sister’s wedding. But I’m here now, so I try to let it go.

  “Take her shoes off,” he directs Glory. She ducks her head before she turns around and holds out her hands. I place a hand on her shoulder for balance and offer my foot so she can slip the sculpted heel off. The thick pile of the carpet is luxurious, and I have to bite back a moan of relief when both my soles have sunk into it.

  “Now her dress.”

  Glory stands and walks behind me to unhook and unzip my dress. I’m left in the intricate filmy lingerie Hunter dressed me in this morning before I had to go. I’m surprised when he directs her to remove that, too, but grateful. The straps that bind the confection together bind me as well, and when it falls away, I can finally breathe properly. Despite being under Hunter’s tight control, this is the most free I’ve felt all day.