by Nikki Chase
Father has just told us what had happened to him while he was away.
It's all because of my rose. All due to a stupid flower that was going to wilt in a few days anyway.
And now he’ll have to go back to the man who has threatened him. He’ll have to risk his safety. All for a dumb flower.
Father won't tell us who the man is, but he’s probably someone powerful. I mean, if picking plant matter at his residence is a crime, then he must have some kind of a title.
He's probably someone like a Baron or a Viscount. Maybe even an Earl.
“Do you really have to go back, Father?” Irina asks.
“Yes, I promised the man,” Father says.
The dining table goes quiet as all of us think about what that means. It’s only a flower—surely the punishment won’t be too harsh?
“Did you get to buy my bag in the city, Father?” Clara breaks the silence.
“Sorry, honey. I did buy them, but I had to leave everything in the truck because the storm was so bad. I’ll have to go back another day to check if it’s still there.”
Both my sisters turn their heads to stare at the long stem of rose in my hands.
“So only Rosemary got what she wanted,” Clara says, giving me the side-eye.
I drop my gaze to look at my pricey flower that Father will have to pay for with his freedom.
It still has all its little leaves and thorns because Father didn't have time to remove them before the man chanced upon him. But the lone red rose is stunningly beautiful.
Most of the petals are still tightly wrapped around the center, except for a couple that are starting to peel away from the rest. It's like the petals are huddling close for safety, knowing how dark and dangerous it is out here.
“Father, if you're away, then how are we going to survive?”
Father glances at me, but quickly averts his gaze. I understand he doesn't want to put all the financial burden on me, but there's no other way.
“I don't know how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll try to talk to the thrift-store owner and ask him to come over. There might be some things we can sell,” Father says.
“Oh my god,” Irina says, covering her face with both hands in dramatic fashion. “What are the neighbors going to say?”
“I’ll ask for more shifts at the flower shop,” I say. “Mrs. Greene has been asking me to start working full time anyway.”
“You mean you could've been making more money, this whole time?” Clara asks, her jaw dropping.
“Yes,” I admit, resisting the urge to snap at her.
It’s never a good idea to bring up the fact that neither one of my sisters work. It always ends with them sobbing hysterically, and me feeling like I’m the bad guy.
Besides, I deserve their anger this time, for putting Father in danger.
I press my thumb against a thorn on the long stem of the rose, pushing through that initial reflex to cringe away from the pain. I have to welcome the pain. Pain is strength.
“So we could’ve gotten new dresses for summer?” Irina asks, just as incredulously.
“Do you know how important it is that we look good, Rosemary? We can't get the rich guys unless we look like the kind of girls who belong beside them,” Clara adds.
“Yeah, we’re applying for the positions of their wives, so we have to look the part. As they say, dress for the job you want and not for the job you have.”
I’m tempted to ask her what she really knows about getting any kind of a job, but I bite my tongue and force myself to smile.
“You're making it hard for us to earn some money for the family, Rosemary. Do you care at all about us?”
Glancing down, I see red blood pooling where the thorn pricks me.
It feels good.
It distracts me from my thoughts, keeping the hot anger within me at a gentle simmer. This is not the time to make waves.
This is my fault. I have to face the consequences.
“But how about your apprenticeship with Mr. Taggins, dear?” Father asks me.
My heart clenches. He's still thinking something so trivial at a time like this. I keep failing him, and he keeps heaping kindness on top of me.
“Don't worry about it, Father.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I don't know what I was thinking, applying for the apprenticeship. Our town already has one botanist and doesn't need any more. I’m happy with my job at the flower shop.”
“Father, can't Rosemary go instead of you?” Irina asks.
“Yes, the flower was for her after all,” Clara says.
He widens his eyes like a deer in headlights.
Really, my sisters shouldn't put our father in a spot like that. Father has already gotten himself in trouble for me. My sisters won't be happy if he sides with me now.
So instead of going against them, I ask, “Yes, Father, is there no other way?”
We all want the same thing. There's no reason why we can't find a solution together.
If I can go in Father’s place, I would. That would be better for everyone.
Despite my good intentions, I always end up screwing things up for everyone. I guess it’s true what everyone’s been saying about me. I really do bring bad luck to my family.
“Don't worry,” Father says. “I’ll think of something.”
I know what that means.
That means he has no idea what to do. He's reached a dead end. He just doesn't want to admit it in front of us.
I sit bolt upright and stare at my phone screen.
What is this?
A chill runs down my arms.
I twist to look around me. I’m alone in my room, right?
The window is open.
That's it. Someone from outside can see into my bedroom.
I run to the window and pull the curtains closed.
I read the short email again.
Hello Rosemary,
There's no need to cry. I can help you help your father.
There's no clue as to the sender’s identity. It's one of those free email accounts with a random jumble of letters as the address.
I sit back down on the side of bed by the window, clutching my phone. My legs feel like noodles.
The email app refreshes. There's a new message.
My heart races as my shaking finger tap the screen.
No, I tell myself. I’m being silly. Maybe this is not another strange email. It's probably just another newsletter from some romance author. I like those novels, but I feel like I’ve been getting too many emails from the authors lately.
Then, the new email loads.
Like the previous one, it comes from the same sender and it has a blank subject line.
I was enjoying the view, but I understand. Now, would you like to help your father? This is a limited-time offer.
My heart pounds in my chest. Someone's watching me! And he knows I’ve just closed the curtains.
I re-read the email. At least it doesn't sound like that person can see me anymore.
My finger hovers over the reply button.
Am I really going to respond to this person? He sounds dangerous.
But if it means saving my father…
I can't not reply, right?
If something bad happens to my father, which seems likely, I’ll always wonder if there's anything I could've done.
I hit the reply button and start to type with my thumbs.
How are you planning to save my father?
I send the email, then raise my fingers to my mouth, biting my nails. It's a bad habit for which I’m always derided by my sisters. They like to grow their nails long and paint them with colorful polish. I don’t love the way my nails look but I don’t care because they're always destroyed at work anyway.
New email.
Without hesitation, I open the email.
I’m not going to save your father. You are.
I frown. That's not very helpful.
I type a short reply and send it.
How?
The answer comes swiftly.
If you come here, your father won't have to.
James
She knows she's walking around in circles. The breaking of branches at regular intervals tells me she's marking her route.
I'm not offended. I'm impressed.
She's being smart. She doesn't ask unnecessary questions like who I am, because she knows she’ll see me soon anyway.
Besides, I hold all the power here, so she doesn't have any leverage. She knows I’ll reveal myself if and when I want to, and there’s nothing she can do to make me do anything.
I send her the next email:
Take 100 steps to your right.
I’m tracking her movements, and I’m telling her exactly where and how far to go.
Once she's in the woods, everything looks almost the same, with only trees all around her. She can't even use the stars as a guide because of the thick canopy of leaves and branches over her head.
It's the perfect opportunity to obscure the route and make it so she won't be able to find her way back on her own. The last thing I need is for her to run away as soon as I get her into the palace.
Worse still, if she figures out the hidden route, she could lead the townspeople here. And then who knows what would happen next?
The tabloids could show up on my doorstep. Hell, Cheryl could tag along with them. I bet she’d like that.
She hasn't enjoyed much attention since I moved into this secret palace; she’d jump at the chance to get her face back on the glossy pages of those fucking magazines, portraying herself as the victim. My victim.
I watch as the bright red dot that represents Rosemary on the map stops. It's time to give her the next set of directions. I think I’ll make her…
Turn to your left, Rosemary, and take another 100 steps.
I send the email, then switch my attention to the next screen to watch the red dot follow my directions. I never thought a red circle could look sexy, but right now it does. Just look at the way it sashays and sways between the trees, following my orders.
My cock rises, straining against the fly of my pants. It's been so long since I’ve had my own submissive. I’m sporting a tent in my pants like a horny teenager, just imagining her big doe eyes looking up at me when she gets here, primed and ready for more instructions.
Up until I saw Rosemary at the club, I didn't think I’d ever take a submissive again. But she looked so beautiful. And she was so eager to absorb the sensual atmosphere around her. She obeyed my orders the way only natural submissives could.
To be honest, I didn't think I’d ever find someone like her. But it's not trauma or anything like that, although Albert doesn't believe me.
My last submissive turned out to be a gold-digging opportunist. She has banished me and cursed me to a solitary life. I hate everything she stands for, and I regret ever allowing her into my life.
But I know I don’t have to write off the whole lifestyle just because of one person. I just need to use more care in choosing the right submissive. I just didn't think the right submissive—the perfect submissive—existed.
But there she is, the sexy red dot on one screen. Soon enough, I’ll also see her curves and the hypnotic sway of her hips on a different screen.
She's the most exciting thing to have happened in my life in a long time. I’m so glad I’ve finally found her.
Ever since that night at the club, I’d been looking for her, without success. When her father showed me that picture of her on his phone, I realized why. I’d been looking for her in Malvern, where the club is. And she lives in Willowdale, a neighboring small town.
When the old man took that flower, I was furious—at first. Until I realized I could turn it into an advantage.
I was already confident I could train her and collar her, even without this elaborate scenario. But I still would only have her some of the time. It would be scandalous for a girl of marriageable age like Rosemary to live alone with a man.
And if she has to go back and forth between this palace and her home, that could raise the risk of getting found out.
Sure, I can just see her once at month at The Dungeon on Masquerade Night. That would be easy, but it wouldn’t be enough.
The way things are going now, I’ll have her under my roof 24/7.
My mind hasn’t stopped coming up with ideas to train her into the perfect submissive. Something tells me that she’ll love it, that she’ll find satisfaction in the act of submission.
That will be the ideal scenario.
It’s also possible that she’ll hate it and she’ll come to hate me, like Cheryl did.
And even if she tries to do the right thing, it’s also possible that she’ll finally get a big enough offer from some tabloid so she’ll appear on some celebrity gossip show, talking about how I’ve used and abused her.
But that’s the beauty of this whole situation with Rosemary.
Even if she wants to, she can’t go to the journalists. She can’t talk to anybody.
If she blabs, I’ll just report her father for the crime that he’s committed.
Some may call this blackmail, but nobody will have any proof. I’ll have paperwork saying that Rosemary is legally under my employ in this palace, and I’ll also still have the security footage of her father stealing on royal grounds.
And then, even if people want to condemn me over it, so what? I’m the royal beast. I’m used to people giving me the evil eye, even as they try their best to remain respectful to royalty.
On a more human level, I guess it’s selfish. I’ll admit that. But everything in this world is motivated by self-interest.
For example, social workers who dedicate their lives to bringing clean water to African villages do it to achieve some kind of inner fulfillment, right? They simply value that reward more than the monetary benefits of normal employment.
And those hippies who tie themselves to trees and stop loggers from doing their jobs? They’re doing it “for future generations,” which means for the sake of their own offspring—hardly a selfless act. What about the loggers’ families? They have people waiting for them at home, too, but those tree huggers don’t care.
No, everybody only thinks about themselves. So it’s only natural that I look after myself, too.
Besides, if it weren’t for me the old man would’ve been dead. I think I’ve done enough for him already. I’ve literally saved his life.
I need to protect myself. Even though Rosemary looks perfectly sweet and innocent, she could be my downfall.
But I’ve thought of everything. I have a plan.
As long as I limit this relationship to a physical one, everything will be fine. And I don’t think there’s any danger of me breaking this rule. Nobody—not even Cheryl—has ever made me care about anything other than a sexy, warm body to dominate and fuck.
My gaze locks onto the third screen, where Rosemary is appearing right now.
That infrared camera is such a good investment. I can see her clearly in the dark, although she’s green and her eyes shine like they’re flashlights.
She takes her one-hundredth step, then she stops and looks around. No doubt she’s confused.
But she remains standing in her spot. She doesn’t even budge. She doesn’t take one step more or less than I told her to.
Maybe she’s afraid she’s going to get lost if she doesn’t follow my instructions exactly—as if I’d ever let that happen. Or maybe she likes being told exactly what to do.
Blood rushes through my veins as I watch her, this beautiful brunette who’s about to be mine. My cock twitches as I think about peeling those skinny jeans off her legs and spanking her ass with my bare hands until her skin turns cherry red.
She looks down at the screen of her phone, which casts an eerie glow on her face that lets me see her frown.
Maybe she’s waited long enough. She deserves some praise for having made it this far.
I pull my keyb
oard closer to the edge of my desk and type:
Good girl.
Rosemary
Good girl.
Is that it? Where’s the next instruction? What am I supposed to do now? Where should I go?
Besides… That phrase… Is it just me or is that… unusual?
I don’t often come across that phrase except in the pages of my favorite romance novels. I also heard it in The Dungeon, where one man even said it to me, and I promptly blushed got flustered like the virgin I was.
That’s probably why he sent me away.
Right after, I told Elizabeth, my friend who took me to the club, about the encounter. She squealed like a little girl and told me how sexy it was—as if I needed her to tell me. She also insisted that I try to find him.
With his tall figure, he should’ve been easy to find. But he was also wearing a black suit and a black mask—just like 80% of the male club-goers.
Besides, he seemed like the kind of man who wouldn’t like getting hit on. I was afraid of rousing his anger by approaching him without his permission.
But Elizabeth assured me that a good dominant’s punishment could be enjoyable. She didn’t need to convince me—my wet panties had already done that.
Too bad I didn’t see him for the rest of the night.
Well, actually, I’ve been seeing him… kind of. Every night since the encounter, in fact. But only when I’m alone in the darkness of my bedroom, when I’m indulging in my fantasies, my fingers slipping into my panties.
I can’t stop thinking about my limbs being restrained, while that mysterious man paces behind me. In my imagination, the room is silent, or maybe the atmosphere is so intense I block out all other stimuli. The only sounds I hear are the tapping of his shoes against the floor and my own quick, shallow breaths.
He rests his hand on my shoulder, then he drags it down my side and my thigh. It feels like my nerve endings have come alive. I can sense every little touch…
