“Hey,” I say, laying a hand on his thigh just above his knee and squeezing until he looks at me. “One thing at a time. Let’s make sure she’s getting taken care of properly, and then we’ll deal with the rest.”
He doesn’t argue with my use of the plural, and I’m relieved. At least he’ll let me help that much. I put both hands back on the wheel because city driving requires attention and precision, and I start to run through my mental Rolodex. Do I know anyone at Bay Memorial? San Francisco Mercy, Oakland General, yes, but Bay Memorial—I don’t think so. That’s okay. Allie won’t want me to pull strings anyhow, and I could still talk a fish into buying a bottle of water in the middle of a monsoon.
Nodding, he looks so lost. Let’s see what other problems I can solve.
“Where are the kids?”
“With a friend Kendra called. They can’t stay, though. She works night shift, and she’s gotta be there at eleven.”
“Anyone else you could call?” I venture. I bet he’s wishing his mom were here. This is what grandmas show up for. Hell, I’d call my mother if she weren’t on the other side of the country. She loves kids. But our mothers are in Philadelphia, New York. Why is it transporters haven’t been invented again?
“No. The neighbors…I don’t trust them. My friends…well, I don’t trust them either.” He gives me an embarrassed smile because that sounds fucked up, but I know what he means. He knows them in a certain context, and it doesn’t include handing over those kids, probably the people he loves most in the world.
“Does the sitter have the car seats?”
“Yeah, that’s how she got them to her house.”
I hesitate because I don’t know how he’s going to feel about this. It’s worth a shot, though. This is a problem I can solve. Easily. “If it would be helpful, I could call Matthew. The sitter could bring them to my place, and he can stay as long as you need him to. He’s good with kids. Maybe the sitter could put them to bed before she leaves, but if they’re too wired to sleep, he can stay up with them.” Matthew’s learned a thing or two from me, and he has his own naturally occurring air that seems to put people at ease. Plus, get him in the right mood, and he’s an utter goofball. We’ll probably come home to a sock puppet show. “He could call either one of us if there’s an issue, and it would be easy to keep the kids in the loop if there are things they need to know.”
Hart eyes me skeptically. “He’d do that?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“He wouldn’t mind?”
“Honestly, he’d be more irritated if you didn’t accept his help than if you did.” Which is precisely where I am right now, but I won’t say that. For the love of god, let me help you.
Allie rolls his lips between his teeth and nods. “Yeah, all right. If you think he really won’t mind.”
Five seconds later, Matthew’s picking up his phone.
“Matthew, I’m in the car with Hart. You’re on speaker. His sister’s been injured in a fire at her place, and we’re going to see her at the hospital. In the meantime, the kids are with a sitter, but she needs to get to her job soon.”
There’s no hesitation on the other end of the line. “Where should I go and what time do I need to be there?”
Allie gives him the information and, when we hang up, gets on the phone with the sitter to give her my address and Matthew’s information. By the time we’re pulling into the hospital garage, I’ve taken care of one slice of Allie’s worry pie. I drop him off at the entrance so he doesn’t have to tap his foot through me finding a parking spot. He practically vaults out of the car, and I brace myself for a slam of the door that never comes. When I glance through the still-open passenger-side door, I see Allie bent over and hovering.
“Thank you.”
The earnestness and gratitude fills my heart, and I have to swallow around the lump in my throat. “It’s entirely my pleasure. Now go see Kendra.”
He drops a quick nod before shutting the door and jogging to the entrance. I watch him go, waiting until he’s through the automatic doors, and then I pull away to find a parking spot.
*
I grab a seat in the ER waiting room and occupy myself with my phone while I wait to hear something from Allie. Always emails that need triaging, half of which I only glance at before sending to Matthew. It’s only scheduling.
Around ten-thirty, my phone rings and it’s Matthew. The kids are asleep in a guestroom upstairs, and the sitter left after introducing the kids to him. Everything’s fine. “You have Hart’s cell in case they wake up and they’re freaking out, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Matthew.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
I toy with my phone a little longer before there’s a hulking shadow in front of me. When I look up, it’s to a much calmer Allie than I left about an hour ago.
“How is Kendra?”
“Okay. Some smoke inhalation, first- and second-degree burns on her hands and her arms, but nothing life-threatening. Their house is toast, though.”
My jaw clenches involuntarily. My instinct to solve this problem too rises up in my throat. Let me take care of all of you. I’ll have Matthew find you all an apartment to stay in tonight, and we’ll get a nanny who can help Kendra with the kids because she’ll need it while she recovers. Admit you need me and give me your consent to help. I’ll wave my hand and everything will be fixed.
But I know Allie well enough to know none of that would be appreciated, so I will leave it the fuck alone as I’ve been told so many times to do. What I can do, though, is help him organize the logistics of handling this himself, so I have him sit next to me while we make some plans.
Allie excuses himself when the doctor comes to update him on Kendra once more and then goes to see her. After he’s satisfied she’s okay and has made arrangements to pick her up in the morning, she shoos him back to me with orders to go back to my place and check on the kids.
*
Walking through the door to my house, Allie still seems wired.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.” His tone is short and clipped and I want to call him on his bullshit, but I can understand he’s buzzing like an over-adrenalized bee.
“What do you need right now?”
“Need?” he echoes, as if that’s the most absurd question in the world.
“Yes, need. What can I do for you?”
He blinks at me slowly as if he’s only half-heard me. I won’t repeat myself. I’ll wait. My patience is rewarded by an intent, thoughtful look, as if he’s inventorying his emotions and finding where he’s lacking. Still in crisis management mode. Let me do that for you.
Eventually, his eyes meet mine, his gaze hard, yet cautious. He doesn’t entirely trust me to give him what he wants, what he needs, and the thought makes me want to sever some part of my body and give it to him. I would do anything for you. Tell me how to stop your hurt and I’ll do it. It’s the best, most important thing I can do, my purpose on my earth. Let me fulfill it and, in so doing, provide you with whatever brand of succor you need.
“I need a distraction. I need to not think about all this right now.”
“I can do that. Pain is usually pretty good for focusing you.”
Matthew is still here, so we don’t need to worry about the kids waking. He’ll come find us if they do, but for now, I can give Hart something to take the edge off.
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes getting wider and sparkling with anticipatory glimmer. “Hurt me.”
It’ll be my pleasure.
*
I’ve been whaling on Allie for a good hour down in the dungeon, and he’s going to be sore. I didn’t bother asking if he’ll have the kids because I know he will. I’m also not bothering to go easy on him because he’d tell me not to. If he needs help over the next several days, Matth
ew will be at his disposal, and I know the harder I go on him, the better he’ll feel. I’m going to beat him to sleep. A strange lullaby I suppose, but it will work on him.
He’s resisting me, though, harder than usual. I don’t mind it most times—honestly, it makes my job more fun—but it’s piquing me now. This isn’t his run-of-the-mill pride and stubbornness. Those are entertaining to overcome, and I get a rush of heady self-satisfaction when I do. This is different. He’s trying to prove something he doesn’t have to prove. I get the feeling I could beat the living shit out of him all night long, and at the end, all I’d have would be a bruised and angry Allie. Not what I’m going for.
I need to break him. Really, really carefully. This enormous man who could snap me in two without a second thought, but wouldn’t. This is going to call for some finesse and not a small amount of skill. I’m going to be like those demolition experts who work in cities, dropping buildings with carefully placed explosives in a way that won’t do any damage to surrounding areas. Allie needs to be whole and functional for his family, so there are only so many walls I can bust open.
Good thing delicacy is my middle name. Also good is that Matthew may look insubstantial, but the man is like balsa wood—so much stronger than he appears. He can nearly keep up with me at my most manic, and that’s saying something. I’d talked to him while I was waiting for Allie at the hospital, and he knows he’s on deck for the next several days at least. He can deal with some of the mundane things, and I’m hoping Allie will be so concerned with other matters he won’t realize exactly how much Matthew’s helping.
In the meantime, I’ve got a job to do.
I stop caning Hart and give him a minute to breathe. Which also means I break the flow and remind him exactly how much he’s hurting.
“You’re being a stubborn bastard tonight, you know that?”
“Yes, sir,” he grits through his teeth.
“Why is that?”
Of course my Allie doesn’t answer. Because stubborn is his middle name. I could talk to him, plead with him, tell him he can be strong everywhere else but here he’s allowed to fall apart because, no matter how heavy the weight, I can carry anything. I can bear whatever he throws at me. Not only can I, I want to.
Not unlike a certain other submissive I’m intimately familiar with, he’s not going to give in to my words. Allie’s not much on declarations and oaths. He’s a man of actions, and he expects other people to be as well. Don’t tell him you’ll be there; show up. Don’t claim to be able to hold him together; shatter him into a million pieces and then put him back together. Prove it.
So that’s what I’ll do.
I unclip his cuffs from the chains anchoring him to the cross, and I look him over. Not a stitch on him, he’s gorgeous in my restraints with my marks on him, and I take a few minutes to pinch and tweak them, enjoying every hitch of breath and every grimace I elicit. I grab the skin of his upper arms and twist, making all the muscles in his body bunch and flex.
Pinching is intimate—the feel of skin against skin, the way the pain transmits through his muscles, telling me the hurt is oh-so-good. Part of me’d like to go at him with my hands. Curl them into fists and beat on his back. His upper arms. Maybe force him to lie on the ground and literally walk all over him until he feels like he can’t breathe.
That’s not intense enough, though. Also, he’s been beaten with fists. Kicked with boots. Too often. I’m not sure he could read that as enjoyable anymore. Instead, I’ll drag out something new.
“Stay,” I tell him, loving the way his shoulders grow broader as he stands there, perhaps making himself look more menacing to the cross, the wall, as if they have anything to do with it. They’re just my instruments; they can’t have any impact by themselves.
I move a few things around, retrieve a couple of items from a trunk and the wall. I flick my gaze in his direction periodically, though he’s standing there as rigid as can be. He hasn’t turned around. What a lovely, obedient boy.
Everything arranged to my satisfaction, I call him over, and he turns, unsure of how to get here. “On your feet.” He should enjoy it while he can.
When he’s made his way over to the bed with slow, deliberate steps, and sees the usually spare surface heaped with plush pillows, he glares at me.
“What the fuck is this?”
“How about you let me worry about that? Also, watch your language. I don’t appreciate you talking to me that way.”
Pfft. If I minded people swearing at me, I wouldn’t be in my line of work. Neither would I be friends with India “Potty-Mouth” Burke. That woman has a vocabulary like a merchant marine who hasn’t seen polite company in a decade.
“This doesn’t look—”
“Get on the bed, Hart.” I don’t often break out my Domly-Dom voice, and even less often with him, but I use it now and to good effect. He blinks at me, but that’s the only sign of hesitation before he’s climbing onto the surface and lying back against the mound of pillows.
“Now what? Are you going to tickle me with a feather until I die?”
I let my eyes drift skyward and put a few fingers to my chin as if I’m actually considering it because it’s not a bad idea. Knowing how much Hart loathes being tickled, though—that would be over-the-line sadistic, even for me. So I shake my head. “Not today.”
I reach over to the small bedside table and take up a hank of bright yellow rope.
“I had no idea Big Bird was a sadist.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to bind you and gag you and leave you down here alone until morning.” I’ve forced my tone dry, but in a way I hope conveys I’d actually do it. I never would, because not leaving someone who’s tied up alone is Bondage 101, but in a fairy world where accidents never happened, I totally would.
His brow creases as I move toward his feet, and rightfully so. Especially when I set about weaving the ropes through his toes, being careful not to touch him in a way that will make him squirm and giggle. Entertaining in its own right, but that’s not the mood I want to set. I work the rope, making carefully placed knots, evening out tension, and then I tie off so his foot is flexed at the end of the bed. The rope is a lovely color on his skin, bringing out the blue tones.
I move to the other foot and bind it the same way. While he looks curious, he doesn’t seem concerned. Perhaps he’s expecting me to bind him from head to toe, but that’s not on the agenda.
When his feet are held fast, my ropes keeping his soles utterly vulnerable, I smile at him and pick up my cane. “Ever heard of bastinado, Hart?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
‡
He doesn’t pale so much with his skin as he does his entire body. His eyes grow wide and wary, and his body goes rigid. “Are you serious?”
“As taxes.” Despite having to dissemble a bit on my filings to protect my clients’ privacy, I take my fiduciary responsibility to the republic very seriously.
I bend the cane into an arch between my hands and watch his gaze track the movement. It’s not terribly rigid, but then a rigid cane isn’t good for this. Too much damage done too easily. Something whippy is much better. Besides, it’s not as if it takes a lot to make an impact with this particular activity. I’ll be happy to explain to him why. First, I need to make sure he’s safe.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he continues to stare at the implement of torture in my hands. So innocent-looking and yet so effective.
“Arms over your head.”
He studies me, assessing. “You’re really going to do this?”
“Yes, I am. And you’re going to let me.”
He turns his head, mostly to give me a suspicious side-eye. Not so cocky, are you anymore, my lovely boy? “Why would I do that?”
“I can think of a dozen reasons, but here are a few: You trust me not to hurt you badly. You need a distraction, and I’m going to give you one. It gets you off to do as I say and to take any pain I dole out. Take your pick.”
�
��And you’re going to enjoy this?”
“Very much.”
It takes him a minute, but eventually he settles himself more fully into the pillows and then reaches his arms toward the headboard, not taking his eyes off me for a second.
“Good.” I watch the praise soak into him, how it gives him more confidence and how his circumspection is turning into anticipation.
I put the cane down on the side table where he can perfectly well see it and use the clips on the cuffs to attach him to the headboard. He pulls against them, and I love the flex of his muscles as he does. He’s testing, testing, and when nothing budges, not me nor his bonds, he gives up, gives in.
With him lying there, so pretty in my ropes and at my mercy, I can’t help but touch him. My fingers are drawn to him, and I skim the pads over his scalp, down his neck, and lay a palm flat to coast over his chest and stomach. I lay a teasing squeeze at his hip, purposefully not touching his thickening cock, and then glide down his deliciously hard thigh and calf, all the way to where my ropes bind his feet.
“You look quite marvelous. Did you know that?”
He squirms. Just a little, but I notice the tiny movement. The same way I notice everything. I pick up the cane and barely tap the bottom of one foot with it. “I’d like an answer, please.”
“No, sir,” he grits out.
“Would you like to see?”
“No, sir.”
Oh, he doesn’t. The suggestion might be a bit much. Maybe he can take it if it can just be true in his own mind. If there were evidence of it, maybe not.
“Good. That means I can start sooner.”
I take some time to pace at the foot of the bed, surveying him stretched out before me, his lovely bound form and god, those feet, waiting for me. Running a hand from one end of the cane to the other, I start to lecture. India calls me Professor Walter sometimes, and if she were in Hart’s place, she would now.
“Do you know why bastinado’s a favored form of torture?”
I punctuate my question with the first stripe of the cane against his soles, and he jumps. Luckily, his bonds are true and he doesn’t get far. Just squeezes his eyes shut, making the corners of his eyes crease.
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 23
