Hear Me

by Skye Warren

  HEAR ME

  Skye Warren

  Copyright 2012 by Skye Warren

  She doesn’t remember her past, only her training. She can’t talk, not that a good slave should speak out of turn. None of that matters when she wakes up in the warm, rustic room. Her new master is distant but kind. There’s only one problem: he doesn’t want her.

  Longing for the shackles of safety, she pulls from the last dregs of her will to prove her worth as a slave. It seems to be working. He responds first to her body and next to her submission. The secrets of his past haunt the cabin, fraying the tightening bond between Master and slave, but it is her own memories that may finally unravel it.

  This book contains a bonus short story Escape, set in the same dark erotica world.

  WARNING:

  This book contains explicit scenes of sex, including dubious consent and captivity situations. The BDSM does not conform to literary conventions, making it sometimes more realistic, and other times not. This is a work of fiction not appropriate for anyone uncomfortable with these situations or anyone under the age of eighteen.

  Praise for Trust in Me, the second book in the dark erotica series:

  “Dark, disturbing, haunting, and beautiful, Skye Warren will take you into the depths of depravity but bring you home, safe in the end.”

  - Kitty Thomas, author of The Last Girl

  “Skye Warren is a true mistress of dark and twisted love stories.”

  - Diana, The Forbidden Bookshelf

  Night Owl Top Pick! “The author plays with metaphors and imagery in a prominent way to express Mia’s abuse at the hands the men in her life. This story was literally hard to put down.”

  - Chinama, Night Owl Reviews

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  Dear reader,

  It seems that the warnings for my books have wavered between barely there and too dire, so I’ll share with you my thoughts on dark erotica. I write about pain the way a paranormal author writes magic: early and often. There is torture and sex, sometimes in the same breath. This is a fantasy for those who like it when it hurts. If that is you, I hope you’ll come along for the ride.

  Many thanks to Leila DeSint, K.M., Bibliopolist, Em Petrova, Helen Hardt and Emily Eva Heatherington for making this book possible.

  Skye Warren

  Chapter One

  Even the earth conspired to keep her. Branches grabbed at her skin like talons; the beach was quicksand, dragging her down. Hope was too abstract to compete with the sound of men shouting behind her. Even her fear was drowned by the ragged beat of her heart.

  “Melody!” The voice sounded closer than the thrashing of leaves and branches.

  Run, run away, don’t look back.

  Her eyes, already stunted by lack of food, filled with grit and precious moisture. If she made it to the water, she could float away. Even if only to drift down to the bottom, entombed in sand castles and chained by seaweed. They would take her prisoner; they would keep her safe.

  A battered person was cracked soil, but dreams were like weeds. She could survive this. That was the goal she set for herself, huddled in the cold, damp cell. She had clung to it as they touched her, beat her. Trained her.

  The line of frothy water was in her sights but disappointment seared her. She was too far away, the sand too thick.

  An extra burst of energy propelled her two more stumbling steps. Her legs gave out. She clenched and released fistfuls of sand, not even sure she was actually crawling forward.

  Coolness lapped at her fingertips, surprising her. Her mind, tired and rusty, turned that information over. She had made it. Water. Safety? No, freedom.

  A slow, steady thwapping noise drew her gaze upward. A small green boat bobbed in the shallow water. Gentle waves flicked its hull, almost soothing, like the caress of a flogger. The rhythm thrummed through her. Even without the sting of impact, her mind began the slide.

  No. Subspace meant security but not today. Right now it meant death, and she refused to die.

  She blinked away the salt in her eyes and clawed through the water to the boat. With a strength that surprised her, she climbed over the edge, tumbling into the grimy bottom. It rocked gently with her weight then settled back into the gentle bob.

  The boat wasn’t tied down anywhere, but there wasn’t an oar. Not that she had the strength to use one or a place to go.

  Never mind. Her wish had been granted. She would drift out to sea, like a message in a bottle.

  Her head lolled against the rim of the boat. She breathed in the pungent smell of earth and moss. Her last thought before she drifted off to sleep was fanciful. She imagined a giant plucking her from the water, unfurling her like a scroll, and reading the lines slashed into her skin.

  She wondered what they would say.

  * * *

  Awareness washed over her, sending a small thrill through her sated limbs. There was always a sense of achievement in waking up, in knowing she’d lived through another day. She allowed herself a portion of pride. She had beaten them for one day more.

  Of course, the morning was always the high point.

  Every day it was the same. Bruises upon bruises. Welts upon welts. Everything ached, even now, but she knew better than to move. It wouldn’t make her feel better, and there was always the chance it would draw their attention. Anything was better than that, including lying unnaturally still on cold, damp concrete.

  Except it didn’t feel all that cold or damp. It was hard to register anything above the agony in her muscles, but she felt something like cloth against her fingertips. She brushed it again, the softness foreign but seductive. Despite her worry and her hurt, she felt warm. Protected.

  Instead of forcing herself into rigid stillness, she was relaxed.

  A whiff of something like fresh morning air tickled her nose. That couldn’t be right. The ventilation from the small barred window high in her cell never competed with the stench of sweat and blood and fear. But there was the unmistakable smell of fresh, yeasty bread. Her mouth watered.

  Her eyelids felt like they were weighted down with buckets of sand; she pried them open. Whiteness surrounded her. Not good. Loss of vision was one of the side effects of starvation. The slave in the cell next to hers couldn’t see anything for two days before she died.

  Maybe she was about to die, and that was why she was hallucinating food and seeing clean white where gray and mold and pain should have been. It should have been terrifying to find herself on the brink of what she’d fought for so long. Instead, the blankness soothed her. The smells made her mouth water.

  She didn’t want to die, but this didn’t feel like death.

  The edges of her sight sharpened, and her mind put names on her surroundings. Whitewashed walls instead of metal bars. A bed beneath her instead of a flea-ridden pallet.

  She recognized none of it, but the sweetness of it all acted as a drug in her veins, keeping her from panicking. Safe, she thought, even though she had no reason to know they wouldn’t hurt her here too. Home, she thought, even though she was sure she’d never seen it before.

  Curiosity nudged at her until she lifted the sheet. Clothes! Well, maybe that was too strong a word for the soft worn shirt that draped her body and stopped mid-thigh. Her memory was hazy, limited at best, but clothes were new, she was sure of that much.

  The sight of her torn and mottled skin tainted the daydream. And the pain rang true.

  She peeled back the soft fabric to inspect her body. There were the usual marks, crisscrosses down her back and thighs she could feel with her fingertips, torn skin where the restraints cut into her wrists. There were new cuts too, but these didn’t look like the ones from a whip. Uneven scratches all down the front of her body.

  Scuff sounds on the wood floors grew louder, her onl
y warning before a looming figure filled the doorway. For one terrifying moment, her mind translated the image of his thickly muscled form and scowling face into a childish nightmare. A monster come to get her because she’d left her foot hanging over the side of the bed.

  Then reality snapped her back. Not a monster, not exactly. A master.

  Her training kicked in. It didn’t matter how she had ended up here in this strange, comfortable room at the mercy of this strange, sinister-looking master. She knew what to do. Her limp body slid from the bed and dropped to its knees. The movement awakened a thousand new aches, but it couldn’t be helped. She bowed low, praying she looked properly worshipful.

  The threat of danger prickled her entire body, set her hair on end, but the fight or flight response had been beaten right out of her. Either reaction could get her killed, or more likely, hurt so badly that death would be preferable. So she waited on the floor, letting the cool knotted wood bruise her knees, her arms, her forehead.

  She waited for an order, because that was what she’d been taught to do in the presence of a master. No command came, and the air tingled with expectancy.

  As the seconds ticked away, anxiety rose. Should she do something, try a new position or ask how to please him? But any variation from her pose would be punished, she knew that.

  The booted feet approached. Boots humiliated – they hurt. She held still, accepting. Probably she had done it wrong. Her heart sped up, but she fought the instinct to cringe away, to cover her head and vital organs, to beg for mercy. The pain of a kick echoed through her body, and he hadn’t even touched her yet.

  Large hands clamped beneath her arms, hauling her up. He tossed her onto the bed, where she landed in an ungainly sprawl.

  Even terrified, she kept her gaze lowered. Never look them in the eyes.

  But he wasn’t saying anything, and she’d already done one wrong thing. Once was a mistake. Any more would be considered willful disobedience. What did he want her to do?

  She slowly looked up, already berating herself for the audacity.

  Thick eyebrows made harsh lines across his face. His skin was tan and peppered with an uneven beard, as if it had been scraped at with an old blade by an impatient hand.

  How long had it been since she looked directly at another person?

  The long raised scar down his cheek shocked her. Only human, it said. But the cold cast of his eyes disabused her of that notion quickly. No understanding, no trace of pity. Uncontrollable shivers racked her body.

  Impossibly, he frowned further.

  She was an idiot. God, she knew better than to look directly at him, to show her fear without prompting. Hadn’t they taught her? Over and over again. The memories flashed.

  She needed to show him that she hadn’t meant it as defiance. He wanted her on the bed, that much was clear, but based on his tacit displeasure, he wanted something else from her. She couldn’t ask, not without making everything worse. Her mind scrabbled desperately for some way to show her deference, her subservience, without words. Knowing it would fail but desperate, she bowed again atop the rumpled sheets.

  Rough hands tightened on her arms once more and flung her back against the pillows.

  “Stop that.” His voice rumbled through, over her.

  She relaxed her body across the bed. Let him do with her what he would. Sex, violence. Her mind reached for that faraway place where none of this mattered. Where none of it was really happening anyway.

  But when he put his thick hand on her ankle, panic rose like bile.

  There had never been a more innocent place to touch her than her ankle, and the light pressure was more of a caress than anything, but it hit her like a slap. Her leg jerked, shaking his hand off of her. She stared in horror at her mutinous leg, shocked that she could ever do something so stupid.

  The insults of her Masters played in her head. Disobedient slut. Willful little cunt. Worthless whore. God, she would deserve every lash he meted out.

  “Stay,” he said then left the room.

  Gone to get something to hit her with, ties to hold her down, probably. Pain awaited her, that message rang clearly in every stark plane of his face and thick muscle banding his body.

  She had precious seconds alone with which to get her bearings. The last thing she remembered was being asleep in her cell. There had been extra activity for the past couple of days. While she got her daily whipping, one of her Masters had talked to another.

  Who do you think’s going to get her?

  Some rich fuck. Lucky bastard too. This one takes it like a dream.

  They all do, tied down like that.

  She’s quiet. The rest of them make a fucking racket. I hear the goddamned screams in my sleep.

  She had been sold. The realization settled into her stomach with dread and resignation. That was what they were talking about. Wondering who would buy her.

  The thought of leaving her cell terrified her, but it was already done. She couldn’t remember the transport, but that was probably just as well. She assumed it wouldn’t be pleasant, but then, she couldn’t remember her arrival at the compound either. All she knew was training.

  At some point, her previous life had slipped away from her, like an old skin that no longer fit. She knew better than to try to remember. If whatever she had known or believed before threatened her survival in this life, she was better off without it.

  The women who clung to their old identities suffered more. They fought until their last breath, finally mastered by their own stubbornness. What was the cost of sucking a cock or licking a boot when compared to life? No, she wanted to survive.

  The men had whips and restraints. The only weapon she had was utter obedience.

  Another thought occurred to her. Maybe they had given her something to knock her out or tamper with her memory. Gratitude welled inside her. They always took care of her. Sometimes it hurt, but she surely deserved it. Every lash to her skin raised a mirroring lash of self-recrimination and guilt.

  The doorframe gaped, empty. Her Master had been gone a long time now.

  The thought of his return terrified her, but the alternative was even worse. Maybe she was too much trouble for him, and he wouldn’t want her anymore. What if he wasn’t getting some painful implement to punish her? What if he was contacting her old Masters at the compound, demanding they take her back?

  Her stomach clenched painfully. She didn’t know him, whether he would be cruel or merciful, but if she were returned to her old Masters, they would kill her.

  She had barely made it through some of the harsher beatings. It was one of the reasons she was always obedient from early on. There wasn’t a lot of rope in her to begin with, she couldn’t afford for the Masters to burn through it.

  She wanted to live. That had become her mantra, something she repeated to remind herself. Or maybe to convince herself that it was still true. On the bad days she felt like a ghost, going through the motions long after her death because she refused to accept it.

  Thuds on the floorboards signaled the return of her Master.

  He didn’t have a cane or whip with him, and that lent credence to the worry that he was getting rid of her, but she was too distracted by the food. He carried a glass of water and a plate with fragrant bread. Her stomach grumbled. She cringed in fear of reprisal and a small amount of embarrassment.

  He set the plate down in front of her and pushed the glass into her hands. “Drink.”

  It seemed unbearably luxurious, compared to the greasy scraps she was accustomed to. This room too, with its plain wood furniture and open window. Her new cage, gilded with cleanliness. She ached to keep it.

  The cool water soothed her, revived her. He replaced the empty glass with a chunk of warm, crusty bread. She gobbled it up like the ravening animal she was. He tore off another piece from the plate and handed it to her, continuing to feed her from his hand until the plate was empty.

  Warmth settled in her core and spread to her limbs, sated by
both the sustenance and his kindness. No dog bowl held fetid water. No mealy scraps picked off the floor. Charity like this was unheard of, but she thought she understood the message. If she pleased him, this could be hers.

  Whatever he wanted, she would do. She would have done it anyway, because he was her Master. She paid her keep with obedience. She might earn reprieve from the pain with obeisance. But this generosity came freely, and gratitude suffused her. Maybe he liked her.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Her heart sank. They must not have told him about her. So much for pleasing him.

  Bracing herself, she slowly shook her head.

  He grasped her chin and raised her head. Prompted by his touch, she raised her gaze to meet his. His eyes flickered, as if a dam barely leashed something within.

  She flinched.

  His fingers tightened, not enough to bruise. “Tell me.”

  Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. Nothing ever came out.

  She couldn’t remember her name, but that wasn’t the problem. She could have told him that it was “slave,” or if she could manage without sounding precocious, asked him what he wanted it to be. She could have explained that she couldn’t remember anything before her captivity.

  The real problem was she couldn’t talk.

  He sighed. “Do you have someone I can call?”

  Oh God, he really was sending her back. The ultimate failure as a slave—rejection—and she’d managed to achieve it within an hour.

  No. She would never survive the punishment. And besides, she liked this Master with his gentle touch and cozy bed. It was presumptuous to think she had a choice, blasphemous even, but there it was.

  For as long as she could remember, which albeit wasn’t long, she had wanted to be owned. Not in the compound amid the huddle of slaves and litany of trainers but by one Master. Now she stood on a precipice between a generic slave and one with hope. She wanted this Master.

  She flipped through the ways she knew to please and placate, all of them sexual. Her body was torn to bits, not pretty or sexy right now, if it ever was. She had no feminine wiles – none. Her body was too skinny, all the trainers berated her for it. Scrawny, weak.