by Kitty Thomas
Stunned silence followed, and suddenly she was aware of just how unprepared she was for living with another master on the island. Lucas had never given her any standard protocol to follow, and she had no idea how to speak to this new variable. She looked at the trees again. She was aware that she was crunched up against the window with a good foot of space between her and her new master.
He chuckled. “Well, I know you speak.” Since they’d gotten into the car, his voice had remained gentle. Nothing like what she’d experienced in the dungeon when he’d warned her against struggling. A part of her wanted to believe in this, that the sunshine and birds all somehow forecasted a bright new beginning, the kind of life she’d thought she was getting when she came to Eleu. But believing and then falling so far again . . . Hope wasn’t worth the price.
Then his warm hand was in hers, and he was pulling her close against him. He smelled like spices, rich and dark. Her ear pressed against the middle of his chest, and she could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Grace couldn’t help tensing, afraid that after having been in the dungeon she was messing up his suit. She worried she’d be punished for it. Perhaps he wanted to lower her guard so he could hurt her more.
Lucas had done that for the first ten minutes as they’d stood in the entryway. He’d let her take in the extensiveness of his wealth, let her hope for one moment that somehow she’d share in all of that, that she’d be his pampered pet. And then they’d gone to the basement with the cell that was to be her home.
On occasion, he’d taken her upstairs, mainly to his bedroom, but she was never allowed to sleep there. He’d wanted to remind her of what she couldn’t have, what only he had the right to enjoy.
The rest of the ride was quiet. She was surprised when Asher’s hand never strayed to touch her. The cloak wasn’t much of a barrier, but he didn’t attempt to breech it, not even when the fabric fell open. Did he not want her? She’d only had the old distorted mirror in the dungeon, so it was possible that eight months of not eating well and being kept out of the light had made her intolerable to look at. But why would he have bought her if that was the case?
Perhaps he had other plans. Maybe she wasn’t to be used for sex at all. Maybe he needed a maid.
“We’re here.”
She looked out the window to see a house as grand as Lucas’s had been, and she wondered what dark, dank dungeon she’d be introduced to next.
***
Grace followed him through the house as he gave her the tour. She knew he watched for her reaction, but how excited could she get about nice things she couldn’t really touch or enjoy? She supposed she should embrace this brief bit of warmth and light for the few minutes it lasted. Asher told her about the history of the house as they went, but she remained silent, following along behind him, holding the cloak firmly around her.
Aside from the driver, she noticed one other servant in the place, a tall, lanky, middle-aged man with blond hair and kind eyes that had lines in the corners. When they reached the kitchen, he introduced himself.
“I’m William. If you need anything, just ask.”
She looked quickly to Asher, but he just nodded. She had no idea what to do with that. If she needed anything? Was he serious? Was he planning on bringing her room service in the dungeon?
“Does she speak, sir?” William asked, confusion creasing his brow.
“Indeed she does. Just hasn’t worked up to it yet. Give her time. It’s new. She’s scared.”
Eight months ago, she would have been annoyed by even the idea of someone speaking in front of her as if she wasn’t in the room. But that was then.
“Will you need me to prepare breakfast?” William asked.
“Not today,” Asher said. “And I may let Grace take over some of the cooking.”
“Very good, sir.” William made a little bow and left them alone in the kitchen.
Grace stared at him. He knew her name. He’d used her name. That word that had become so disconnected, finally reattaching itself to her. For one brief moment she felt like a person. She might have enjoyed the feeling for longer, but Asher was leading her through the house again.
As they walked down a long hall, she berated herself. He’d just said her name. It wasn’t as if he’d called her that directly. It didn’t mean anything except that she’d become so piteous that hearing her name cross another person’s lips was suddenly cause for celebration.
He took her through a study with dark wood paneling and walls of books. He pulled one out. She looked away when she saw the title of a kinky erotic novel. She wanted to forget she had a kink that could ever lead her into a situation like this. The bookcase shifted a little to reveal a door and steps going down.
Oh. The dungeon. Now it begins.
He was looking back at her now and seemed disappointed by something yet again. She could already see him returning her to Lucas and demanding his money back. She shuddered, thinking of what would become of her if that happened. Whatever the risk with Asher, she couldn’t displease him enough to get sent back. At this point, either of them might kill her.
He held his hand out and she took it. Her feet were cold as he led her down the stone steps to the dungeon. It was nicer than the one Lucas had. There were several chests around the room as well as high-end bondage equipment. But even if it was nicer, it still had a cold, stone floor. And it still didn’t have a window.
How long could she live without sunlight? Weren’t all living things supposed to have sunshine? She’d grown pale the past few months, and she suspected she had a vitamin deficiency, partly due to how little she was fed, and partly due to being locked away all day in a windowless cell.
He let go of her hand and stepped back to let her explore the room. Her eyes fell on a bullwhip hanging on the wall. She took a few steps back when she saw it, just out in the open like it was his favorite. Asher’s body stopped her retreat as she backed into him. His arms went around her, making her feel claustrophobic.
Instinctively she started to struggle, but almost the moment she did, his words rang out in her head: Do. Not. Fight me. And she went lax in his arms.
“Easy, kitten. I’m not going to use that on you.”
Yeah, right. Then why was it down here? She wouldn’t ask the question, of course. It had been ages since she’d communicated in any open way. Free verbal expression had been taken from her, leaving her only with her thoughts, running around and around in her head like a hamster on a wheel.
A part of her wished he’d give her some kind of speech rules, so she’d know what she could say and when. Some kind of any rules. This strange gentleness was too unnerving and uncertain. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to grow bored with the ruse of being kind. For the real Asher to come out, the one she’d seen evidence of in Lucas’s dungeon with those angry eyes.
He released her and his footsteps receded, starting up the steps. “Come,” he said. “You don’t want to stay here all day. It’s too cold, especially with no shoes.”
“What?” Somehow in her head she was going to manage to keep her mouth shut and not say a single word until she knew exactly what he expected from her, but the shock was too much. She’d assumed once they descended the stairs into the dungeon that the tour was over and he’d leave her there.
“So. She speaks.” If not for the humor in his voice, she likely would have begged and cried and made a complete fool of herself.
Of course she wasn’t staying in the dungeon right now. He’d said something about her cooking. He wanted a maid and a cook. He hadn’t bought her for sex. He’d bought a domestic slave. He probably hadn’t had to pay much, as eager as Lucas had seemed to sell her. Or maybe Lucas couldn’t get much for her. A part of her was relieved he seemed to only want her for domestic duties, but another part was aware of just how far removed this was from the life she’d thought she was coming to, back when she’d been much more naïve.
“I’ll show you your room now.”
“Roo
m?”
“Two whole words now,” he teased her. “I think we’re making progress already.”
Grace followed him up the stairs, questions spinning through her head over whether he could possibly mean that she’d have a real room. It turned out to be on the second floor, across from his. In the grand scheme, it seemed less like a room and more like a studio apartment. It certainly wasn’t like her room had been in her apartment before Eleu.
It wasn’t set up as a bedroom, more of a sitting room. There was furniture, though no bed, and a closet, and a little bathroom. The carpet was soft and lovely. The room was warm and tastefully decorated with a vanity table, mirror, and bottles of perfumes and little containers of makeup along one wall. Another wall boasted a television. Sunlight filtered through windows and glass French doors that opened out onto a balcony with a lounger and table.
Please, God, let this not be a trick. Lucas had never gone this far to make her believe. She couldn’t imagine the cruelty of a person who would go to this much trouble only to rip it all away. But Lucas had spent a whole year whispering naughty things to her over webcam, telling her all sorts of stories about what her life would be like, maintaining it so long that she’d believed what had seemed like honest eyes on the few occasions he’d shown her his face on the screen.
In hindsight, he’d given her so little opportunity to truly read him. He’d controlled their interactions from afar to a degree where she’d seen only what he’d carefully orchestrated for her to see. Was Asher doing the same thing? Would he build her hopes and her trust in him just so he could rip them down and watch and laugh as she cried? It seemed a high probability. Still, she couldn’t help the feeling of gratitude that rushed into her, even for what was probably a short illusion.
If this could be true, she didn’t even mind not having a bed. “If this is real . . . thank you.” She couldn’t help the tear that slipped down her cheek.
He cocked his head to the side and regarded her as if trying to determine what was going on in her head. The part of her that hoped this wasn’t a lie, wished he could read her thoughts, because she couldn’t imagine a situation in which she could ever trust him enough to truly express herself. No matter what he did, there was always another shoe that could fall.
“Get cleaned up and dressed. You can wear whatever you’re comfortable in. There are clothes in the closets and PJs in the drawer. We aren’t leaving the house today so whatever you want to wear right now is fine. Hurry, though. I want you to help me in the kitchen. Twenty minutes, all right?” He pointed, indicating the clock.
Grace stood there for a full minute as the second hand crawled over the numbers on the wall. It was too much for her brain to process. Clothes. Really? She tried not to get her hopes up too high. It could all be, and probably was, spank material slave-wear. It was unlikely she’d ever wear anything normal again. Still, being allowed some choice in something was . . . novel. There had been a time when she’d believed she’d wanted all choices removed from her.
But that hadn’t been true. When confronted with a truly powerless reality, the idea had been hot and exciting, and perhaps if it had been a good man, someone who hadn’t been intent on making her his torture toy in the literal sense, it would have been different. But the reality she’d been given instead drove home how valuable some freedoms were. Even the little ones.
“Grace?”
Her eyes flew to his, torn between the extreme gratitude of being addressed by name, as if she were a person, and fear that she’d be punished for standing there, gaping like a fish. Think when you’re alone, idiot. Not when he’s standing right here. Before she had time to work herself into a real panic, he spoke again.
“Do you understand what I just told you?” His voice was kind still, no anger apparent.
“Yes, Master,” she squeaked out. She looked at the ground, unable to stand seeing what a devastating disappointment she must be. She didn’t look up again until he’d left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
When she was alone, she went to the walk-in closet and gaped at the contents. What? Either he was fucking with her head or she was dreaming. This couldn’t be real. She wasn’t sure which thought was more disturbing, that he was going to so much trouble to make her feel safe only to take it all away again, or that she might still be lying on the cold stone floor in Lucas’s dungeon, dreaming all this.
The clothes were all normal. Stuff she might even have bought herself before the island. Grace closed her eyes against the vague memories of a time when she’d shopped. She hadn’t thought before she’d stepped on that plane about never going shopping again. The simple idea of never picking out or buying her own clothes hadn’t entered the fog of kink in her consciousness. She’d been too wrapped up in the fantasy and unconcerned with the practicalities, which she’d assumed would work themselves out.
Opening the drawers, she found actual pajamas. Pajama pants and cami tops. Not slut wear. Not slave wear. Of course, why would he dress her like a whore if that wasn’t why he’d bought her? Still, William seemed to have a uniform. Why didn’t she have a uniform? And why was he giving her the option of cooking and cleaning in pajamas to begin with? She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it.
And how did he know her sizes? She had a vague memory of Lucas measuring her soon after she’d arrived, and noting the information down on some papers. Had that information been passed to Asher when he bought her? It must have. Otherwise she couldn’t comprehend how he’d know her bra size and what size jeans to get. Though everything might be a little big. She’d lost some weight since arriving.
She picked pajamas. Though she was scared it was a trick, she couldn’t resist the comfort of simple PJs. The bathroom was as lush and wonderful as the other room. She dropped the cloak once she was inside behind the locked door.
She’d hesitated about locking it. The idea of having the power to lock someone out, instead of being the one locked in was a new and exciting concept. She was afraid that if Asher came upstairs and found the door locked, she’d be in trouble she didn’t want to think about. Her eyes drifted to the door in question.
The anxiety came over her in a wave, making her feel clammy, hot, cold. Her skin felt tight stretched across her, and she had to unlock the door. Just because she had a lock, didn’t mean she was allowed to use it. And God help her if she did and he found out about it. Once the door was unlocked again, the anxiety receded until she was back to the normal, general level of fear she experienced all the time.
Grace didn’t recall what it felt like not to be constantly afraid. But there was fear and there was panic. The former, when it was dull and constant, could be coped with. It could become the new normal, so you couldn’t really remember what you’d felt like before. But the latter––there wasn’t an acceptance for that level of fear.
She peeled the medical gauze and tape off her back and looked in the mirror. Everything had closed up at least, and it hurt a little less today. But those scars in between . . . She wiped the tears away when they started falling. If he only wanted a domestic servant, it wouldn’t matter, and she’d be safe. But if he decided he wanted something else, when he saw those permanent marks on her, it would be over.
***
When she got to the kitchen, she found him standing behind the center island. While she was getting ready, he’d changed clothes, too. Now he was wearing a pair of pajama pants of his own. His upper body was bare and a study in sculpted perfection.
There was a time when the only thing she would have been able to think about was someone like this fucking or spanking her or ordering her around. She would have had an almost uncontrollable erotic compulsion to kneel at his feet, breathless with the desire to obey him. She wasn’t sure what to feel right now.
He didn’t seem to be an early riser. He must have gotten up earlier in order to come get her, even bypassing breakfast for the occasion.
Asher had taken out several bowls and spoons and pans. He smiled at her
and she looked away, still unsure what he wanted. How was she supposed to act? Lucas had treated her like a prisoner from moment one. Her new master seemed to be treating her like a houseguest. At least for now. It was so confusing that she felt completely out of her element and unprepared for life in this new house.
“Grab a knife and dice up the tomatoes for the omelets,” he said, pointing a spoon. He seemed to be mixing up a batch of muffins.
Her mouth watered at the sight of the fresh food, and she tried not to want it too much. He’d left a couple of smallish tomatoes and a knife beside a cutting board on the other end of the island from where he was mixing. Why was he letting her near a knife?
Briefly, a fantasy unfolded of slitting his throat and running. But it died there. The question that couldn’t be stopped was––And what then? It wasn’t as if he were the only thing that stood between her and freedom. What the fuck would she even do with freedom now?
Hesitantly, she moved toward the food. She stopped for a moment, unsure if they’d been washed off and if she was supposed to do that or just start chopping.
Batter was poured into muffin tins while she stood in indecision, afraid he’d yell at her if she did the wrong thing. He slid the pan into the oven and looked up. “You do understand the dicing concept, yes?”
“Yes, Master.” She made a choice and started cutting the tomatoes into cubes. When he didn’t complain, she relaxed a little. She actually missed cooking. After a moment, she was so involved in the activity that she didn’t notice when he stepped behind her. His hand brushed against her ass, and she jumped, causing the knife to slip.
Grace backed away, holding her finger, a hiss of pain escaping her mouth, trying not to scream. This was bad. Very bad. He’d tried to touch her, and she’d pulled away from him. So stupid. Her finger was starting to throb but she was hyper-alert, her body protectively huddled for fear of whatever was coming next.
