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The night is eerily black, illuminated by the occasional flicker of gunfire. He moves stealthily through the shadows, every sense on heightened alert. The air is thick with tension. Adrenaline pumps through his body. His heart pounds, echoing in his ears as he navigates through the rubble-torn streets.
He hears the enemy before he sees them. He presses against a dilapidated wall, blending into the night as he strains to decipher their words. As he edges closer, time seems to slow. They are huddled around a small campfire, their faces hidden as they murmur in low, guttural voices.
His training takes over as he moves with the precision of a predator closing in on its prey. He draws his weapon and aims. With the press of the trigger, he finds his marks with deadly accuracy, one after the other.
As he comes closer, he nudges one of the fallen with the toe of his combat boot. As the bloodied corpse rolls over, horror trickles through his veins, mingled with disbelief and shock. It’s a little girl, maybe ten years old. Panicked, he looks at the faces of the others—all children, their small, shattered bodies spread out before him, their dirty, ravaged faces blank with death.
Falling to his knees, he lifts his head and howls with grief…
Damon bolted upright, heart hammering, body drenched with sweat. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, who was beside him or what the hell she was babbling.
“Oh, thank god,” she breathed. “You were crying out in your sleep. I couldn’t wake you. Are you okay?”
Damon stared for a long moment in incomprehension. As his brain slowly clicked back on, he recognized Ellen.
Her eyes were wide with concern, her cuffed hands clasped together. “You’re shaking. You poor darling.”
Damon turned away, horribly embarrassed she’d seen him in such a vulnerable moment. Damn it. This was why he always sent his scene partners home after play.
He was angry at himself for letting down his guard, even if he’d been asleep. Though he knew it was irrational, he should have kept a tighter rein on his fucking nightmares. Ellen did not need to witness his lingering PTSD.
He ran his hands through his hair and over his face, as if he could scrub away the nightmares in the process. “It was nothing,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “Just a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke you. Please, go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure?” She didn’t look at all convinced. “Let me get you some water.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. He rolled from the bed to his feet.
When he turned back to her, her hurt look reminded him she was only expressing natural concern. He forced himself to speak more gently.
“Really, it’s okay. I have nightmares sometimes, left over from my time in special ops. I’m sorry you were subjected to it.” He managed something he hoped approximated a smile. “Go back to sleep. That’s an order.”
Turning on his heel, he made his escape.
Chapter 17
When Ellen opened her eyes the next morning, she was alone. Had he ever come back to bed? That must have been some nightmare. When she’d finally managed to wake him, the confusion and stark anguish on his face had been heartbreaking. But when she’d tried to comfort him, it had been as if a wall had slammed down between them, shutting her out.
He was such a strange mixture of openness and reserve. He’d been almost playful during their trip to the supermarket. When they’d taken their walk outside, he’d been so easy with her.
While she adored his dominance and total control, that vanilla time together had added something new to their interaction. It had given her hope that something more might be happening between them, something that might last beyond their week-long contract.
Stay in the moment, she reminded herself. They still had four days together. So far, each day had been more intense than the last. She was excited to learn what he had planned for today.
Just as she was about to roll from the bed to find Master Damon, he appeared in the doorway.
“You’re up. Good.”
She wanted to ask why he’d never come back to bed. She wanted to know if he was all right after last night. She held her tongue, however, not sure her questions would be welcome.
She smiled. “Good morning, Sir.”
“Good morning, slave.”
He moved into the room and sat beside her. Reaching for her wrists, he unclipped her sleeping cuffs and set them on the nightstand. He got to his feet and looked down at her.
“I want you to shower and groom before breakfast. When you’re done, you will present yourself to me in the living room for inspection. Then we’re going to discuss the topic of erotic humiliation.”
Without another word, he left the room.
