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“How is the anti-depressant working for you?” Dr. Martinez asks, finally revealing why she’s really here.
I expected this. She asks me a dozen questions about my moods, not giving her thoughts away as I answer. When I try to evade a particularly uncomfortable question, she gives me a no-nonsense look and assures me she’s only here to help. I tell her more than I probably should about how scared I feel all the time. How the anxiety never full retreats and the anger that is a constant bubble inside my gut waiting for the right moment to explode.
“I think we need to bring in a specialist,” she says. “I’m concerned because the medication should be helping, and it doesn’t seem like it is. Especially considering what happened the other day.”
I flush with embarrassment. Of course, Matthew told her about what happened. He’s worried about me. They all are.
“Dr. Klein has agreed to come tomorrow and chat with you. I’m sure he will be able to help find a medication that will help.” She pats my arm. I’m able to keep myself from flinching away from her touch, but only just. It’s been harder to allow casual physical contact.
Hannah and Matthew are the only two that don’t make my skin crawl. It makes me feel guilty that Slade and Kisten can no longer touch me without me jumping. I hate it. The easiness between us has been erased somehow. I still trust them both implicitly, but something in my mind refuses to settle around them.
“Take care of yourself, Rose. And please be honest with Dr. Klein. He only wants to help.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding in. Dr. Martinez didn’t say it, but it’s obvious Dr. Klein is a psychiatrist. The thought makes me nauseous. I have no desire to bare my soul to a stranger. After she leaves, I wander around the club, sulking. I know both Doc and Matthew are only looking out for me, but I can’t help feeling a bit betrayed. Feeling I’m crazy myself is one thing, having the people I care about point out my craziness is different.
I can admit to myself that my moods have been shifting all over the place. I really thought I was doing a good job of hiding the instability. I spent years hiding behind masks, and something about being here with Matthew makes my masks weaker. The truth shows through the cracks, and it scares me. I don’t want anyone seeing the ugliness that lingers in the dark parts of me.
I’ve spent years keeping it buried, hidden deep inside. I’m constantly aware of it. The darkness feeds off of me. Sucking down everything good until I’m a dry husk of a person. It has been with me so long that I don’t recall a time when the darkness didn’t exist. It’s been my constant companion since long before Red House.
My masks kept me safe from people seeing too much. Knowing that Matthew has seen through the cracks to the darkness within terrifies me. What happens when he realizes just how broken I am? Will he finally realize how unworthy of his love I am? Worst of all, without him, the darkness will consume me. I’ve never depended on a person to hold it at bay before, but that’s exactly what Matthew does.
Selfishly, I want to keep leaning on him. I want him to sit in the darkness with me when it becomes too much to bear. I hate myself for that. He deserves so much better than my madness. No matter what happens, he’s right there taking care of me. All my days at Black Rose have shown me that it’s a dominant thing.
Matthew and I haven’t had any sort of official conversation about it, but we’ve slowly shifted into a relationship where he’s the dominant, and I’m submissive. Not in a sexual way, and he doesn’t spank me or anything, but he does take care of me in all the ways a good dom takes care of his sub. At first, I questioned if I was even a real submissive. I balked at the very idea of me wanting to give up control to anyone after what I’ve been through. Still, I’ve found a certain level of security in giving Matthew control.
Things that should be simple, everyday decisions stress me out. Picking restaurants, shopping—even though I’m restricted to online shopping at the moment for security purposes—and sometimes what clothes to wear. All the choices overwhelm me. Part of that is I lived so many years without any choice, but another part is that I like when Matthew swoops in and takes care of it.
What people don’t realize about healthy BDSM relationships is that they are a partnership. Yes, one person has the illusion of control, but they only have as much control as the submissive is willing to surrender. There’s freedom in surrender, and I’m only just starting to understand it.
I spent years at the mercy of others. Having my every choice stripped from me. Debased and treated worse than an animal. I hated it. I couldn’t wait until the day I would be free. With that freedom came a world of possibilities and decisions. So many that it overwhelmed me. As much as I wanted to be free, I almost hated the freedom. When Matthew took charge, I could breathe again.
“There you are, sweetheart. I’ve been looking all over for you.” Matthew’s relieved voice startles me out of my inner turmoil. “What are you doing in here?”
Without a conscious thought, I wandered into the recovery suite I used after Damon beat me. I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and worry it with my teeth. Concern flashes through Matthew’s eyes. He closes the short distance between us and wraps me in his big strong arms.
I pull away, giving him a smile, hoping it passes for a genuine one. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. Dr. Martinez seems happy with how I’ve healed up, and If I keep using the salve, the scars should almost fade away completely.” I avoid mentioning the other stuff we talked about.
“You talked about Dr. Klein, right?” Matthew asks.
I have to battle down the prickle of anger that wants to escape. I remind myself that he only wants what’s best for me. He tells me as much. I just nod because I don’t trust myself to not take my frustration out on him.
He pulls me back into his arms, gently massaging my back. I swear the man has a sixth sense when it comes to my moods. The anger leaks out, and contentment comes to the forefront. His perceptiveness is one of the things I love about him. He doesn’t need me to hash out every little thing with him because he just knows.
He’s fierce in his protectiveness of me. He won’t let anyone hurt me, including me. “Are you mad?”
I shake my head and sigh. “Not mad. Frustrated. More with myself than you. I hate that I can’t just be normal. I hate feeling defective… weak.”
He kisses my lips fiercely. “You are not defective. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You’ve been traumatized. Anyone would struggle in your shoes. And you are not weak. You’re the strongest person I know. It takes balls of steel to agree to recognize that you need help.”
The rational part of my brain hears the truth of his words. It even makes sense on some level, but I can’t reconcile it in my head. The irrational part of my brain works hard to stir up anger at Matthew for overstepping and arranging for a psychiatrist to come speak with me without talking to me about it first.
No one should be forced into therapy. My mind picks that to focus on, and the anger rages back to the surface. I pull completely out of his arms and pace the length of the room. I have too much built-up nervous energy, every second that I spend thinking about the shrink and Matthew going behind my back to set it up, the more my anger grows.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MATTHEW
I knew this was going to upset her. It isn’t that I wanted to go behind her back to set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, but I worried that she’d deny that there was a problem. She would laugh that fake laugh and tell me everything is fine and not to worry. I didn’t anticipate her anger, though. I figured she would be sad, not angry.
