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Chapter 50
DARREN
Present
Between the running mascara and my cum oozing out of her mouth, Bridget’s face is a mess. Part of me wants to fall to my knees and kiss away her tears. But I steel my nerves. This woman ran out on me and is hiding my son from me. Even now, after the torment that I’ve put her through, she won’t admit to it. What is wrong with her? She lose her marbles after Amy’s death?
I pull up my pants and remove the clamps from her nipples. I want to give her an orgasm to wash away the pain. I’ve always felt the more a sub endures, the more she should be rewarded. But I want my son. I can’t make Bridget take me back, but if I have him, I’ll have a part of her. For some reason, he wasn’t at the house. I had thought to take both of them at the same time back to California, but after waiting a while without my son showing up, I decided to leave with Bridget first. One of my men is camped outside the house in Denver and is supposed to inform me the instant he sees my son, but I haven’t heard anything so far.
Looking over her body stretched across the table, I feel a stab of guilt. I just put the mother of my child through some serious sexual torment. Nothing beyond what she can handle, but still. She at least deserves an orgasm. As angry as I am with her, I want to hold her. I can’t remember ever feeling this conflicted before.
I decide to untie her from the table. I leave the rope around her wrists but make the mistake of taking my eyes off her when I loosen the end of the rope from the leg of the table. As I’m about to straighten, a blade is jammed into my bicep.
I stare in surprise at the switchblade sticking out of my arm. I don’t know if that’s what Bridget intended or if she was aiming for my heart and missed.
Bridget scrambles off the table and bolts for the stairs, but she trips and stumbles to the ground. She never was the best at walking in heels. Swiftly, I stride over, grab her by the back of her dress, and drag her over to a chair in the far corner. She kicks and claws, her heel catching me good in the shin. I bend her, face down, over the side of the chair, trapping her arms beneath her body, and use the weight of my body on top of hers to hold her down. She continues to struggle while I tie each thigh to a leg of the chair. Then I grab the extra rope dangling from her wrists, loop it under the chair, and tie it around her neck. If she tries to go anywhere, she’s going to have to take the chair with her.
I sit down against the wall and pull the blade from my arm, releasing more blood. It didn’t go in too deep but starts to sting. I take off my shirt and cover the wound, applying pressure.
Looking over at her, I ask, “You just try to fucking kill me, Bridge?”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles between sniffs. “I wasn’t trying to.”
I can’t really blame her, but I’m more pissed off than ever. I snort. “You expect me to believe you?”
I tear my shirt into strips, which I use to bandage my arm. The wound feels like a hundred needles poking into me. But I’m not done with Bridget. And part of me welcomes the pain. Now we’re both suffering. Together.
I wonder if she would kill me if she had the chance? The thought that she might hurts more than the stabbing. And angers me even more.
I get up. “You know, there was a time when I would have believed anything you told me. A lot’s changed since then, hasn’t it?”
“Darren—”
“Shut up. You used to be a good sub, a good... What happened?”
She doesn’t reply at first.
I kick the leg of the chair and reiterate, “What happened?”
“I made a mistake. I-I want to be a good sub for you.”
“Do good subs stab their masters with knives?”
“I got scared. I wasn’t sure what you were going to do next.”
“Oh, I’ll show you.”
I get the briefcase and set it before her. “See anything you like here?”
“The wand,” she murmurs.
“What else?”
“The flogger.”
“We did that.”
“The, um, anal plug.”
