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She's not intimidated by me. She's able to stand up to me and not even flinch. None of my other subs would have dared to repeatedly argue with me, even the one I nicknamed Brat.
I've always known Blakely was different. I suppose it's what drew me to her, but nothing prepared me for her insubordinate behavior or how out of control it would make me feel.
And the last thing a Dom should ever be is out of control. Irrevocable mistakes can get made, and subs end up hurt. It's irresponsible and dangerous.
So she's got me questioning everything I used to take pride in knowing, but I'm unsure how to stop it.
A bolt of lightning streaks across the ocean, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn off the cold water, dry myself off, and brush past Blakely. I go into my closet and select a T-shirt and a pair of joggers.
Blakely's glare never leaves me. I can feel it burning along my skin.
I pull my shirt over my head, then step into the joggers.
"Are you going to ignore me all day?" she asks, her voice full of irritation and hurt.
My heart pounds harder. I take a lungful of air and lock eyes with her. "Is there something you need, Blakely?"
She pins her eyebrows together, tilts her head, and crosses her arms.
The defiance I loved at the start now scares the shit out of me. I should have control over it by now, and I don't. Everyone at the club will see it tonight. Only a few hours stand between us, then they'll take her from me, and I'm clueless about what to do about it.
I step in front of her. "I'm waiting for an answer."
She lifts her chin, but all I hear is hurt and fear in her voice when she asks, "Is this your way of letting me go?"
My pulse pounds between my ears. "Meaning?"
"Are we not going to the club tonight?"
"Yes, we are. Be ready to go by six."
She blinks hard, her eyes glistening, and looks away.
Since I'm a dick, I ask, "Do you have another question?"
She meets my gaze. "Are you going to tell me what I'm expected to do tonight?"
Every cell in my body seems to throb with hot blood. Even she knows she's not ready. I hate myself for putting us in this position. I debate how to answer and finally reply, "Do what you're told. Don't argue with me. Trust me and only me."
She stares at me.
My anger at myself flares. I accuse, "But you can't do that, can you?"
Her face hardens.
"Like I told you last week, tonight's in your hands," I declare, then brush past her and go into my office. I shut the door, then quietly bang my head on the wall, hating myself for no longer knowing what direction to lead her.
I take the seat at my desk, open up my laptop, and try to get lost in work. It's Saturday, and while I could have gone to the L.A. office, I didn't want to make the drive twice. But I soon regret it when the sound of the piano and Blakely's emotion-filled voice hit my ears.
I listen to her for hours, unable to leave the room, fearing she'll stop playing. When she finally does, it's past two.
I venture out of the office and find her staring out the window. It's still raining, and the waves are several feet high.
"Have you eaten today?" I question.
She spins toward me. "I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat. It's going to be a long night," I inform her.
