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I lift my shaking hands and his smile deepens with approval, but his eyes are still completely devoid of emotion. He wraps the strip around each wrist, tightly enough the cotton cuts into my skin, and then binds my hands together. The ends trail like tattered white flags down my forearms.
My breathing quickens, frantic little pants that will make me pass out if I can’t get a grip on my fear. My muscles are so tense that my limbs keep moving sporadically, twitches I can’t control. He wraps another strip around my neck, and even tied loosely, the cotton reminds me of his collar. It settles me a little, enough that I don’t hyperventilate.
Gently, he pushes me down to lie on my back on the table where we shared our first meal together. “You’re so beautiful. Like a rare, priceless butterfly fluttering against the glass, unable to understand why you’re trapped. Why anyone would hold something of such beauty against its will…”
“It’s not against my will.”
His smile falters, though I meant to reassure us both with my words. “If I were a better man, I’dorderyou to walk out my door and never come back. Then you’d be safe, away from me.”
Instantly, fear and fury rage inside me, a hurricane of emotion that makes me tremble. “No,” I breathe out shakily. “You can’t do that to me. You wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
It’s a simple word but carries a multitude of questions with it. Why him? Why do I still trust him? Why do I still want him even with his ugly secret exposed? Why do I need him so much? Why would it break me as nothing else has managed to do, if he forced me to leave?
“I love you.”
He flinches as if I jabbed his blade straight into his heart. “You can’t love…this. Maybe Charlie, the man who brought Sheba to your clinic for months to slowly gain your trust. Maybe even the sadist, because he hurts you so well. But not this. Not me.”
Most people would think I’m nuts. They wouldn’t understand. But for me, submission isn’t an act, a role, a scene I play out for a limited amount of time and then walk away. It isn’t just a mind game for a brief period of time and then it’s over. Submission is my whole being.
The first night, he gripped my chin, peered into the shattered remnants I put back together, and claimed that broken chalice for himself with these big, merciless hands. He treasures me, flaws and all. For that alone, I’ll love him forever.
Whoever he chooses to be.
I close my eyes and let go, sinking into complete submission. The helpless little muscular twitches still. My breathing evens out. Acceptance eases my fear into something less sharp and horrible. Still scary, still dangerous, but this is my Master. He will do with me what he wants, and I will endure. Gladly.
I will give him everything he asks. My pain. My suffering. My tears. My pleasure. My blood. Anything he wants, as long as he won’t regret it later.
Because I’d rather be dead than walk away from this man.
23
The blade is cold against my cheek.
Lying with my arms stretched over my head, I don’t try to avoid his teasing touches. He trails the flat edge down to my throat and slips the tip beneath the collar of my sweatshirt. The jerk of the blade makes me cry out. Material tugs on my neck, lifting me up as he cuts through the fleece. He takes his time, deliberately tormenting me with brushes of the steel against my skin.
“It’s rather like skinning a deer,” he says in a conversational tone that sends chills down my spine. “First, a nice big slit down the belly.”
The sound of tearing material makes sweat bead on my upper lip. Air tickles my breasts and stomach. I didn’t bother with a bra, since we weren’t going out on New Year’s Day with a storm on its way. I’m exposed, but still mostly clothed. It feels strange to have the sleeves still snug around my arms while he studies the faded bruises on my breast.
“I hate those bites,” he says in a low, fierce voice. “I loved giving them to you, but they’re not mine. Not really.”
How can they not be his? I open my mouth to ask, but he starts cutting away my pants. The blade travels down my waist and along each hip. I only pulled on yoga pants for cooking (it wasn’t worth the risk of burns in unmentionable places in case of an accident if he wasn’t up to watch), so the material gives way under his knife as easily as butter. But I have a feeling denim wouldn’t have put up much of a fight against such a sharp edge.
He peels my pants away completely with sharp tugs to pull the material free of my bonds, and then slits the arms and pulls the sweatshirt off too. I still wear my panties, but nothing else.
He touches each old bite with the knife, except for the ones he put on my inner thighs. With my knees tied together, I can’t open my legs.
“It doesn’t take a serrated Rambo knife to kill.” He holds the knife up so I can see. His big hand makes it look incredibly small, almost like a toy. “It’s so sharp it’ll slice through bone if needed. Slender enough to slide between ribs, long enough to puncture the heart or kidney or artery. One quick in and out here—” he touches my throat, my ribcage and my upper thigh near my groin, “—and he’s dead for sure. I’ll show you tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to learn how to kill anyone.”
He tips his head to the side as if that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard in his entire life. “If someone’s going to kill you, if it’s you or him, then you kill. Simple.”
“No one—”
“Kill him, Ranay. I’ll show you how. And then I’ll have your promise.”
