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I look down, unable to meet his eyes suddenly. “Yes.”
“Do youwantto go back to the cell?”
“N-no, Master, I just thought...” Again I stop because I shouldn't question it. If I don't have to sleep on a bare mattress—however nice—in a dark gray cell, I should not call attention to the fact that that's an actual option.
“Once the puppy is trained, it doesn't have to stay in the crate. And you are definitely trained,” Seven says.
Declan only chuckles at this. He must have followed us up the stairs. I was too busy being in awe of my gilded cage to notice.
Being back with them, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Seven is the real game maker. He's the one running everything, pulling all the strings behind the scenes. Declan is just as responsible, of course. He was a happy and willing participant, but this is Seven's game. It always has been.
I was always wrong about who had the power here. It's so much more obvious now that Seven isn't playing his role as my co-captive. He stands taller and broader than his friend and partner in crime. I know Declan can hold his own, but there’s a subtle deference he shows Seven. I didn't notice it the day I learned the truth, but it's so clear now.
Not only is Seven the one in charge, but I'm now sure he's the most dangerous of the two—and I slept trustingly inside the circle of his arms on that mattress for weeks while he stroked my hair, got me off, and whispered soothing words into my ear.
The tears come out of nowhere. Maybe not out of nowhere, but I'm sure that's how it appears to these men who have trained me to think of them as my masters.
“Kate?” Seven says. He looks concerned that I'm crying. He wears the mask so well, and it hurts even more when he plays this game with me. At least I always got the truth with Declan. That cold emptiness. But Seven still likes to pretend he has something inside.
And I still want so badly to believe it.
He steps closer to me, and I instinctively take a step back. He arches a brow. I calledhimafter all. Nobody forced me to come back here, but it's hard not to take a step back. He seems so much taller now that he's not my protector.
He takes another step closer, and I fight the urge to run. A long shuddering breath flows out of me as he looks down at me and strokes the side of my cheek. I lean into him, my eyes drifting closed before I can stop them. He pulls me into his arms and strokes my hair.
“Shhhh,” he murmurs as though he actually cares. And I want to believe. I find myself leaning more heavily against him as a wave of dizziness washes over me. I'd sobered up pretty quickly after calling them—or I thought I did. But I did have a lot of alcohol. And I know it was just the adrenaline overriding everything else going on in my body, making me think I was okay when I'm not.
“Declan,” he says quietly, “she needs to eat. Will you bring something up?”
I don't hear an answer, only the receding of footsteps out of the room.
Seven undresses me and puts me in the bed, then he sits on the edge, watching me for several minutes. Finally he sighs and says, “It's late. After you eat, I want you to sleep. We'll discuss what comes next in the morning.”
I can't help tensing at these words. But he only takes my hand in his, stroking the back of it, still soothing me.
Declan comes up a little while later with some food. It's a chicken salad sandwich on toasted bread with a huge tomato on it. And some baked barbeque potato chips. He leaves the plate of food and a glass of water on the bedside table.
“Thank you,” I say.
Now it's his turn to arch a brow.
“M-master,” I add quickly.
He nods.
It's not that I forgot; I just wasn't sure how things were supposed to be now. What are the new rules? With Seven in charge, I just don't know. Seven turns on the bedside lamp, then both men leave the room, turning off the main light and shutting the door behind them. The lock is on the inside, so they can't lock me in. It's a small relief.
If I weren't still so drunk, I might be tempted to sneak out and explore the house, but I feel awful, and I'm so tired. I somehow manage to eat the food without getting sick. I really did need it. It was too much alcohol swirling around without any kind of buffer. I'm about to turn off the lamp when I spot a card sticking out of the roses. I struggle to stand and move toward the card as though in a trance. With shaking hands, I slide the card out of its small envelope.
Welcome home, Kitten. There's no going back now.
The piece of stiff ecru paper falls from my hand onto the hardwood floor. I don't bother to pick it up. I'm afraid bending over would just make me feel dizzy again. I open the balcony door and step outside for some fresh air, trying to settle my now pounding heart as I worry about the sinister promises in those words.
The view from here is different from the ones I've glimpsed through hallway and kitchen windows on the first floor. This view overlooks an enormous garden of white roses, illuminated by an intricate patchwork of outdoor lighting. So not only do they have a cleaning service, they have landscapers and gardeners.
The scent wafts to my nose on the breeze. It's sweet and fragrant but not cloying. It makes me feel calm even when I know I shouldn't. I look down over the ornate iron railing. It's a high drop, and I know there's a big wall around the perimeter anyway. I wish I hadn't had so many drinks tonight. Drunk Kate is Stupid Kate. And the extreme truth of that is only just now beginning to sink into my awareness past the fog of an unfortunate number of tequila shots.
I stumble back into the bedroom, turn off the lamp, and slide between the cool silk sheets. The world shuts off as soon as my head touches the pillow.
