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“You can have her in your bed tonight,” Seven says, getting dressed. Then he leaves the room without another word.
I stare after him, wondering if I've done something wrong, wondering if now that he's scratched these twin itches of punishment and fucking my ass if he finds it wasn't truly worth the wait after all. Is he bored now? Declan notices my distress.
“It's not you, Kate. He's got some business to take care of. It's fine.”
I nod, not feeling reassured.
Declan doesn't fuck me again tonight. Instead, he takes me up to his room on the third floor and pulls me into the shower with him. He silently washes me, and I wash him. It's intimate, but not sexual in the way one would expect. Then we lie down together in his bed. He pulls me into him—always and forever his little spoon. It's the first time I’m able to fully relax into this moment where we are wrapped in a tender embrace inside his bed. It's the first time I don't warn myself that it isn't real.
THIRTEEN
Months go by in this new normal. Declan was right, it wasn't me. Seven grows distant at times, but he always comes back to me, giving me that glimmer of the man I first knew.
Each morning passes much as any ordinary couple might pass it—except that it's three instead of two. Every day we have breakfast in a strangely comfortable silence at the kitchen table, they kiss me, and they leave. Then I go about my day.
I've gotten to know the names of most of the staff as they come and go. I still don't know what Seven and Declan do, though I'm certain it's some kind of organized crime. On the second day of our new arrangement, I learned they have security that goes well beyond electronic. Guards. And it's really a full-on security team. No wonder they weren't afraid I'd ask the staff for help. The guards stay outside and work in shifts. There are two security buildings, one at the front near the gate and one at the back end of the property.
That, combined with the occasional unsavory visitors who come to the house, retreating always to a private study to talk business with Seven, and it's not as though I need a diagram. Many of these men look at me with clear lust in their gaze, knowing exactly what I am to my masters, and also knowing they will never be allowed to touch me no matter what they did withthe others.
I wonder what happened to the others? And did Seven and Declan start with the same game they did with me? Or did they go a different route? Did they use their money from the very beginning to simply buy what they wanted? Did they want my submission to come from a different place? After all, when they first offered me my freedom, I only took it because it seemed I didn't have the option to stay. And when I came back, I thought I was going back to the cell. So it wasn't for their money.
For the first few weeks, I used myoutdoor kittytime to shop and take in some movies, and of course, the spa. But it got boring. I missed work. So I started working on setting up my own ad agency.
It's not a traditional agency. I don't have the necessary freedom to do that. I redid the penthouse to function as a place to meet clients. I'll only take a few at a time, and my availability is by appointment only. But it seems to be working out.
When I get home in the evenings, we eat. I've since learned that actually they do have a cook who comes in several days a week to prepare meals. Though they also like to cook part of the time and always for breakfast.
After dinner, things stop being quite so benign. They torment me endlessly with pleasure while demanding the same from me along with my absolute obedience. They use me in whatever way pleases them, but no matter what they do, my body always hungers for more. Sometimes I sleep in my own bed, but more often than not, I'm invited into either Declan's or Seven's bed for the night.
I look down at my phone to check the time and am filled with horror. It's almost six. I've never been late coming home. Will they think I ran? Will they come after me? I'm so scared of how they might punish me for this infraction that I can't think straight. I've come to trust over time that as fucked-up as they are, they really do seem to feel something for me and to not want to cause me actual harm.
At the same time, that doesn't stop the fact that they are terrifying, and I've disobeyed their orders. I try to think of an appropriate lie, even though I know I'm not a good liar and that will probably only make things worse.
Hell, maybe I should wreck the car so I have an excuse. The fact that I'm even thinking such crazy thoughts is a testament to how wrong I am now. I'm so...wrong. But if they took the collar off my throat and told me to leave, I would beg them to let me stay. There's no saving me anymore. My body, mind, and soul, have long been theirs.
And when I don't judge myself or think about how society would feel about this, how they might judge or pity me, I think I'm actually happy. But if I'm so happy, why am I so scared to go home so late?
Aside from what they've done to twist my mind, they truly have never harmed me. They've never lost their tempers with me. The only reason I've ever felt my life was in danger at their hands was because of what I know about their lack of remorse. They don't have the same leash on them that other people have.
It's not so much that they’re evil—at least not to me—it's that they’re wild. They’re like wild animals. You can work with a wild predatory animal every day for years... You can believe you've built trust, that the animal sees you as a friend. And then one day, out of nowhere, the tiger mauls you to death. This is what I worry about. That they'll get bored with me, and that one day that switch inside them will flip, and their predatory gaze will settle on me, and my number's up.
But I'm too fucked-up now to live outside their cage. I tried. I do believe they care for me, probably more than they've ever cared for anything besides each other. But am I fooling myself? Is it a false sense of security that every time I walk inside the tiger's cage, I'm certain I'm getting out alive?
Yet I’m sure I’m the equivalent of the serial killer's wife of two decades. He will never ever harm her. He will wear that mask and make her feel loved, and maybe she’s the one person who can make him feel anything. I like that feeling. Being that one person that someone cares about. There’s no other human being who can turn their gaze or hold their attention, and there’s a rush of power in that which I'm ashamed I like.
Even if they ever let me go, even if I somehow could go on without them, I would be lonely for the rest of my life. They have ruined me for any other relationship, no matter how healthy and good and true it might be. I've become twisted in the tangled vines of their darkness, and there’s nowhere left to go but down.
Maybe I should call and apologize, explain to them that I just lost track of time. I left my cell phone in the car and wonder if they've already tried to call or text. My hands shake as I fumble with the key fob to get into the Porsche. I stumble back as a hand with a foul smelling cloth goes over my mouth.
* * *
When I come to,a blindfold covers my eyes, and my hands are tied together over my head. I'm still wearing my sundress, but my shoes are gone. My bare feet are cold under the hard floor. I still feel foggy from the drugs. Why the fuck did they drug me? Did they really think that was necessary?
“Please... I'm sorry...” I whimper. The tears are already rolling down my cheeks. “I... I lost track of the time... please forgive me, Master.”
A hand grips my throat, hard. Harder than normal. I gasp and choke for air, struggling against the ropes.
A laugh. “Master? My, what fucked-up games has my frigid little bitch been playing?”
