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A wicked smirk crossed his handsome face. “Noted.”
“If I hated you, I would have called the police on you by now.”
“Why? Have I ignored your safeword?”
I frowned, realizing he was right. A safeword had been established the first night we’d met, and as much as I complained about what he did to me, I’d never used the fucking thing. That fact spoke volumes.
“Maybe I’d hate you less if you didn’t always humiliate me.”
“We both know it makes your dick hard.”
“That doesn’t mean it makes me happy.”
“Admit it, you’d be disappointed if I stopped being a prick to you.” He patted the spot next to him on the couch. Not sure what his plans for me were, I approached cautiously, and sat on the edge.
“I’d assure you that I don’t bite, but you’ve seen my handiwork.” He huffed a laugh.
I slid back and tried to relax.
“That’s better.”
He put his hand next to my leg, and brushed my bare thigh with his little finger, barely touching. I tried to ignore the fact that I was only wearing boxer briefs.
“What are you watching?”
“A murder documentary.”
“You enjoy watching these?”
“I do. I hope I never have to do it again, but learning about how the police catch people is useful.”
“You really did kill her?”
“Yes.” His gaze stayed on the TV. “I wish I could have thought of some other way to get free of her, but every time I escaped, she had me brought back, beaten, locked up again. I wish I could say that I snapped, but it was nothing so dramatic—just a growing determination to be free.” He looked at me, then scoffed. “Free. Hah.”
“You don’t feel free?”
“She haunts me.”
“Haunts you?”
He tapped his temple. “She’s in my head. I dream of her almost every night if I can sleep at all. Sometimes, the feel of her lingers long after I wake up. Even when I’m awake, I have times where I get lost in memories. I should have known there would be no escaping her.”
“But now you can do what you want.”
“Have you ever seen footage of dogs used for experiments? If they’re lucky, sometimes people rescue them, but that doesn’t mean the dog knows how to be a dog.” He shrugged. “I’ve been free for years, but how can a man raised to be perfectly obedient transition to having his own thoughts? To plan? To dream? No one treated me like I was human until I killed her. My head isn’t right, and that probably can’t be fixed.”
“Considering what you went through, you’re doing well.”
“I should be grateful—it could have been worse. I was educated. Fed. She didn’t often starve me because the men she lent me to wouldn’t be interested in a little bundle of sticks.”
My stomach turned, feeling protective of the boy he had been. No wonder he was so fucked up. I meant what I had said, though—considering, what he’d been through, he was a fucking miracle. But if he was telling me this much, how much was he not telling me?
“How old were you when she started lending you out?”
“That’s a complicated question. I’m not sure how old I am, since she never registered us with the government.” He played with a fold in his jeans. “We didn’t technically exist.”
“How did you get that sorted out?”
