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“You don’t need to call me sir. Just Maison. And you don’t need to be sorry. Accidents happen.”
“But now it’s broken.” He reaches out to touch a fingertip to the jagged edge of a piece, his voice cracking on that last word. “It’s ruined.”
My gut tightens. I get the sense that he’s talking about more than the plate. Maybe even talking about himself.
I’m a little broken too, I want to tell him. We can be ruined together. But that feels like too much. My reality isn’t something this survivor deserves to have placed on him.
“Have you ever heard of kintsugi?” I ask instead, still wanting to make him feel better somehow. He slowly shakes his head, blue eyes curious as they focus back on me. Hopeful. Maybe even a little trusting. My heart pounds with the power of that. “It’s a Japanese art where they take broken things—things like this plate—and join them together again using gold. The works are beautiful. They’re still broken, and the pieces never truly fit back together like they used to, but the gold highlights that fact instead of trying to hide it. The whole idea is to show that the broken parts are the beautiful ones.”
A tear spills down his cheek. Yeah, he was talking about himself. “That sounds really nice…”
“Maybe we can save these pieces and try it.”
Maybe we can save you too while we’re at it.
Maybe even save the both of us.
He gives me a soft, wobbly smile. “Maybe we can.”
Chapter Four
Nolan
Maison is somehow both exactly how I thought he’d be and nothing like I imagined. He’s gentle and kind, just like at the party, with an air of authority that feels so controlled that it’s calming instead of scary. He’s dedicated to our safety and care—overly so, if I’m being honest. That version of Maison Beckett, the hero version, I had expected.
But then there was the flinch when I mentioned Carter. The wavering when he pushed to his feet. The lack of bandages on the visible parts of his abused body. The low murmur of his voice when he excused himself after we finished cleaning together, taking the pieces of the plate with him. That version of Maison Beckett, the version terribly close to a survivor, I didn’t see coming.
Being extra careful, I make a second attempt at Matt’s breakfast. Maison was sort of right with his guess—I put some yogurt and fruit on the plate earlier, but I wasn’t making a parfait. The goal was to put some toast on there too. I recreate the yogurt and fruit before eyeing the slice of bread that burned during my meltdown on the floor. My cheeks heat at the memory. Maison probably thinks I’m a total freak.
What’s worse? I feel off-center for not being punished. It almost would have been better if he’d at least yelled at me or something. His pretty words about being safe and broken things being beautiful were nice and all, but they didn’t fix the itch beneath my skin that makes me feel bad, bad, bad.
Fuck, I really am a freak.
Refusing to waste food—blackened or not—I choke down the burnt toast while toasting a new slice for Matt. I add some strawberry jelly to it, having to fight the urge to moan when I lick some off the knife. God, when was the last time I had something as luxurious as jelly? I add a little more to the rest of the burnt toast. It goes down a lot easier after that.
Matt is waiting on my bed when I get back to our room, flipping through the little pamphlet they put in our welcome bag. I think we’ve both read it at least a dozen times now. It doesn’t make the whole situation feel any less surreal. In fact, it almost makes it more so. We’ve not only been rescued after an undercover operation where our own master was a secret agent, but we’ve been given a fucking brochure explaining details and answering frequently asked questions. Like… what? Really? This is our life?
“Anything new?” I ask teasingly, putting the plate on the bed beside his hip before settling down on the floor in front of his feet. I feel restless. If I was back home, I’d have already done my enema, showered, prepped and plugged myself, and helped any slaves who might be lagging behind due to injuries or lack of sleep. I haven’t looked out a window or seen a clock yet, but I’d most likely have at least two services under my belt by this time too. At the very least, a breakfast cock-warming session.
I realize two things as Matt hands me the pamphlet—I just thought of the Roarke compound as home, and a small part of me maybe… wishes I was doing that routine this morning instead of this.
Bile rises in my throat.
So fucked up.
Matt taps the last paragraph on the first page of the pamphlet in my hands. I bring it closer and begin reading it as he starts on his plate. It’s the paragraph about the doctor and the therapist here.
“The doctor?” I ask him.
He nods, then grabs the small card that had been with the pamphlet. It’s the one from his bag, not mine. His appointment time to meet with the doctor is written on it.
Before I can figure out why he’s showing it to me—Is he reminding me that his appointment is today? Is he asking what time it is? Does he need to go early?—he hands me my card next. My appointment isn’t until tomorrow. The pamphlet said they would have anyone who wants to leave the safehouse immediately seen first, then the appointments would be scheduled based on medical need. I don’t know why Matt was seen as more needy than me—maybe because of his muteness?—but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t really have anything to talk to the doctor about anyway. It’s the therapist who will have a fucking field day with me.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m not upset that you get to go first.”
He shakes his head, eyebrows pulled together. We’ve been doing this communication dance long enough for me to recognize what he’s doing—he’s searching for the fastest, easiest way to ask what he wants to ask. I wait patiently, eyes on him so I don’t miss his signs when he begins.
After a minute or so, he slowly lifts his hands and signs together.
