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Why won’t anyone fall in love with me?
I work so fucking hard to be good. To be perfect. Carter cried so easily and didn’t know how to sit still and never seemed to find any sort of pleasure in serving his master. From the slivers I’ve caught of Casey, he’s about the same. Maybe it’s because Travis and Jake aren’t real masters? Maybe they don’t want good boys, just normal ones?
I don’t know how to be normal anymore.
I don’t know if I want to even try.
But then, who will ever love me?
“Nolan.” I startle, realizing this isn’t the first time he said my name. The urge to go to my knees and beg for forgiveness is nearly overwhelming. “This was really nice of you. Can I have some?”
My cheeks heat. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”
“Thank you.” He grabs two plates, handing me one of them with a pointed look that means no arguing. “Have some with me.”
“O-okay.”
I have to fight a laugh when he immediately starts piling his plate full of food. Like, full of food. Two pancakes, a slice of French toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, yogurt, fruit, a triangle of toast with strawberry jam, and—“Oh, fuck yeah. Biscuits and gravy?”
The laugh I was fighting bubbles out of me. He looks delighted at the sound. “It’s my grandma’s recipe. Though, she would just about die if she found out that I used biscuit mix from a box.”
“I didn’t even know we had biscuit mix.”
“You can modify pancake mix,” I explain. “We had the stuff to make pancakes from scratch, so I used the mix to make biscuits. If we had shortening and buttermilk, I could have made my grandma’s biscuits too, but I think these probably turned out okay. They look okay, at least. They got golden just like she taught me they should, and they look fluffy. I guess I’ll have to try them to see. Hopefully, they’re not like a brick or anything. If they are, you can slice them in half and add a little butter in the middle to soften them a bit, though the gravy will probably help soften them too. Don’t feel like you have to eat them if they’re not—”
“Nolan,” he says with a soft laugh. He starts to reach for me but stops halfway. I step into the touch before he can lower his hand, desperate for it. It feels like a warm blanket, the moment his fingertips touch the bare skin of my bicep. It’s not an attraction thing or a love thing or… really anything like that. It’s just touch from someone other than Matt. Touch from someone who has told me many times before that I’m good. Even if he’s not a master anymore—even if he never really was—there’s still an underlying power to him. There’s still the possibility.
Was this good? I want to ask him. Did I do good?
I don’t ask. The touch is enough.
“Sorry,” I whisper, feeling more settled than I have since Travis took my collar away at the party. “I ramble when I’m nervous.”
“I see that.” He smiles. It’s a little sad. “I’m sorry I didn’t know that before now. I’m sorry we never really got the chance to know each other.”
I force a laugh. “That would have been a little hard.”
“It would have. Trust me, you didn’t want to get to know Master Benny. I didn’t like who he was.” He drops his hand. It makes something ache in my chest, but I ignore it. He’s not my master. He never was. Never will be. “Maybe you’ll get to know me as Jake though. If you stay awhile.”
“Yeah.” I turn toward the food, heart in my throat. “Yeah, maybe.”
“By the way,” he says, his voice so muffled I have to turn back to look at him. He has a mouthful of biscuit. A crumb falls out when he continues, “These are fucking amazing.”
My blush returns, the praise running through my veins like warm water. It’s almost as nice as a good boy.
Almost.
“You have no idea how much I appreciate this,” he adds when he’s finally swallowed. “How much all of us are going to appreciate this. You should go get some of the survivors when you finish eating. Not many have really managed to come out yet. Maybe this will help?”
That warmth inside of me grows. Another way to be useful, especially when it comes to my fellow survivors, is exactly what I need. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that.”
It takes some time—and a few promises to stick by their sides—but I eventually get all of the survivors to come out. Some come one at a time. Others come in groups of two or three. Some stay only long enough to fill a plate before scurrying back to the safety of their room. Others sit at the kitchen island or the dining table or even outside.
Gabe is the last one I find, in his room at the very end. He was our newest slave back at the house—our new number 12 after we lost the last one—and didn’t spend many days with us. It was his first posting, but he’s still shell-shocked and reeling. It’s a little awkward at first when he answers his door after I knock. I can tell the moment our eyes meet that he’s thinking about the last time we interacted, when the men in the house used my endless desire to be good against him, making me show him the right way to do everything and then punishing him every time he got it wrong. It was an awful night for both of us. His body was tortured, but my mind was. It was like they were stretching me in two directions. The better I was, the more praise I got and the nicer the touches were, but the harder it was for Gabe to live up to my example.
I drop my gaze, guilt gnawing at my gut. “I made a big breakfast. I thought maybe—maybe you’d like to come have some?”
There’s a long moment of silence. I’m too much of a coward to raise my gaze to his. Then, very quietly, he says, “That’d be nice.”
