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“Good girl,” Matthew praises. He kisses my forehead, then lifts me into his arms. I hide my face in the crook of his neck when he walks us through the main room. I’m so ashamed of my behavior. I can’t stand to see what I’ve done.
When we get to our bedroom, he sits on the bed, cradling me in his lap. “Rosie, love, can you tell me what happened?”
I fist my hands in his shirt and keep my face buried against him. I want to crawl inside him and hide. He strokes my hair and back until bit by bit, the tension leaks out of me.
“I— He—” My mind can’t seem to pull together a coherent thought. My breath shudders out of me as the numbness starts to wane, and the anxiety starts to build.
Matthew turns my face so I have no choice but to look directly at him. His eyes are black pools of burning lava as they bore into me. “Slow down, sweetheart. Just breathe.” He’s using that dominant voice of his again, and my body responds. My breath evens out, and my mind slows enough to make sense of my rushing thoughts. “Good girl.”
“Mr. Perfect… h-he called me. I froze.” I try to look away, not wanting to see Matthew’s judgment of my weakness, but he doesn’t let me hide away from him. He holds me with gentle, yet firm hands so that I have nowhere to look other than at him. “He said he’s coming for me. I wanted to yell at him… I-I just froze, Matty. Why did I freeze?” I don’t give him time to respond before continuing. “I got so mad…” My voice breaks on a sob. “I’m so s-sorry.”
“Shh. It’s okay, love. You’re safe.” Matthew repeats the pretty lies over and over as I cry a lifetime’s worth of tears. He’s wrong. I’m not safe, and it’s not okay. I’ll never be okay again.
I lose myself to the sadness. At some point, Matthew shifts us so that we are laying down with me stretched across his chest. Eventually, I cry myself to sleep. I welcome the sweet oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MATTHEW
That motherfucker is going to die.
I’ve already plotted his death a dozen different ways, but the most painful death isn’t enough for Nelson fucking Grant. I’m livid that he somehow managed to get Rose’s number. He called my Rose and made her afraid. The hunted look had just started lessening in her eyes. She laughed more. She was finally finding her footing in this new life of hers, and now all that progress has been lost.
When I think about the crazed look in her eyes as she tore through the living room dread settles in my gut. I’ve seen that kind of rage before. It can destroy a person if they aren’t capable of controlling it. I lived that life for a long time.
At first, I drown it with alcohol. I spent the first two months after Rose disappeared drunk. Then I got my shit together and started searching. My search led me deep into the underbelly. That’s how I found the underground fights. I found a new outlet for my rage.
I channeled my anger into fighting. I became the one to beat in the underground ring. I met Kisten during that dark time in my life. Like me, he had a lifetime worth of rage to work out. We were both undefeated until we came against each other. I was the only one that came out of that fight undefeated. I left Kisten a bloody heap on the mat.
We became friends after that. Once I had enough money, I opened up my first club. I’d like to say I always knew I was a dominant, but that’s not the truth. I spent my childhood being beaten down by one circumstance or another. It wasn’t until the underground fights that I realized the truth about myself. And the rest is history.
I bury my nose in Rose’s hair, breathing her in. I worry that my girl won’t know what to do with this newly awoken anger. She internalizes everything. Years of abuse have forced her to seek solace inside herself. After losing control tonight, I can see her forcing that anger down until it darkens her soul.
I won’t let it happen. I tighten my arms around her. I’ll protect her from anything that comes against her. Even herself.
We’ve tiptoed around the whole dominant and submissive thing since the day she kneeled at my feet that first time. Neither of us willing to rock the boat as we fumbled our way through the emotional landmines, but now I realize what a mistake that was.
Rose isn’t the first damaged submissive I’ve taken. In fact, all of the women who have come to me have been broken in some way. They all needed to be healed, and I did that for them. Kisten, Slade, and I rescue slaves. Some of them can’t wait to go home to their friends and families. Others are so utterly broken they can’t function without a Master to tell them what to do.
Those are the women I’ve taken. I help rehabilitate them. I pull them back from the brink and give them their lives back. Slade and Kisten never fully understood my reasoning. Hell, I didn’t either at the time, but now I know. I did it all for her. For the beautiful perfection sleeping in my arms. She’s broken on the inside, but not for long.
“It will be okay, love. I’m going to be everything you need me to be. I’ll help you through this.” I just hope you’ll forgive me for what it’s going to take to help you heal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ROSE
It’s two in the morning when I wake up, my heart pounding. I try to figure out what woke me—a nightmare? A noise? I reach out toward Matthew’s side of the bed, and the sheets are cold. A pang of hurt knifes through me at being left alone. It’s irrational, but I can’t help feeling abandoned.
I listen carefully, trying to figure out what startled me from my sleep, but everything is quiet… too quiet. I strain in an attempt to discern even the slightest sound, but there is none. The penthouse is eerily quiet.
The silence is deafening, reminding me of being locked in the box at Red House. If we got out of line, we were punished. Since only the clients were allowed to mark us, they found more creative ways to punish us. I shudder in remembrance at being locked in the box. We called it the box because it’s a room smaller than a broom closet with barely enough room to stand up straight. It was so small that you could touch all four walls standing in the center, and there was no way to comfortably sit without cramping up from the tight space.
If that weren’t bad enough, the room was pitch black and completely soundproof. You could scream yourself hoarse, and no one would hear. Likewise, no sound got in. Sensory deprivation is a terrible punishment and especially awful for someone with anxiety issues like me. If given the choice, I would’ve rather been beaten bloody than be locked in that room for hours or days, depending on how mad Mr. Perfect was.
Why is it so quiet? There should at least be the hum of the air conditioner, right? I try to recall if I’ve ever actually heard it before but can’t. I waffle back and forth between calling out to see if someone is here or not. My mind starts playing tricks on me the longer I lay here in the utter silence. What if I’m not alone? What if it’s Mr. Perfect? He got my phone number, it’s not irrational to assume he knows exactly where I’m staying.
Oh God, if he is here, where’s Matthew? Slade and Hannah should be home too. I picture them broken and bleeding, lying in the other room dead or dying while Mr. Perfect bides his time waiting for me to come out and see the carnage before taking me.
