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I can’t help but wonder if that was the right thing to do. Seeing her fall apart at my hands sparked life back into her eyes. She’s open and engaged for the first time in weeks. Her smiles come easily, and her laughter is joyful. I didn’t realize how brittle her laugh has been until tonight.
Looking back over the last week, I see something I hadn’t before. Rose has been putting on a show for me. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it sooner. I think I hoped so hard for her to snap out of it that I blinded myself to what was right in front of me.
I hate to turn our light-hearted conversation to harder things, but now that I’m seeing things more clearly, I have to know. “We need to talk.”
Rose looks down at her hands. She’s a smart girl, she knows that those words usually mean bad things. I don’t like being the one to chase away her smiles. I console myself in the knowledge that this is for the best. And that’s all I want for her. I want her to be happy, healthy, and mine.
“Sweetheart, you’re struggling. It’s killing me to see you like this. Please, tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”
“The doctor said it would take time.” She refuses to look at me when she says it. She’s hiding something from me.
“It’s more than that, and you know it. Don’t lie to me.”
Her eyes grow watery, and she twists her napkin between her hands. She looks up at me, and whatever she sees on my face has hers crumpling with sadness, and those tears she was holding back slip silently down her cheeks. Seeing the pain she’s been hiding makes the beast inside me roar to the surface. I want to destroy anything that dares to upset her.
I wipe away her tears, and she nuzzles into my palm, always seeking comfort from me. Comfort I readily offer and will never deny her. “It’s going to be okay, love. We can overcome anything. Just tell me what it is so I know what I’m up against.”
Seconds tick by, and I wonder if she’s trying to think up another lie. She’s obviously fighting with herself. Part of her wants to open up, and the other part, the part that’s used to protecting itself, wants to keep her feelings locked down tight. One thing she still hasn’t figured out about me is that I can be a very patient man when I need to be. Dominants tend to lean towards delayed gratification. I can and will wait her out. And if she attempts to lie… well, I’ll be hard-pressed to keep myself from throwing her over my lap and spanking her until she opens up.
I can tell the moment she makes her decision because her hands stop twisting the life out of her napkin. I quirk an eyebrow her direction daring her to lie again. The dominant in me has been pushed to the side for too long, and the beast is just waiting for the perfect moment to override my self-control.
“I stopped taking the medication,” she blurts.
Well, that’s not exactly what I expected, but it definitely makes sense. Stopping cold turkey isn’t the best way to stop taking the kinds of medications she was prescribed. It can have serious side effects. No wonder she’s been so off. I hate myself for not noticing sooner. For not realizing that she’d stopped taking her medication.
She huddles in on herself expecting my anger. Not that I’ve ever once raised a hand to her or yelled at her. She’s been programmed to fear negative reactions from men. It’ll take time for her to realize she has nothing to fear from me even when I’m upset with her. For the record, I’m not angry. I’m worried.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Honestly?”
“Always honesty between us, sweetheart.”
She swallows and goes back to torturing her poor napkin. It will never be the same again once she’s done with it. “I thought you wouldn’t let me. You seemed so convinced that I needed the pills. And maybe I do… I probably do,” she admits. “but the ones the doctors gave me make it so I can’t feel anything. Even the new ones. I don’t want to be numb.” She looks at me pleadingly. “I’ve spent so many years a prisoner inside Red House. A prisoner to my anxiety and fear. I don’t want to be a prisoner inside my own mind. I can’t stand it, Matty. Please don’t make me take them.”
“I understand. The doctors said that it could take several tries before we find the right doses and combination of medicine. It’s not a cookie-cutter thing. Everyone is different. We just have to keep trying.”
“No,” Rose says forcefully. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to lose myself again.”
God, how the fuck do I argue with that? I lean back in my seat and consider the options. If she won’t take medicine, there are other ways to deal with things. Unconventional methods, sure, but effective. Rose’s main issue is anxiety and panic attacks. The root of those isn’t something that can be healed without therapy—Dr. Osborne will have to help with that. However, the reactions can be dealt with in other ways.
Many of the women I’ve helped dealt with the same trauma as Rose, and through submission, they found their way back from the darkness. Carefully doled out pain and pleasure can silence a person’s mind.
“Okay, sweetheart. We’ll do it your way. For now,” I add significantly. “If your way doesn’t work and you start to spiral again, we will do it my way. No arguments.”
Rose rewards me with a smile. Not one of her fake ones. A real smile that reaches her sparkling blue eyes. She throws her arms around my neck, kissing me. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ROSE
The whole “my way, no arguments” thing seems a little ominous, but I trust Matthew, and I’m getting my way without a fight, so I don’t question it. I feel so much lighter after my confession. It weighed heavily on me, and now I see what an idiot I’ve been. Of course, Matthew would support my decision. All he’s done since we were reunited is support and care for me.
I lean back in the soft leather of the seat. My stomach is pleasantly full, and I’ve got Matthew by my side once again, teasing my thigh with maddening little strokes of his fingertips. His fingers get closer and closer to my core, and I squirm in my seat. I moan when his finger lightly brushes over the gusset of my panties.
I rock my hips trying to entice him to touch me more, but his fingers skate away instead. I let out a little whimper of distress, and he chuckles darkly. “Love, if you keep making those throaty little moans, I’m going to have to pull this car over, and I don’t think you want Slade an audience for what I’m going to do to you.”
“How far away is home?” I ask impatiently.
