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I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel like he only told me part of the story. “I’m free?” I ask, just to make sure I didn’t misunderstand.
“Yes,” he says, “Damon won’t be coming back for you.”
Again, I don’t feel like that’s the whole truth of the matter, and I know I’m going to regret asking, but I have to know. “How is that even possible?”
Again, he holds the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh. “The only way out of the contract was to pay your debt… with interest, so I did.”
I can’t hide the shocked expression or the tears that are threatening to fall again. Holy crap! I can’t believe he did that, I mean it wasn’t like a few hundred dollars, we are talking several thousand, like fifty of them plus whatever constitutes ‘interest’ in Damon’s book. I know my mouth is doing the whole fish out of water thing, but I really can’t stop myself. I should say something, I know I should, thank you seems like too little. How am I ever going to pay him back?
He’s silent while he watches me process this information. “That’s just too much. You can’t. I can’t… How will I ever repay you? I c-ca-can’t repay you. Oh, God. What am I going to do? You don’t even know me, why would you do this?” I’m stuttering and tripping all over my words.
I can feel the anxiety bubbling up from that dark place deep inside me. It takes hold and washes through me like a wave. Before I know what I’m doing, I jump off the bed, and I scramble towards the door. I have to get out of here. Something tugs on my hand and I look down, expecting to see him holding me back, but it’s the damn IV line. I give it no thought as I rip it from my vein and start towards the door again.
Panic has taken hold, and I’m reduced to nothing more than an animalistic need to flee. My thoughts consumed with the need to run, hide, get out, escape, go, go… I’m so absorbed with escape that my brain isn’t processing the pain from my injuries. I’m pure adrenaline now. My hand comes down on the doorknob, but the door won’t open.
It’s locked. I’m trapped.
Trapped, stuck, trapped. Oh, God. Not again, please. I tuck myself into the corner, trying to become as small a target as possible. Remembering another time when I was locked in a room. Another time when I needed to escape. I tuck my knees under my chin and cover my face as I rock back and forth, willing my mind to detach from the moment.
“Rose.” I whimper at the sound of my name. “Rose, baby.” I rock faster at the endearment, and there is a sound coming from somewhere deep inside that is like a wounded animal, it hurts even my own ears, but I can’t stop. “You are going to hurt yourself, baby. You have to stop now.”
There is no stopping. Once the panic takes hold, I’m at its mercy. My lungs desperately strain to pull in oxygen, never getting enough. I could suffocate like this. If I could just keep the oxygen away, I could suffocate, and it would all be over. I wouldn’t have to do this anymore. No more fear. No more weakness. No longer the victim. I could be free, but my stupid lungs keep sucking at the air—they obviously aren’t on the same page as my brain.
The pounding of my heart feels as though it will bruise my chest from the inside out. Not a steady thump, thump but a stampede beating its way through my breastbone. Memories flick through my head of being overpowered, held down, beaten, and worse. How can anyone be asked to endure this?
Why?
Why can’t I just die already? I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve prayed for mercy. No one listens. No one saves me, but I plead on anyway. I’m trembling so hard my teeth chatter, my entire body thrown into the hysterics that accompanies this illness.
“No, no, please, no. Please, don’t. Not again.” I’m begging.
“Shh, love,” someone croons from just in front of my huddled form. Something deep inside me says I can trust that voice, but I’m lost to the madness that is my anxiety. I force myself to open my eyes, to see what monster is chasing me this time and am met with concerned midnight blue eyes. “You’re okay, sweet girl.” Slowly, he reaches out to me, cautiously touching his fingertips lightly to the back of my hand before grabbing ahold of it. “I’ve got you. I swear to you, you are safe with me,” he promises.
He shouldn’t promise. Promises are made to be broken. There is no such thing as a good promise.
He kneels there in front of me, holding my hand, talking softly, reassuring me over and over that I’m safe. My brain acknowledges that he isn’t a danger, but years of abuse have reprogrammed my mind. Common sense isn’t attached to my reactions anymore. My fear feeds the panic like gasoline on an open flame. The panic feeds the oxygen stealing anxiety. The anxiety grows into fear… It’s a vicious circle that I will never be free from.
Several minutes that feel like a lifetime of hours later, the panic slowly recedes. My heart stops thundering, my lungs finally accept the readily available air, and my trembling body calms as I push away the anxiety. The fear. I will it back into the darkness. That horrible place inside myself where I hide all the horrors.
Not once during my episode did he turn away from me, and now I find that I’m lost in the gaze of the man who saved me, who keeps saving me. My body starts to protest my awkward position, and without the adrenaline coursing through me, the pain comes back tenfold. I nearly pass out when I try to stand.
Again, being that he is my hero and all, he gently scoops me up, holding me behind the knees and high up on my back where the damage is minimal and carries me back over to the bed. He sets me on my feet and turns me to face away from him. I feel his fingers whisper against my back, checking to see if I’ve hurt myself further. He finds a tender spot, and I hiss out my breath.
“It’s the worst of them, you’ve reopened the wound a bit, but it’s not bad. You’re lucky. Let me see your hand,” he orders.
I turn and face him, trying to hide my naked body as much as I can with one hand. I’m blushing from head to toe. I’ve never been an exhibitionist, in fact, I’m more prude than Mother Theresa. Blood is dripping from where I ripped the IV out, and I notice the smears on his shirt. I cringe at the sight. “Sorry,” I say lamely.
Can I possibly embarrass myself anymore?
“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” He words it as a question, but from his tone, I know it’s not a question at all. He’s commanding me to tell him why I freaked out.
“I have issues with anxiety like I said. I used to take medicine to help control it, but since I’ve been with Damon, I haven’t been allowed. It was part of his terms. He liked my fear. Any stressful or overly emotional situation can set off an attack. That’s what you’ve seen. I’m very sorry, I know it’s a lot to deal with.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Rose. It’s not your fault that Damon didn’t take good care of you.” He makes a frustrated sound, then fiercely says, “If you were mine, I would never let anything happen to you. He doesn’t know what it means to be a Master.”
I can’t help but wonder, does he expect to be my Master after paying my debt? He had to know I didn’t have the money. Did he only do it so he could have a new slave? I don’t know if that scares me or excites me. So far, he’s been nothing but kind and gentle. I know he’s a dominant, and that means he isn’t always gentle or kind. With Damon, I was desperate. I had run out of options. He was my last hope. My body was my only currency. Damon was greedy to collect.
Will this man give me another option, or will demand I pay him with my body?
