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As though Connie had slapped her, Caera bolted upright, another scream cutting off mid-note. She lifted her hands to her throat, fingers clawing at her own skin with ragged nails bitten down to the quicks. Connie was quick to grab her wrists, shocked that her thumb and forefingers braceleted them with room to spare. “No, sweetheart. It's okay. You're fine, baby, I promise.” She lowered her tone, losing the edge of authority and using the maternal hum she reserved for her girls at the club. Both Bodie and Archie had been on the receiving end of her mothering more than once. “Just shush, sweetheart. I've got you. You're not alone this time.”
Caera's teeth chattered as she searched the room for a foe Connie couldn't identify yet. Hell, she was sure the girl hadn't crossed that line yet, either. With a harsh, broken cry, Caera threw herself into Connie's arms and wept.
“That's a good girl. Give it to me. I can take it.” Connie murmured, pulling her in tight and rocking her. There was more meat on a turkey's bones after it had been picked clean on Thanksgiving, she thought. Letting Caera cry resonated inside her, remembering how it felt to be so lost it was impossible to find the road home. How even simple human contact offered a wealth of comfort, a hand in the dark when it was needed most. “I've got you, sweetheart.”
***
Chapter Nine
Lunchtime found Connie face down on her desk, emotionally drained by Caera's session. Once the girl was settled, they'd finished with a quiet discussion on what Connie had written down and what she would do with the information. Caera had grudgingly agreed to let her send it to Doctor Elliot, which was a step forward, and was willing to try the herbal route.
All positive, Connie reminded herself wearily. They were creeping forward, an inch at a time.
Philip Fordham had capped her morning off with an added dose of exhaustion. The guy was in his mid-forties, had a solid desk job, and loved running, hiking, being totally active with his wife and two sons. So active, he'd apparently thought himself qualified to climb onto the roof of his house with a fucking chainsawto cut down an overhanging branch that kept scraping the windows of the attic room where his oldest son slept.
A rope around his waist tied to the chimney, Connie thought in disgust as her cell phone chimed. For someone who came across as being a smart guy with above average intelligence, he was a goddamn moron. Cutting through the branch, the chainsaw had slipped and messily removed his right leg at the mid-shin point, requiring surgeons to amputate at the knee.
It had become clear within the first fifteen minutes that Mr. Fordham blamed everyone but himself for the accident which left him legless. His son's fault, of course, for complaining about the branch in the first place. His wife's, for nagging at him to call a professionalto do the job. What had come after…oh yes, let's not forget it fell on the EMTs for taking too long to find the separated limb after it got knocked off the roof when Fordham was flailing around screaming.
And then…oh, and then, she thought furiously, the bulk of the blame landed squarely on the dedicated surgeons and nurses who had fought to save the wreck of his leg. He'd waffled on about the injury itself, but the one thing she'd gleaned from the conversation was that the whole fucking mess had been his doing, because he hadn't wanted to pay someone with the right equipment and knowledge to do the task properly.
In the end, she'd thrown her hands up in the air—metaphorically, of course—and expressed a great deal of sympathy for his plight. She'd referred him to one of the other psychologists in the practice, a retired US Army Captain who had exponential experience in counselling soldiers with amputations.
And now she was limp in her chair, her cheek smashed against the wood, and she was pretty damn sure she was drooling. Ugh. She lifted her head slowly, tentatively wiping at her mouth. Relieved to find it dry, she picked up her phone and slumped back. Her deli sandwich sat to one side, completely unappetizing. With a look of disgust, she reached out and shoved it off the edge of the desk into the trash can.
The afternoon promised to be just as rough. Anarchy could be a tough cookie to crack, and since the night she'd deliberately mowed down an assassin with her Dom's truck—mangling the fucker, Connie thought with pride—that cookie was decorated with sharp shreds of steel. But inside…Jasper's kitten was hurting more than she let on, a fact her Dom had noticed with displeasure.
Connie pulled up a new message on her phone, her brows drawing together at the contact’s name: Master Thane.
She almost went off on a mental rampage, cursing him out while she wondered when the hell he'd snuck his number into her phone. But then she realized she'd given him ample opportunities over the weekend to pull what she considered an incredibly dominant move.
You don't want to take my number? Tough shit, sugar, you'll take it anyway. Shit, it was really bad she'd thought that in Thane's voice. He was getting inside her head, hooking his claws in.
Scowling, she opened the message and simply stared at the screen.
Master Thane: Good afternoon, Constance. A package has been delivered to your office. Inside, you'll find two items. I expect you to be wearing the obvious one when I pick you up at 5.30…and I will be checking to make sure you’ve followed orders.
The absolute fucking gallof the man, she thought furiously. Her fingers attacked the keypad, firing back a message that should burn his eyeballs from their sockets when he read it.
Connie: My office is notto be included in your expanding arsenal of playgrounds, Thane. This is my work space, and it's my career you're fucking with. I don't need you to pick me up as I drove myselfhere this morning and fully intend to drive myself home. Alone. I don't require your company tonight, so go kiss ass with your club buddies.
Almost immediately, three little dots popped up. Oh, he was quick off the mark, but she was ready to go to war.
Master Thane: Sugar, you're going to want to take a breath before your head pops off—I can hear the steam whistling from your ears from here. Your career is perfectly safe, and your office is nothing but the staging area. Wear the gift or else I'll be adding more to the spanking you just earned.
Master Thane: Oh, and you willneed a ride home as I bribed Jasper to hotwire your car when he brought Anarchy to your office ten minutes ago. If you're not wearing your present, your bare ass will be christening my truck seat. Have a good afternoon, sugar.
Her shitty morning forgotten, Connie bolted out of her chair and flew to the blinds keeping the hot Arizona sun from glaring through the windows. She yanked them up, shoved her window open, and stuck her head into the humid air, searching the parking lot below. Her sharp exclamation of fury echoed, drawing several pairs of eyes up toward her.
Slamming the window shut, she stalked back to her desk and threw herself into her chair. Instead of messaging Thane, she pulled up Jasper's number and called him. Her fingers tapped on the desktop agitatedly as she waited for him to pick up.
“Fairfax.”
“Bring my goddamn car back to my office, Jasper, before I call the police and report it stolen!”
“Sorry, Constance, no can do.” The line went dead.
“Jasper? Jasper! Oh, you two are going to rue this fucking day,” she hissed. They were backing her into a corner again, but this time, she was on her territory with no Thane to soften her up with those gentle hands and amber eyes sucking her into submission. She called him again and he picked up after several long moments. “Jasper, I am not messing around with you.”
