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His body is listless by the time I pull him out of the bath and stand him on the mat so I can gently dry him off with a towel from the towel warmer. He keeps his chin tucked low, avoiding eye contact. It makes me desperate to meet his gaze.
Once his body is dry, I grab a new towel and a bottle of lotion before guiding him to the bed. I take a seat against the headboard, pulling him between my legs so his back is pressed to my chest. I pull a blanket over his lower half, so he doesn’t get a chill while I slowly work on drying his hair with the towel. He rests his head back on my shoulder when I’m done, his cold nose pressed against my throat as I start working lotion along his limbs.
He hums and shivers every once in a while, seeming very happy with the treatment. A few tears fall down his cheeks, but I gently wipe them away and continue. When I’m fairly certain he’s fallen asleep, I carefully pull one of my softest sweaters over his head, slide out from under him, and tuck him in. I let myself stand there for a moment, staring down at the sleepy boy with clean, messy hair and a soft smile on his lips.
I’ve always dreamt of spending my time just like this. Bathing a boy. Caring for him. Tucking him in. Sure, in my fantasies I was his daddy, and he wasn’t recovering from a fucking nightmarish existence. In my fantasies, I could slide my cock into his tight hole and wrap my arms around him while I make him feel good. In my fantasies, he was fucking happy. But the past hour was close enough to hurt a little. Just a tiny stab of longing in the center of my chest.
I don’t let myself dwell on it. This beautiful, broken boy is mine to care for, but he’s not mine.
He never will be.
My mind has completely switched gears by the time I've showered and gone through my nightly routine, my focus now on my job instead of Casey. I'm in the middle of creating a mental checklist for things I need to get sorted out before Travis’s - well, Nathan Roarke’s, actually - upcoming birthday party. The soirée needs to go perfectly since a major operational move will be taking place during it – if all goes well and Travis can convince a man named Vasco to switch to our side tonight, the operation could be over in a matter of weeks. Days, even.
The mental checklist is why it takes me a moment to realize something is off when I step out of the bathroom, my mind taking a moment to process.
Casey isn’t in the spot where I left him. He's settled on the floor in a perfect kneeling pose instead, my sweater neatly folded to his left.
The sight is a fucking gut punch.
"What are you-" but I stop myself. It'd be a stupid question. I know what he's doing. He's trying to behave. The boy woke up clothed and on a bed. He probably thought it was a test. Hell, with any other master it would be.
I try a different approach. Not questions, but orders. He responds well to those. I move closer to the bed and say, "It's time to sleep. Come."
The boy looks around the room, his eyebrows drawn together. He's searching for something. I can't even begin to wonder what.
"I want you on the bed, little one."
Casey eyes the bed then, true fear in his eyes, but doesn't move.
It doesn't take a genius to understand the dilemma. I'm saying I want him on the bed, but I didn't give him permission or order him to get on it. I've met plenty of men like that before. Men who play mind games, setting their slaves up to fail. I had caught on earlier, when I kept telling Casey he can do something only for Casey not to.
I'll have to be careful how I word everything from now on. It'd be annoying if it wasn't so fucking heartbreaking.
"Get on the bed," I order, pointing a finger to the spot he was in before.
Casey doesn't hesitate this time, hurrying to get on the bed. His body trembles terribly as he settles in the center of the mattress on his hands and knees, with his back arched and his ass presented for the taking. I quickly look away, nausea rolling through me.
"What are you doing?" I ask, even though it's pretty fucking obvious. That's why I add, "Why? I didn't tell you to do that."
Now Casey looks extremely uncomfortable. He starts trembling harder. "Slaves only go on the bed to be used, Master. Then - then we sleep in the cage or our puppy beds, depending on how we please our master."
He's not saying this to argue with me. He's saying it because it's a fact in his mind. Something DuGray explained to him. He is a slave, nothing more, and slaves don't sleep on the bed.
He was looking for his dog bed, I suddenly realize. When he was searching earlier, the boy was hoping to find a fucking dog bed.
Christ, I am going to kill DuGray so very slowly.
I sit on the bed, only allowing myself to touch his messy hair. Casey practically purs as he presses into my hand, but he seems to catch himself a moment later as he jerks away with a sharp breath.
“It’s alright,” I promise him. "When was the last time someone touched you gently, little one?"
A small sob bursts from Casey's lips. "I don't remember."
"It is the only way I will ever touch you," I tell him, trying to make each word sound as authoritative and definite as possible. "I know you don't believe me. That's okay. But I want you to know. My hands will never hurt you."
He looks at me again, his eyes full of fear and distrust, before he slowly moves his body into a relaxed kneeling position. His lips part, but no words come out.
"It's alright," I tell him again. "Let's just go to sleep now, okay?"
