Page 145 of The Doll and The Domination

I strain against an invisible leash to merge with the void completely, skull thumping with a stabbing ache that only gets worse as I conjure what I need from his subconscious.

Most of what I find is useless, knives ripping through flesh, getting sized for armor, getting punished with a hammer to his fingers. I wince as I hear bones crunch. This man wasn’t allowed to cry, if he broke, he’d feel the pain of another finger shattering. Which explains why his hands look wrong.

Nausea shreds through my stomach as I filter through his being quickly, quietly. Trying my best not to alert him with my impending absence.

His name is Roxal, Captain of the Vexamen Navy Guard. Eldest son of a peasant family in the southern village of Vexamen. But what does he like? What’s his sexual weakness? I grow frustrated, begging for the right information to fall into my lap.

It practically hits me in the face as I stumble upon his time in the brothels created for the hardworking Vexamen Breed. Roxal visits the Bixez Tavern four times a week at sunset. He selects the same women each time. Oddly enough, they are the ones that don’t judge him. Of all the scenarios I imagined, I’d never guess this powerful captain would be deeply embarrassed and ashamed of his preferences. But he is. I watch a memory of three women cackling at him before he bloodied their faces. His cheeks smudged with a shade of cherry.

Two specific, unique sexual preferences.

One: Feet.

He enjoys touching them, smelling them, fondling, kissing, and receiving sexual favors from them.

Two: Being coddled by a mother (or someone who acts like a mother).

I eject myself from his consciousness like a bat out of hell to keep from seeing why his second preference is so potent. I feel the deep ache behind that mask, like he’s buried it deeper than a secret grave. Like no one can ever know he has a hint of hurt for the family he lost.

I can’t feel sorry for this man.

Without wasting another moment, I run my toes up the side of his leg. His body tenses, gnarled hands clamp down on the armrests, and his chest puffs out at my back.

A sense of relief eases my muscles. Pausing for a moment, I spin to the side in his lap, tucking my knees to my chest so I can delicately rest my feet on his right thigh.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a tired sigh. “My feet are so sore from walking around all day. Would you mind if I rub them?”

Captain Roxal looks genuinely, abruptly, joyfully shocked. Like this opportunity has never literally fallen into his lap before. He usually has to have the awkward conversation first, stammering over his words, dancing around the taboo topic, and waiting for their features to change.

He nods woodenly, his eyes burning a hole through my feet.

I hum my gratitude, reaching around my knees to my toes. Starting at the knuckles, I massage evenly, not exactly disappointed that this is a part of my ruse. My feet really are sore, scraped up, throbbing, and in desperate need of a massage.

Captain Roxal sighs jaggedly, hands trembling as he watches me instead of the show. Cheers entwined with guttural screams bang against the glass window, but he is completely oblivious to the outside world.

“I can”—the captain swallows—“do that for you…if you want.”

I gush, thank him, place my hand over my heart in a fake swoon. And his chest deflates in blatant gratitude. Childlike wonder swims in his piercing eyes as he takes hold of my feet, rubbing my toes and heels with earnestness and precision. His breathing ramps up, and I feel his erection swell under me. It isn’t easy to hide my disgust for this man. My body’s instinct is to jump off his lap and run. I don’t care about his preferences. Everyone is unique. It’s the man that I have a problem with.

But this is what I must do.

I’ve lost my best friend.

All I have left is to get my family out.

And this, sitting in a murderer’s lap, allowing him to caress my feet, is the cost of that.

“That feels so good,” I purr, running my hand down his neck.

The captain nods with glazed, cloudy eyes.

And this is it. This is how I go in for the kill.

I place a kiss on his temple, inhaling the scent of copper and sweat. “You’re being such a good boy.”

His entire body shudders, gripping me tighter like a python attempting to suffocate its victim. And his shadowy eyes change, flickering to the innocence of a boy he’s left behind. Sadness, pity, and repulsion twist through my center.

“Am I?” he rasps, continuing to bring my foot closer to his face.

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