Page 51 of Slave

I’d been up since four this morning when I’d heard Brianna tossing and turning in the next room. I knew I’d pushed her last night by making her relive what was obviously a very traumatic memory, but it had to be done. She needed to deal with the things she’d experienced in order to move past them.

But what she’d said had caused me nightmares last night. The knowledge that someone could do that to another human being was unthinkable. I couldn’t imagine doing something like that to anyone, let alone living through it.

Picking up the weight in front of me, I began my bicep curls. She’d clearly said last night that she’d tried to get away, to leave, and he wouldn’t let her; had punished her even—if you could call it that—for trying. Who does that?

Did Ian think it was a scene? If that was what it was meant to be, then it was a poor one. A Dom’s main responsibility is the welfare of his sub. This was clearly beyond traumatic for her. How could he not see that?

And then there was the consideration that he did know it and didn’t care. That he’d blatantly disregarded both her physical and mental well-being. It was a hard thought to swallow.

Setting the weights down, I walked over to the treadmill to begin my run. I needed to continue our progress, but I was unsure if making her relive the last ten months right now was a good thing. She needed to trust me. And although I had many questions for her, I would have to be put on hold.

Throughout the rest of my five-mile run, I went over various ways I could continue to grow that small amount of trust we’d developed so far. I had just settled on a plan when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

“Good morning, Brianna.”

“Good morning, Master,” she answered.

Her voice sounded fairly strong considering the rough night I knew she’d had. “I’m almost finished here,” I said. “You may start the routine Brad gave you and then meet me downstairs when you’re done.” She nodded, walked over to the mats, and began to stretch.

My eyes trailed over her figure as she moved. She was beautiful. As my gaze traveled up over her hips to her lower back and then a little higher, I stopped.

Last time she’d been in the gym with me, I’d laid out a tank top for her. Today, she was wearing only a sports bra and shorts, revealing much more of her back to me. And there on her pale skin were small scars.

I forgot the remainder of my run, as I turned off the machine and stepped toward her. As I got closer, it was obvious who had done this to her. The marks were precise, covering only the section of her back that would have been hidden by the tube top she’d been wearing when I’d first met her. Before I knew what I was doing, I was standing directly behind her, reaching out to the marks on her flesh.

Brianna went rigid at my contact. My eyes rose to meet hers in the mirror in front of her. She began to lower her gaze. “Don’t,” I said, as gently as I could.

Her eyes rose again and held mine as my fingers traced the patterns of raised tissue on her back. I didn’t need to ask if Ian had done this to her. I already knew the answer to that. Instead I said, “I would never do this to you, Brianna.”

And I wouldn’t. I had left bruises before but never scars. I’m not even sure I would do it if a submissive asked me to, and I was absolutely positive that Brianna had never asked to be marked like this.

My declaration was met with nothing but silence, but I knew she’d heard me. Her breathing had become more labored, and her eyes opened just a bit wider as if surprised.

I had no idea how long we stayed there watching each other in the mirror, until I finally stepped back and broke the spell. “Finish, shower, and then meet me in the kitchen. We’ll get breakfast, and then I have plans for us.”

With that, I turned and left her alone.

Two hours later, we were both dressed and fed. I took her hand and brought her into the living room. Standing in front of her, I asked her to look at me.

“Do you know what a safe word is, Brianna?” I was almost positive I already knew the answer to that question given what little she’d already told me, but I had to know. She confirmed my suspicions when she shook her head no.

I nodded and continued. “Has anyone ever asked you to rate something on a scale of one to ten?”

She nodded.

“Good,” I said and then asked, “Do you trust me, Brianna?”

Immediately I saw clamping her lips together. She was thinking how to answer, but this was exactly what I wanted. “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most and one being the least, how much do you trust me? Answer honestly.”

She seemed to consider her answer for a minute and then very softly said, “Five.”

Well that was better than a one or a two, even a three or a four. “Thank-you. I am pleased that you at least trust me halfway at this point. I will do my best not to break the trust you have in me.”

Her expression was one of utter confusion. I knew what I said couldn’t possibly make sense to her now, but hopefully it would soon.

“Periodically I will ask you to tell me your level of comfort at any given moment. Whenever I do, I want you to give me the number between one and ten that best describes your current level of discomfort. Do you understand?”

“I . . . I think so,” she answered.

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