Page 22 of Savage

“The dishwasher is there,” Hunter says, pointing.

“Am I going to be your maid?” I ask, immediately feeling stupid for the question. Of course I’m going to be his maid. It doesn’t seem like he needs one, though. Everything is so neat—sterile, even.

Hunter gives me a look. “I pay for a cleaner. She comes once a week. You’re going to clean up after yourself and keep things tidy if you notice something out of place. I don’t tolerate messes.”

Is there anything he does tolerate?

“Yes, sir,” I say. I’m not used to having things to have out of place, honestly. Most of what I wore at Ntimacy was basic, and anything more elaborate was from the dressing room everyone took a turn at using. I didn’t have anything to call my own, so of course the room I’d stayed in was spotless.

“Do you know how to cook?” Hunter asks, his eyes still boring into me.

It’s strange though. Despite my nudity, he really is just looking at my face. It’s different from how the men at Ntimacy treated me.

“Not really,” I say. It’s been a long time since I’ve even tried. When I was home… But if I think about that, I’ll cry. “I can follow a recipe.” I fidget with the tray, looking down at it instead of meeting those intense blue eyes.

Hunter makes a sound, and I can’t tell if that’s disapproval. I tense anyway, waiting for him to chastise me.

“What are you waiting for?” he finally asks.

I look up at him again, puzzled. “What?”

Hunter rolls his eyes and motions to the dishwasher. “The dishes?”

I’m still not following, and it’s only when he makes another impatient gesture at me that I realize I’m still holding the tray. I blush, going over to it to stack the dishes inside. There aren’t many, and it’s not long before I’m stuck with nothing to distract myself with. I cross my arms against my chest now that I’m not holding the tray, trying to hide as much of myself as I can from view.

“I won’t remind you to do simple things every time. If you neglect something, I’ll find an appropriate punishment.”

Then he walks on, snapping his fingers as if to signal for me to follow, like I’m a dog.

“Why can’t you remind me?” I ask, frowning, and it takes me a moment to reluctantly follow after him. “People forget things. Why wouldn’t you just… mention it, instead of skipping to a punishment?”

Hunter leads me to the living room with its white leather couch and white rug and white coffee table and white everything. I feel like I’m going to stain it just by setting foot into the area.

“Because I am not your mother,” Hunter says curtly. “And because lack of care for one’s environment shows lack of care for oneself. You belong to me now, and you will follow my rules.”

I want to say something clever, but all I have in me is, “Yes, sir.” The agreement isn’t sincere, though. I don’t want to just mindlessly do what he orders me to do. I can clean up after myself, but I don’t like the idea of being punished if I do something like… leave a cup out on the counter.

“How would you punish me?” I ask, fidgeting with my hands. I rub the inside of my elbow, and I think of how much easier this would be if I had just a small hit. Something to numb the growing fear and despair inside me.

His eyes catch my movements, and I quickly force my hands down.

“Spankings are traditional. I have other implements. But depending on the infraction, I might find other ways.” He goes to sit in the large white armchair and points to the floor in front of him. “Sit.”

I shiver. I’ve been spanked before by men at Ntimacy, but they’d always been excited about it, never this cold and distant. I have a feeling he’d be like this the whole time he was doing it, too, not even showing a shred of desire.

I don’t know why that bothers me as much as it does.

Instead of responding, I go to the floor in front of the chair and sit down, feeling awkward. I stare down at the clean floor beneath me, and I’m thankful for his cleanliness all of a sudden. This would’ve been disgusting at the club.

He stares down at me long enough that I grow even more uncomfortable. I end up crossing my arms over myself, and that gets me a furrow of his brow in response.

Great. He’ll disapprove of me even when I’m not doing anything at all.

“Kiss my feet,” Hunter says, “and thank me for taking you in.”

I stare up at him, taken aback by the demand. I don’t want to kiss his feet. I don’t want to kiss anyone’s feet. I don’t want him to think I’m worshiping him like he’s some sort of deity—which is clearly what he wants.

“What happens if I don’t?” I whisper.

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