Page 86 of Savage

Cooking is out because of the knives, but I’ve always loved the smell of fresh bread. Maybe I could bake, as long as I’m careful with the oven. Hunter would need to buy me a cookbook, but he wants me interested in more things.

Maybe I can try photography, but I wouldn’t want him to buy me an expensive camera until I figured out if it was my thing or not.

I turn the channel on the TV to a cooking competition show, and soon I’m engrossed in watching people who don’t know how to cook learning how to do it on national—global—television while their mentors both cheer them on and get exasperated with their progress. I’m in the middle of the finale when I hear the door unlock, and I abandon the TV to race to the foyer and drop down to my knees hard enough to make me wince.

Hunter smiles when he sees me, and I sigh in relief. He isn’t mad that I called him.

“Hello, Stef.” He pats the top of my head before taking his coat and shoes off.

“Hello, Master,” I answer. Once he’s barefoot, I crawl closer and bend down to kiss the tops of his feet. “Thank you for keeping me, Master. Thank you for taking care of me, Master.”

“Good girl,” Hunter says. He scritches my scalp again. “You are a welcome sight to come home to.”

I smile up at him, sitting up to rest my head against his leg. “I’m so glad you’re home,” I tell him.

He offers his hand to help me up, and I wrap my arms around him, breathing in his scent.

Everything will be all right now. I don’t have to think. I don’t have to worry.

All I have to do is please him.

CHAPTER 22

Hunter

I massage lotion onto Stef’s wrists, careful with the still healing wound. “They’re healing well,” I tell her. I wipe my hands and wrap the bandages around the cuts once more. “You’ll get the stitches out soon. We’ll keep the skin moisturized to reduce the scarring.”

She nods to me, leaning in to nuzzle my arm in a quiet display of affection. She’s been doing more of that lately, and I enjoy the way she looks to me for strength and comfort.

Stef has also been on her best behavior. On days when I have to go to the clinic, she follows all the instructions I leave behind, which mostly include eating, resting, and keeping herself clean and healthy. Sometimes I come home to her napping on the couch, or watching TV, and the sight of her settles something in my stomach.

She’s developed quite the addiction to cooking shows. I’ve come to recognize the voice of the celebrity host counting down the clock to frazzled chefs who’ve had to make meals from mystery baskets, as it always seems to be playing when I get home.

She often earnestly tells me about different things she’s learned that day. Her enthusiasm warms me, and it’s nice to see that she’s developing more interests. Maybe when her hands heal more, she can test out some of her new knowledge in the kitchen—though the idea of her exposed to heat and knives without me there makes me a little wary.

Stef had suggested baking, and I bought her several cookbooks, as well as a heavy-duty stand mixer that will let her mix ingredients or knead bread without straining her wrists.

“Thank you,” Stef says once I’ve finished bandaging her.

I pat her on the head and get up. “I have clothes for you.” I go to the closet and pull out the outfit I’d had delivered a few days ago. It’s a simple combination of jeans and a turtleneck sweater that complements her eyes. I want her to wear sexier things, but I also don’t want her wounds to be on display for everybody.

Stef looks at me in surprise. “Clothes? Are people visiting?”

“Lift your arms.” I help her put on a bra, an undershirt, and the sweater. “And no. We’re going out.”

Her breath catches, and she visibly pales. “What? Why?” She tries to rise off the bed, but I gently push her back down.

“You need a change of scenery.” I squat down in front of her to help get the panties and socks on her. “And I saw an ad for something I think you would enjoy.”

She exhales slowly, looking relieved. “Thank you,” she says. “But you don’t have to take me anywhere. I like making you happy here… where I don’t mess up as much.”

“You won’t mess up,” I say firmly. I get the jeans on her even though she briefly has to stand so I can pull them up the rest of the way. “Sit down on the ottoman. I’ll be right back.” I don’t have to glance at her to make sure she obeys. I know she will.

I go to the bathroom to grab the remainder of the supplies. As expected, she’s sitting exactly where I told her to, her hands nice and limp on her lap. I set the moisturizer down next to her and walk around behind her so I can brush her hair.

“If things get hard, you can come to me.” I go slowly, gently detangling the small knots that formed overnight. “And we’ll take breaks when you get tired.”

The look she casts me is one of utter adoration and relief, and it goes straight to my cock. This is what I wanted—to have someone who’s willing to put their own needs and desires aside and come to me for guidance, and she’s turning out to be perfect now that she’s stopped fighting me.

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