Page 30 of Wanted
Just like the box under Ethen’s bed had been the one thing that claustrophobic Kitty could barely tolerate, and yet that was how he’d punished her. He’d make her crawl on the floor, sleep in the kitchen, use the litterbox, eat and drink from food dishes on the floor—if he was mildly annoyed. When he really wanted to punish her, he put her in the box, turned out the lights, and waited until she broke down past sobbing, begging, kicking and clawing to get out. Past screaming—those had been awful nights. He’d wait until she was practically catatonic before he’d let her out. Sometimes it took days for him to be satisfied.
Puppy had her kennel, her beatings, and her ostracization. Ethen barely let her belong in the first place. She was always on the bottom of the pecking order and they all had treated her that way. Even after he’d gone to prison and they’d have nothing left but each other, Pony had clung to Puppy, but she had ordered her about too. Kept her in line. Bullied her.
Slapped her.
Pony looked at her food. The only one who didn’t have a special punishment was her.
Except, that wasn’t quite true, she thought with a suddenly pang of hurt. The only thing Pony had wanted more than anything was for Ethen to love her. And practically from the beginning, what had he done but bring other women into the home he’d allowed her to share. Ethen’s home, yes, but she’d lived there with him. At his request... his command.
Kitty, Puppy, Piggy... with each one he brought home, she’d put on a fake smile and pretended it was fine, but deep inside it had felt as if he were cutting her into pieces. He’d called it a poly household, but really, he was just replacing her without releasing her. And she’d spent four years convincing herself it was fine, because for as long as she accepted it, she could be with him.
She’d convinced herself it was fine if he wanted to share her with his friends, too. She belonged to him, heart, body and soul, and if it brought him pleasure to watch other men fuck her, then she was happy to do it. Except that, it hadn’t brought her pleasure and she’d been far from happy. But he was the Master and she the submissive, and any attempt to talk to him about it was viewed as sedition. Then, instead of loving her, he’d punish her—refusing to look at her, talk to her, command her. He’d banished her from his bed and, when he was really annoyed, he’d forced her to put on her full Pony gear, tie her over the horse in her room, and whip her with the crop until she would do anything, promise anything, just to get him to stop.
Yes, Ethen was good at finding punishments that, rather than fitting the crime, fit each submissive’s worst fear and greatest insecurity.
Right from the beginning, he’d identified hers, and she’d loved him for it.
Pushing back his chair, Marcus reached over and took the fork from her hand. Her breakfast began to blur when he took her wrist next, pulling gently until she finally had no choice but to get up.
She wasn’t going to cry. She refused to cry. For God’s sake, she’d cried a fucking river in the last few days. She was done. And yet, when he drew her down to sit on his lap, her shoulders started shaking and out the tears came anyway.
“I’m so stupid,” she wailed, offering no resistance as he pressed her head down onto his broad shoulder. His arms folded around her, embracing her tightly. “He really hurt me, and still, I miss him.”
Marcus said nothing. Rubbing her back, he rocked her instead.
She wasn’t worth comforting.
She shoved to get off his lap, but he refused to let her go. A flash of anger cut through her and she lashed out, punching his shoulder. One blow was all it took for every thread of self-control she had to simply snap. She wrenched to get off his lap, but he locked her down, holding her while she kicked and beat and finally just screamed.
As fast as it hit her, the rage was gone, leaving behind only the worthless realization that Ethen had never really wanted her. He’d never loved her, never desired her, never enjoyed her in any regard except in the pleasure he found in depriving her of everything, including her self-respect.
“The heart’s a wretched thing,” Marcus said simply, once the worst of the storm had passed and only her unending river of tears remained.
And maybe that was the saddest part of all. Here they were, sitting over unfinished breakfasts and each missing someone they used to love, but which a bullet beyond their control had robbed them of.
“Life sucks,” she hiccupped between sniffles.
“Sometimes,” he agreed. “If you think this is going to get you out of finishing your breakfast, however, I’ve got a paddle that says otherwise and no problem taking your pants off while I use it.”
He was rocking and cuddling her, so Mr. Hardass he wasn’t, but it struck her as funny. Laughing through her tears, this time when she pushed to get off his lap, he let her go. Returning to her own chair, she gingerly lowered herself to sit, picked up her fork and, with a sigh, ate the damn eggs.
Chapter 7
Pony/Anna
“I can’t do this,” she said, gripping the envelope with the money he’d given her in both hands.
“Yes, you can,” he replied, like this was no big deal at all, but she knew better and she was serious. She couldn’t do this. She knew she couldn’t because he wasn’t the first person since Ethen had gone to prison to try to send her shopping. Puppy’s mother had done it too, and then called her useless when she’d had a meltdown in the bread aisle. How did one even begin to find the right loaf when the list just said ‘bread’ and there were a dozen brands, a million varieties, and she had no clue what everyone liked?
And this, what he wanted her to do first? This was going to be even harder.
Bowing over in the passenger seat, Pony did her best to put her head between her knees, the way he’d taught her yesterday when she’d had a meltdown over which cup to use when she made her morning coffee. The man had a twenty-mug collection of all colors, shapes and humorous sayings. Ethen had had three coffee mugs, all exactly the same and no menagerie girl was allowed to use them.
“It’s a test, but an easy one,” Marcus had told her, arms folded across his chest, hip propped against the kitchen island, ankles lazily crossed while he watched her agonize in frozen indecision. “Out in the real world, honey, no one is going to care which mug you use. Take a deep breath, reach up your hand, and pick one.”
Easy to say, but what if she got the wrong mug? What if she picked his favorite, or picked one with sentimental value? What if she dropped and broke it?
“Any mug,” Marcus had coaxed her, and it took ten minutes and actual tears for her to finally put her hand on one and pull it down. “Now, put coffee in it and take a sip.” He waited while she obeyed. “See? The world didn’t end.”
