Page 32 of The Masquerade: Room 2

He and I have been friends for a while, and he’s always on me to date more, but I don’t want to share Sir with him or anyone else.

Schooling my face, I try to play it off as nothing. “I think you need some vacation time. You’re clearly so overworked you’re delusional.”

“Deny it all you want, but I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

“Good luck with that.” I head for the door, hoping I’m not blushing at the thought of Sir. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early, Freya. Don’t stay up too late riding the D train.”

“I feel bad for you. I hope you have the good sense to be embarrassed about that last statement.”

“Not my finest hour.”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

The moment I hit the street, I reach for my phone.

Me: Hello, Sir.

As I walk the couple of blocks to the subway, every step is heavier than the last. I don’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep. I work, and I wait. Wait for the next time Sir and I will be together in his playroom.

Sir: Hello, little one.

Chapter 7

PIERCE

“What are you going to do about it, you little shit?”

I wake in a cold sweat, thrashing against my inner demons, tangled in the sheets as I fight the invisible memories of my father. My heart is hammering in my chest, my pulse racing as a spike of adrenaline courses through every cell in my body.

“Fuck.” I fell into bed tonight after a long day at the hospital. It wasn’t that I had challenging surgeries, but sometimes a case comes in that hits a little close to home. An emergency patient landed in my operating room today—she’d been beaten to within an inch of her life, her body covered in defensive wounds. She had blunt-force trauma to the head and suffered a brain bleed. It was touch and go for a while, but my team and I managed to save her life.

The police were eager to get a statement, having taken her asshole husband into custody. He was found at the scene just before finishing the job. Thankfully, a neighbor heard the commotion and called 911. Another five minutes and she’d have died in the ambulance.

Domestic violence cases always burrow their way under my skin, but it’s been a while since I’ve taken it this hard. It took me decades to get past frequent nightmares as a kid. My mom never really acknowledged the fact that I rarely had a night of uninterrupted sleep. She was too busy drinking to curb her nightmares.

I know I’m not going to get any more meaningful sleep tonight, needing an outlet for the adrenaline, my muscles vibrating with the necessity to move. When I look at the clock, I pull in a deep, steadying breath. It’s two a.m. This is the reason I put a home gym in my apartment. It helps when my body is fighting against the memories of my four-year-old self.

Shrugging into a pair of gray sweats, I pad down the hall to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water before heading for the gym. I’m hoping thirty minutes on the rowing machine might tire me out, but I won’t hold my breath.

My dream plays on a loop—the last memory of my father. He wasn’t the only one who died that day. Something in my mother broke beyond repair. Looking back, I think I believed that once my dad was gone, my mom and I would have a better life. How fucked up is that? To think as a fucking child that life without my dad was going to be a nicer experience.

No matter how much I push myself, my mind can’t shut off. The sound of bone cracking as my mom hit him over the head. The way my tiny body ached, like an agonizing pulse ran through every muscle. Then it all went black, and that was the last time the mother I knew held me in her arms.

I think she resented me for forcing her hand. She loved my father, even when he hurt us. It was impossible for her to walk away, but in the end, she knew she had to protect me. That doesn’t mean she didn’t hate me a little for being the reason she took a life—the life of the man she loved.

When I’m dripping with sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead, I give up trying to tire myself out and decide to take a shower.

As I wander through my apartment, I stop at the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, watching the city that never sleeps, wondering where my masked submissive is and who she is. She’ll be sound asleep somewhere, alone in her bed, her face uncovered.

Once I’ve settled on the couch, I pull up the Venom portal on my phone and look over her completed profile. I can’t wait to get her back in the playroom. There is so much I want to teach her and so many scenarios to explore. I click the message icon in the portal and type out a quick text. I don’t want to disturb her by texting her phone. She’ll see a Venom message in the morning.

Me: Hi, little one. I can’t wait to get you in my private room this week. Now that I know what you do and don’t want to try, we can really have some fun. I couldn’t sleep, and I’m thinking of you. Talk later. Your Dom.

Within minutes, my phone rings. It’s her.

“Hello, little one. I wasn’t expecting you to be awake. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

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