Page 42 of Servitude to Serpents

My palms slap the ground, catching me when I pitch forward as he finishes his drink and heads down the hallway to his room.

How could anybody be made for this?

When I find my way back to his office, my body is bare and my hair dripping. I slink up to the fire that never seems to go out. Master stands at his desk, his tonedmuscular body still damp like mine, his hands shuffling through the things on top. I watch in rapt fascination, studying every exposed, chiseled vein and muscle. Another glass of liquor is poured and gone before he pretends to have noticed me. It’s something he does a lot, pretends to be oblivious to my presence, but I can always tell the moment my master notices me. Something about his attention sets me on fire, commands every inch of my body, his hazel eyes seeming to commit it all to memory, so I sit pretty for him. In all our time together, it’s the first time I’ve seen Master without a shirt, the sight doing funny things to my stomach. My teeth dig into my bottom lip, resisting the urge to palm the emblem around my neck, the same one he sports on his back. It’s a huge piece; it must’ve taken hours. His vascular arms are littered with tattoos, but as delicious as that all is, it’s not what it noticed first. No, I noticed the scars. Bullet wounds decorate his chest and abdomen, more than I can count before he jostles my attention. He releases a heavy breath, digging through one of his drawers before pulling out a box. Quickly turning away, I ignore it, pretending just as he is, like the fire roaring in the emerald tiled fireplace could compare to the way he makes me burn. I’m thankful when he doesn’t command me to come to him but comes to me instead.

Master stumbles slightly, the tiniest falter in his self-assured stride. It would be almost cute if my anxiety wasn’t maxed out and he hadn’t just blown a hole through my heart. There's something about seeing his control dim… Such a masterful man undone makes my head swim and my belly flutter despite everything. He kneels, the scent of his expensive body wash making my mouth water as his hand finds the base of my spine, pausing at each notch as he trails his fingers upward. When he shifts my hair to the side, I can’t help but fist my new collar. “Master, could I please wear it a bit longer?”

Stupid Chloe. Stupid, insane Chloe.

He fists it right back, letting himself fall against the base of the chair. I yelp as he takes me with him, slamming my back into his chest, his legs spread on either side of me. “You cry too much.”

I nod, letting him take my weight as I watch the light from the flames dance across his sleep pants.

My lips part as his free hand splays across my chest—not mybreasts,my chest. My heart hummers away underneath his palm. Even sitting in front of a fireplace, the heat coming from behind me can’t be matched. “What does it feel like, to be able to cry?”

I frown, finally releasing the emblem. Instead, I place my hands in my lap, fisting them to avoid putting them on top of his, attempting to cage it there. “Sometimes, it feels good. Others, it just makes everything worse. I don’t have a poker face like you. I seemed to have left that skill in my childhood.”

I can smell the liquor on his breath as he leans up, resting his chin on my head. “When we’re forced to be strong before we should be, our brains have a way of balancing that down the line. Perhaps you cry because you’re ready to now. You’re able to shoulder things that would’ve crushed you before.”

His words ring devastatingly true. I never cried much as a child, even before I was taken. I cried, sure, but now, those tears seem limitless.

My chin wobbles as I swallow past the lump that forms in my throat, the burning ache that never leaves my chest. “Odd, isn’t it? That I had to be destroyed before I could?”

He chuckles, snagging the decanter from the table beside us, his hand finally slipping from my chest to my neck. “Destruction is subjective, baby.”

Just like that, the lump evaporates, my heart jolting in my chest like it was jumpstarted. He takes a swig from the crystal decanter, his fingers capturing my jaw as he adjusts my angle. When his lips hit mine, my mind lulls, my hands gripping him like he’s the only thing anchoring me in place. “Open up.”

I do, wetting my lips, savoring the taste of alcohol as he takes another swig. This one, he doesn’t swallow. His mouth captures mine again as he lets the rich tasting liquid trickle into my mouth. It’s strong, smooth, and tastes like amber. I’m greedy in my taking of it, loving the way it undoes the anxiety in my chest, smoothing it out like wrinkles from a pillowcase. Suddenly, the whiplash hurts less, the weight from the day lessened. We sit like that in silence, the sound of Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor playing in my mind. My fingers tap on his legs with a will of their own. He drinks, and now and then, he shares. For amoment, I pretend I’m here of my own free will. Maybe we met at a gala. I played so beautifully, he noticed me. Maybe Master asked me on a date. I pretend, a silly secret smile on my lips, until reality crashes back down on me.

“Time for bed, pet.”

The ache reforms in my chest, only this version feels worse, raw and festering. Suddenly, I’m reminded why I hate Mozart, why I can’t stand the sound of a piano. I’m reminded that I’m nothing but the stupid, naive dog, and I feel even sillier for having played my little game. Master strokes my head affectionately, and what usually melts my insides and sends my core into a frenzy only serves to spurn me further.

He stands, and I’m in an arctic wasteland. I’m alone, only there’s no saltwater lapping at my chin, no burning in my nose as I sputter. I’m locked in my room, and Mom won’t listen to me. I can hear her sobbing in the hall, and I can’t decide if the broken sound is better or worse than her enraged screaming. Getting to my feet, I sway, but it's not the same out of it I felt the night I was taken. Looking back now, it was obvious my drinks had been spiked. I can’t even bring myself to care.

How? How could I possibly not care?

Master guides me into the hall before I turn toward my room. “Goodnight, Master.” My bare feet pad along the runner. One day, he'll discard me, and nobody will know I ever walked here. Nobody will know what happened to Chloe Tyson on November 17th, where she ended up, or the journey she took to get there.

“Pup. With me.”

My head snaps around so fast, it's dizzying, just in time to watch him disappear into his room. I don’t give him a chance to change his mind, wiping at my tears as I rush down the long hall to join him. Once I’m inside, I drop into position as he collapses on the bed, face down, his huge frame eating up the colossal bed. I wait, my core already slick.

He grumbles, his auburn hair disheveled as he pushes himself up off the plush mattress, frowning down at me. “Come, dog. I need sleep.”

I don’t know if it’s the look of bewilderment on my face or the renewed tears welling in my eyes that Master shakes his head at before he collapses again, not bothering to get under the covers. My bladder reminds me it’s nearing full as I scramble to my feet, clambering up the fourposter bed. I don’t dare ask permission to use the bathroom, scared he’ll change his mind. His royal blue silk sheets feel like heaven, but I don’t slip into them. Instead, I curl my myself into his side, being sure to wipe away every tear before it can soil the fabric.

Chapter eighteen

To own is to…. Treasure

Chloe Age 14

“Mom, please, just listen to me! I want to come out. Please!” My voice is hoarse, my hands numb from beating on my bedroom door. “Dad!” I sob. “I’m so sorry! I’m really sorry!” I wrench at the nob some more, but it just turns and turns, teasing me with the possibility of being let out, but it never opens.

“Mom, I’m so sorry! Please listen to me!” My eye throbs behind the gauze patch. The numbing drops from the hospital are on the other side of the door, but honestly, I don’t want them. For five days, I sat in the hospital, watching my world, everyone I love implode around me. So much pain, so much screaming and tears; it was like I was watching it happen to someone else. Until yesterday. Walking back into our house felt like I had been gored, like I was ripped wide, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

“Mom! Mom!” I scream, my voice cracking. The raw, aggravated state of mythroat is made worse by my sobs, but I can’t stop. I want my mom and dad. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

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