Page 63 of Servitude to Serpents

I dig my teeth into my cheeks to hide the silly smile that pulls at my face. It’s not until I go to move up that the passive tether becomes a restraint. My hair pulls at my scalp as he guides me back down, still never looking my way as he sets his jaw hard. “Go back to sleep.”

I’m uncomfortable as hell, thirsty. My neck is on fire, but my heart is so full, it’s on the verge of bursting. I turn to my side, taking the pressure off my collar, and do just that, with that stupid, silly little smile plastered across my face. Sleeping with him is something that has become the norm, but not like…this. Never this close, although I often wake up with a very heavy arm over me, only for him to quickly wake and move away. But he’s not moving away. He wants me here, sleeping in his lap.

He wants me.

Chapter twenty-four

To own is to…. Harm

High by Stephen Sanchez

“He’s burning the fucking sauce!” Gerald, the house chef, roars behind me at the TV in the kitchen. My own eyes are glued to the screen as the contestants of the cooking show we’ve been watching scurry about the state-of-the-art kitchen.

It’s been a week and a half since Mahari and Andres left, and since then, I’ve been given limited TV privileges. It’s almost surreal how life moves on without you, like getting a glimpse of your own death. Sure, people will mourn, they’ll cry and grieve, but eventually, your things are boxed up. They’re sold or moved into a dusty crawlspace. They tuck your obituary pamphlet the funeral home gave them away for safekeeping, not knowing that’s the last time they’ll ever pull it out. Maybe they’ll think of you, wondering if you’re in a better place, but like grief, it will only come in waves. The world moved on just fine without Chloe Tyson in it.

I’m okay with that.

Relieved, even.

There’s no guilt now when the thought of going home, of being saved, only brings tears and mind-razing anxiety. There's no guilt when the idea of losing Master lodges a lump deep in my throat, choking me until I’m again at his side, reassuring myself my situation isn’t changing, that I’m needed…

That I’m good enough to be kept.

Worthy of his affections, no matter how hot and cold they’ve been lately. Work for him has been more demanding than ever; even now, a representative of the House of Ragnar has been in there all day. The family head was apparently too busy to meet; that, or he didn’t want to come. After all, he’s the man whose son was killed…for me. The thought of the man’s face brings a cold, sickening sweat, and suddenly, the smells of dinner around me and the food on screen are no longer appetizing. I swallow past the feeling of spittle gathering in my mouth, a precursor of vomit as I dump my dream-sickle in the trash, rinsing my bowl. It’s almost six. Surely, their meeting is done by now.

I walk past the lounge, eyeballing the piano that has remained untouched since Mahari and Andres left. The idea of playing here isn’t the nail-biting, sanity-unraveling thing it once was, but I have no desire to either way, and Master doesn’t push it. I think he couldn't care less about my wasted talent. There’s something freeing about that. I pad up the stairway, peeking out the large windows that overlook the front drive, confirming the absence of Stuart’s car. That man still hates me every bit as much as he did the day I was bought. With his constant, sulking presence, his whispering in Sir’s ear, we’re on a fast track to the feeling being mutual.

I press my ear to his heavy office doors, despite knowing I won’t hear anything on the other side. My suddenly clammy hands smooth down my royal blue babydoll dress. He said to come get him if I need anything.

Attention counts as something I need.

Right?

I could ask to use the paging system, but I don’t feel like wandering the estate looking for Henrietta, and if Stuart comes back and sees me trying to interrupt,he’ll be angry.

I steel myself, giving the door a slight knock before cracking it enough to listen to Master's command.

“Come in.”

I keep my eyes glued to the hardwood as I walk across the wide room; the fireplace remains cold and unused today, it's certainly getting warm enough outside. He lights it for my benefit most days, anyway.

“Is there something you needed, Pup?”

I shake my head, shifting on my feet. I can feel the eyes of the other man as he bristles at my interruption. Uncertainty slams me as I fidget with my hands. Sir signals for me to take my position beside him, relief filling me.

It doesn’t last long.

The longer their conversations continue, the more the other man makes clear his frustration. “Let’s get to the fucking point, Basilisk. You need backing,capitalbacking, from our house.”

“I need neither backing nor capital. This is merely a formality to smooth over bad blood; you never know what the future holds. Alliances are always shifting. Things come up—"

“That sounds a lot like a fucking threat,” the man sneers, and suddenly, I’m breathing a little harder, my body tensing against Sir’s leg despite his petting warming my skin from the inside.

Master laughs, but it’s not a cheerful sound. It’s a warning, all I need to hear to bury my head deeper into his thigh as his hand stills, leaving my head. “Careful. It seems the younger generation has long forgotten who they’re speaking to.”

The man adjusts in his seat, heeding the warning, at least momentarily. “I have an issue doing business in front ofher.” Sir is still and deadly silent as the man continues, “You shot one of our fucking own over a goddamn whore?” The man stands abruptly, slamming his hands on Master's desk, but the man beside me doesn’t so much as move a muscle.

“He helped himself to her cunt, sure, but to fucking shoot him? Then waltz her fucking ass in here! The disrespect you show me and my house! The rumorsabout you speak of brutality, but not fucking stupidity!”

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