Page 26 of Fallen Petal

Chapter 13

Petal

I’m going to ask him for something today. And he will have to give it to me.

I’ve been so good lately, so fucking good. I never thought I’d ever obey him like this, and do so willingly. It’s strange how he seems to have a clear understanding of the power dynamic between us, and so do I—but I don’t think our perceptions are the same.

He thinks he’s in control. All he sees is a good little prisoner, kneeling before him as he pleases, crying and squealing with twisted delight when he lays his hand on my body, when he fucks me like he owns me, because he thinks he does. He thinks I let him have his way with me because I see no other way. That I let all of this happen because I’m intimidated or even scared of him.

But none of that is true.

I don’t let it happen.

I crave it.

I yearn for him to come back and have his way with me. I yearn for the things he does to me. I don’t wish for the pain specifically, but for what comes after the blinding agony. The vertigo, the ravenous lust, the exhilaration that frees me of everything. He knows how to give all of this to me, and he might be unique in that.

I wonder if I could have given into him like this if I hadn’t seen that video. The girl said I should never tell him that I saw it, but maybe that was just as much part of the plan as everything else? They’re working together on this. Maybe he told her to show it to me but to act as a secret confidant so I’d believe he’s ignorant to my knowledge.

Was this all an elaborate setup to gain my trust—so I could finally enjoy what he has been trying to give me from the beginning? Either way, I can be certain that neither one of them would answer my questions in that regard, so I won’t even bother.

However, I will try for something else today. I already made headway in being allowed up here, a much finer prison cell than the one downstairs. Who says I can’t make it even further?

I suck in a sharp breath when I hear the lock of the door opening, hurrying to my spot on the carpet, at the foot of the bed, about ten feet away from the door, sinking down on my knees and lowering my gaze just in time before he steps inside. His steps are calm and deliberate as always, and I wait in tense anticipation until he comes to a halt right in front of me, placing his hand on the back of my head.

“Good girl.”

I tilt my head back, meeting his dark hazel gaze above. He’s wearing all black again, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal the muscular arms beneath. The smile on his handsome face is mellow and patient. Still, I’m surprised when his first words to me are not an order, but a simple question.

“How are you doing, Petal?”

I wrinkle my eyebrows in confusion, wondering where his question is coming from.

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Don’t respond with a question. Just tell me, honestly. How are you?”

He kneels down in front of me, bringing us close to the same eye level.

“I’m good,” I reply in a whisper.

What else could he possibly expect me to say? Is this a trick question?

“I was told you look exhausted,” he says, tenderly caressing my left cheek as he assesses me. “Petal, are we too hard on you?”

A thin crease appears between his eyebrows and he looks seriously concerned. I’ve seen this look on him before, almost every time after he has been with me during the past few days. Even with my feeble access to the outside light, I’m still not entirely sure how much time has passed since that time he hit me with the cane, the day he fucked me for the first time. The marks are still there, but they’re starting fade, especially in comparison to the newer ones I’ve received since then.

It could have been two days, or three, or four. Even the white rose won’t tell me, because its petals have only wilted slightly ever since I first saw it.

“Are we?” he probes, now holding my chin between two fingers.

“No,” I say. “I’m good.”

“People get addicted to this,” he continues. “To the pain, the euphoria. And then, they need to take it further and further. Stronger hits, deeper cuts, more permanent marks.”

He pinches my chin, tilting my head up and to the side, studying me like a foreign object.

“They don’t know when to stop,” he whispers, an ominous tone lacing his voice. “Until it’s too late.”

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