Page 3 of Never Broken

Did that mean?—

It couldn’t.

No slave woulddare.

But I had to find out for sure, right?

I cleared my throat, trying to sound disapproving. “Is that any way to talk to me?”

“Sorry. Didn’t we do this already, miss?”

An accent it was, but slight, and New York was nowhere in the mix. More like Berlin by way of Paris by way of … California, maybe? And even more shocking, a sense of humor. The last time the valet had cracked a smile was probably three decadesago. The same more or less went for the others. Humor was not generally something that fetched a high price on the auction block. Obedience, physical strength, and occasionally looks—that was what counted.

“Make up your mind yet?”

“Huh?”

“About what you wanted.”

“What?” I was speaking in monosyllables, but I was exhausted and delirious and quite frankly, shocked. Nothing about what was going on right now made sense.

“You must have wanted something. A glass of water, maybe? A turndown? Or maybe a back massage?”

“From you?” Actually, my back was killing me, and so was the thought of how good a cute boy’s hands might feel pressing firmly, deeply, maybe even a little bit roughly into those knots. Buthedidn’t need to know that. Whoeverhewas. And how the hell could I be so sure he was cute?

Beats me. But I was.

Anyway, I shouldn’t be engaging with him at all. Sure, he was just joking around with me. No harm there—at least if he’d been some cocky frat boy in my class. From a slave—and what else could he be?—it was bold, unacceptable, dangerous insolence.

On the other hand, nobody else was around to hear. “What doyouknow about massages?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it.

“Okay, I admit, nothing. But I could probably figure it out. They say it’s all in the wrists.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to touch me.” Don’tthink? If he was a slave, touching me could get him thrown into a pit mine.

“Come on, nobody would see.”

“Oh, sure.” I snorted. “And give you an excuse to get your hands on me?”

“Who says I want my hands on you? I don’t even know what you look like. Come down here and show me, and then I’ll decide.”

“Why should I come down there? I wanted a macchiato. You’re supposed to make it and bring it up to me.”

“Oh, so you did buzz for a reason.”

I scoffed in irritation. “Yes. Now can you please get me some coffee?”

“Please,”he repeated, savoring the word like chocolate—the kind of chocolate slaves, even well-treated ones, rarely got to taste. “I don’t hear that word too often. I like the sound of it, coming from you. Say it again.”

“Not a chance.” Why did my face feel so—oh, fuck. I wasblushing. He was flirting with me, and to my astonishment, I was kind of—just a little—flirting back. This was crazy. I had to stop it, now. “Forget theplease. I’m ordering you to get me a coffee.”

“Can’t. I’m busy.”

“Busy?”Thatwas a word that didn’t seem to be in a slave’s vocabulary. “Doing what?”

“I’ll give you a hint—my hands are wet.”

“With water?”

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