Page 7 of Never Broken

From above, the first sound I heard out of my new owner was an annoyed sigh—and not at me. “Why is he muzzled when the others aren’t?” he asked.

“Protocol, sir,” said Harrigan.

Barrett caught my eye with a sneer. “And after what this particular slave did to Weiss?—”

Oh. I’d just broken his work husband’s nose. That explained it. Luckily, Harrigan shushed him before he could go into detail. It was his ass on the line, too.

“Take it off,” said my master.

What?

“But, Mr. Wainwright-Phillips, his history?—”

Shouldn’t the master be giving the orders?I thought.

“Shouldn’t the master be giving the orders?” he said.

Damn right.

“I’m well aware of his history,” Wainwright-Phillips’s voice continued, “but I decided to give him a chance anyway. I want him to trust me, and needless to say, chaining him up like a rabidanimal won’t accomplish that. Now take that muzzle off. I want to see his face properly.”

Fuck. The prospect of actually not completely hating this guy hadnotbeen on my agenda. And it was going to ruin everything.

“Of course, sir.” The handler seethed. He jerked my face forward and violently unbuckled the muzzle, sending a cloud of his oniony breath radiating down onto my face as the device clattered to the floor. Some improvement. He yanked a thick lock of my hair, wrenching my head to the side. “Bite anybody and you leave here with one nut, mutt,” he muttered in my ear.

“Duly noted, sir,” I muttered back.

“Restraints, too,” said Wainwright-Phillips. Hell, compared to most masters, this guy was practically Spartacus.

“But he?—”

“Restraints, too,”my new master repeated. And all of a sudden, those, too, clattered to the ground again. And there I was with three free people—limbs unfettered, mouth uncaged, just like them. But still I stayed obediently kneeling, eyes on the floor because the chains that bound me were so much more than physical, and all four of us knew it.

All at once, someone wearing expensive leather boat shoes stepped into view. Despite myself, my breathing grew shallow. This was it, and it never got easier. Plan or no plan.

“You can look up, boy.”

I still didn’t move. It could be a trick.

“I mean it. I bought you. You might as well see what you’re dealing with. My name’s Keith Wainwright-Phillips, by the way.” I already knew that, of course, and besides, it wasn’t like we’d be on a first-name basis. That was impossible when one person didn’t have one.

“Yes, sir,” I said, and my master and the sales manager exchanged bemused smiles like I’d just said something cute.

Oh, the accent. Right.

All right, time to size up this weirdo. In his mid-fifties, fit and tall but not as tall as me, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a slight growth of beard, Master Wainwright-Phillips carried with him the same musk of privilege all my masters had had. There was, however, something different about him, and I was kicking myself that I couldn’t yet figure out what. Unless I’d lost track of time, it was a workday, though he wasn’t dressed for work. Rather, with his polo shirt, beard growth, and tan, he looked like someone who enjoyed his leisure time. An avid sailor or golfer, maybe, like my old master.

Maybe that was it. Or maybe it was the fact that just by his critical gaze, I could tell right away that he noticed the burns and bruises. But he didn’t say anything.

Why?

Before I could brainstorm a reason, my new master grabbed my chin and tilted it up, and I knew the gaze. It could come from a male or a female. It didn’t really matter. Let’s face it: When itwasn’tcontused black and blue, the face I’d inherited from my mother—perfect Euclidean bone structure, foxlike eyes somewhere between amber and gold, and thick waves of sun-bleached golden hair falling across it all just so—did the trick every time. I didn’t even pretend to be modest about it. As a slave, you couldn’t be. We were products, after all. I might have sparked Wainwright-Phillips’ initial interest with my education and skills—and my bargain price for a slavewiththose skills—but my pictures were what had closed the deal, and I knew it.

“He really is beautiful,” Wainwright-Phillips said idly to Harrigan, even though at the moment, I was a complete fucking mess. He tapped my mouth to get me to open it, to see if I had all my teeth, or something. Who the fuck knows why they did it? “The photos didn’t lie. I might have to start having dinner parties again; it would be a shame not to show him off. And look at those shoulders. He’s not one of those waifish little pets you see allthe time. He’s strong.” He pinched my bicep below my uniform sleeve—still ripped, like the rest of me, from three years working in chains—then ran his hand down my flat torso like admiring a Thoroughbred.

There wasn’t anything overly suggestive about the touch; it was pretty par for the course. Still, I knew enough never to rule anything out. Even the most devoted hetero family men had been known to make exceptions for slaves because slaves didn’t count, and free men—unlike free women—could fuck whoever and whatever they wanted. Lucky bastards. But to men like my master, a valuable slave was more like a well-trained purebred hunting dog or horse. A creature attractive, functional, maybe even endearing, but decidedly not a person.

Meanwhile, the sales manager nodded obsequiously along, though he would have done that even if Wainwright-Phillips had just told him the clouds were literally cotton candy. Meanwhile, Barrett glared at me, practically salivating.Your balls are mine, mutt.

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