Page 83 of Princess of Pride
I have to remember to breathe and not hold my breath.
I need to talk to him so he can be assured I’m taking in oxygen.
If I don’t talk, he will force me to.
If I seem faint, hewilltie me up so I can’t move and slow everything down, so I’ll be forced to beg and therefore breathe more.
I told him we could do nothing at all, or that I could practice pleasuring myself until I’m better trained. He dismissed the idea, saying if I were alone and passed out, it would be worse, and then he forbade me from touching myself unless he’s there to supervise.
Before obstinately carrying me up the stairs and tucking me into bed, he made me drink a glass of water and had Lorna put an additional one on my nightstand.
Then he locked me in. Literally locked the door from the outside. He told me right before he did it, and I heard the click. I assumed he locked the secret door in the dressing room too. Lachlan is nothing less than thorough.
Despite boiling with anger and mortification, I fell asleep quickly and didn’t wake up until 10:00 a.m., according to the ornate silver clock on the nightstand.
Waves crash faintly outside the windows, and a persistent drizzle falls from the gray sky. It looks cold, but I’m warm under the covers. I almost don’t want to get up, but I fear Lachlan will check on me soon—if he hasn’t already—and I’d rather be showered and dressed before dealing with him.
Still anxious about what happened last night, I slowly get out of bed and take several deep breaths before walking to the dressing room.
Lorna, bless her soul, laid out a few outfits with a note explaining they’d be good options for the weather today. Are the seas ever calm here? The wind lessfierce?
She also left a covered tray of food on a rollaway table near the large ottoman. Coffee, orange juice, oatmeal—porridge?—with fruit, toast, and jelly. Jam?
They use different words than we do in America. Last night’s dinner seemed French inspired though, but then Lorna did pronounce the chef’s name with a French accent.
Not really hungry, I nibble on a bit of each then shower, blow dry my pin-straight hair, and dress in my own version of what Lorna laid out. I don’t mean it disrespectfully. She doesn’t force anything on me the way Mom did. I just like creating my own outfit.
A turquoise sweater, black leggings, and matching riding boots—maybe Lachlan will take the hint. With all these acres—over 28,000 Rory mentioned at dinner—there has to be a stable with horses.
I try to open the secret door, assuming it’s the way Lorna came in because I didn’t hear her in my bedroom. For as kind as she seems, she clearly follows Lachlan’s orders.
It’s locked, so I leave for the bedroom and the other door only to find Lachlan standing near the fireplace in my room.
“I was wondering when you’d wake up.” His gaze is on the rainy view out the window.
“Did you check on me after locking me in last night?” I wouldn’t put it past him. He turns and zeros in on my sweater. Yes, the color matches his eyes. “I wore turquoise before I met you. It’s a good color for me,” I add with snark.
“It’s a great color on you.” He shuffles closer, dressed in a muscle-hugging sweater, fitted charcoal pants, and stylish hiking boots that throw me.
“Where are you going?”
“I could ask you the same.” He stares at my boots.
