Page 37 of Don't Say A Word

I pad over to him. Ever obedient. Ever submissive. I consider kneeling but he hasn’t said the command phrase. I am not expected to be in full submission mode yet.

Wrapping the towel around my shoulders, he dries my body as I stand still. The towel is soft and if I close my eyes, I can imagine I am in the embrace of my lover. Someone who cares.

I lift my arms, bend my legs, turn when he needs me to. Once he is done, he folds the towel back over the railing.

“Follow me.” He turns and walks out of the bathroom. I follow. “He’s allowing you to be clothed.”

Sure enough, a rack of clothing now stands at the foot of my bed. But it is not filled with jeans and t-shirts like I used to wear, it is filled with silky dresses and lacy underwear. All in shades of reds and black. Soft reds that remind me of the blush of a rose. Bright reds that make me think of the lipstick Roxy likes to wear. And deep reds that remind me of blood. I run my fingers over the material longingly. I have been naked for so long, I no longer care. No longer feel shame.

Because my body is not mine. It is his. Whoever he is.

“Pick something. Get dressed.”

The dresses call to me. Apart from the red stone, the shampoo and body wash, my world is gray. I pick a dress made of a material that slides over my body and hugs my hips. I am still naked beneath it and my nipples form peaks due to the coldness of the material. It feels like ice but looks like fire.

His eyes watch me appreciatively and a spark of boldness ignites within me. Maybe it’s because I’m clothed. Maybe it’s because I feel less of something and more of someone.

I walk over to where he is leaning with one shoulder propped against the wall and stand so close I can see waves of the storm in his eyes, each hair that covers his chin, each line that mars his forehead.

Slowly I lift my hand. It shakes as my fingers spread, inching toward him. I search for permission in his eyes but find only conflict. War. A battle.

I am so close, my fingers only a whisper away from touching him. I hold my breath. I think he’s holding his. And then his hand flies upward and he grips my wrist like a vice. There are bloodied scrapes over his knuckles that weren’t there before.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Why?” I whisper, our faces dangerously close.

“Because you’re not mine.”

“And yet you touch me.”

“He’s allowed me to. It would be hard to train you if I wasn’t.”

“Who is he?”

His eyes are still locked on mine. “You know I can’t answer that.”

I swallow. It’s painful. “Why me?” My voice is barely audible, afraid of breaking this spell between us.

“You’ve already asked that.”

“But what did I do to make someone think they can own me?”

He shakes his head as his eyes scan my face. They fall to my mouth and he swallows, his voice coming out soft and tender and broken.

“It has nothing to do with what you have or haven’t done. It is about him. It’s because of who he is. Not who you are. You are merely something he wants.”

Then something changes in his expression. He remembers where we are, who he is, what he is supposed to do. Pain shoots up my arm as he twists my wrist viciously.

“Don’t say a word,” he growls.

And I fall to my knees, the spell broken.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MIA

I wake with fear prickling my skin. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I’m taken back to the first time I woke here. The panic. The dread. The terror.

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