"Everybody set?" the pony-tailed man asked from behind the driver's seat.
"Take us home, Sam," Miranda said, buckling herself in beside Ana.
Ana's last view of Peyton, as the van pulled around her, was of her spitting fury as she bent to grab up a fistful of gravel and flung it wildly, peppering the entire driver's side of the vehicle.
"Oh ho," Sam said, chuckling darkly, though he didn't look all that amused. "Somebody is about to open herself up a big ol' can of whoop ass."
"I'd rather send her ass to jail," the man directly in front of Ana said.
Jackson glanced back over his shoulder, looking over Ana once before telling him, "Unfortunately, Alan, police don't consider the abduction of a submissive as serious a crime as we do. She left the Castle of her own accord. No one is going to consider that holding her against her will."
Disapproval laced his words, filling the back of the car with air so heavy it was smothering. Had any of them leveled even half that amount of censure at her in a look, Miranda most of all, Ana would have crumpled into tears. She could barely hold it together as it was. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, and every breath she took felt shallow and ineffective.
Miranda laid a hand upon her knee. "It's all right," she said, patting her. "We'll be home soon."
That there would be consequences to face when they got there didn't need to be said. Ana knew that part already.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Do you want sugar or honey with your tea?" Miranda asked, busying herself in the kitchen with two cups and a pot steeping with a raspberry herbal blend that she'd spooned into it from an unmarked tin from the cupboard.
Ana didn't answer. Sitting on the couch, surrounded by lovely plants, she couldn't understand how Miranda could be so calm and neutral after everything that had happened. "Why aren't you angry with me?" she asked instead.
Pausing over the cups, Miranda looked up at her. "What good would being angry do?" she countered softly. "What would it change?"
It would make her feel better. Less guilty, maybe, if only Miranda would get mad enough to justify the awful knot she could feel sitting in her gut, refusing to untangle despite the instant relief that seeing her rescuers come leaping out of that white van had brought. But Miranda didn't get mad. Instead, what had she done but bring her straight back upstairs to her apartment, sit her firmly upon the sofa, and make them both a pot of tea. A litany of recriminations would have been easier to bear, especially when Ana knew she deserved it.
"Have you eaten at all? I could make you a sandwich."
Ana shook her head. The way she was feeling right now, she didn't think she'd be able to keep down the tea, much less anything solid. "Are you going to punish me?"
"For what?" Miranda said, coming out into the living room with both steaming mugs in hand. "She tricked you into thinking your father had had a heart attack. You believed he might even have been dead. I don't think there's a person in this entire place who would not have reacted the way you did. So, no." Miranda sat down beside her, placing one of the mugs firmly into her hands. "I am not going to punish you."
Ana didn't know how to process the curious sense of loss that percolated through her then. She had been so humiliated the last time Miranda had done that, so angry—especially at the publicness of it, but even while it had been happening, Ana had also felt almost comforted by the ordeal. As if by punishing her, Miranda were telling her that she mattered. That she belonged to her.
Her mouth opened—to argue, Ana was shocked to realize—but Miranda stopped her before she could get the words out.
"I need to tell you something. It's not going to be easy for me." Tracing two fingers along the rim of her cup, Miranda studied the amber liquid as if searching it for the right way to explain. "When I brought you here, I told you we would be completely honest with one another. So far, that has been a promise you have held to and which I have not." Failing to find courage in her cup, Miranda set it aside completely. Swiveling on the couch, she faced Ana. "I need to tell you where I've been going every day."
Having just suffered the effects of her own 'emergency', Ana wasn't at all sure she wanted to hear about Miranda's.
Miranda hardly paused to take a breath before forging on. "Every instinct tells me I have to be strong. Resilient. I know you were angry when I kept certain things to myself…"
"Not angry," Ana tried to say, but Miranda silenced her with a gesture.
"Please let me finish. This is hard enough to admit without your helping me stay mum."
Swallowing back her half-hearted objections, Ana clung to her tea with both hands and waited.
"You must understand my position. You were fresh from an abusive relationship, or, more correctly, you were trying to get out of an abusive relationship. At least, on your part."
Her guilt surging, Ana looked at her hands.
Softening, Miranda touched her knee. "I'm not blaming you, lovely. I am trying, very clumsily, I might add, to explain how reluctant I was to lay my burden on you when you were already dealing with so much."
Surprised, Ana glanced up at her again.
"My job as a Dominant is to keep you safe, healthy, and happy. My problems are mine, or so I thought. But I can see now, I was wrong. If there is to be anything more than simple friendship between us, I have to be every bit as vulnerable and as open as you have been." Miranda looked away first. She tried to smile to cover her awkwardness. "You have no idea how difficult that is going to be for me. I've spent too many years keeping too many things to myself."
Ana hesitated. "What sort of things…" Her voice trailed away. Having been silenced already once before, she was afraid to press.
Seeming to make a decision, Miranda suddenly stood up. She left the living room, disappearing down the short hall into the bedroom, only to return a few seconds later with a familiar picture frame in her hands. Reseating herself on the couch close beside Ana, she visibly braced herself before handing the photograph over. It was the one from her dresser mirror. The one of her smiling with that man, who lacked any familial resemblance and yet who stood with his arm around her in a way that bespoke the kind of intimacy Ana ached for.
"His name is Don," Miranda softly told her. "He was my mentor, once upon a time. He has been my best friend in the world, and I would call him my lover if such platonic things could be termed that way."
Ana's shoulders, which had grown increasingly more tensed as she listened to Miranda describe him, relaxed at that specification.
Miranda quieted. She licked her lips, forging on even more softly than before. "He's the one I've been going to see. He's in the hospital. He's dying. It's been a long time coming, but that doesn't make losing him any easier."
"Miranda." Ana paled, those knots in her stomach twisting violently as shame grew up under her already heavy guilt. "I am so sorry. I didn't know. If I had—"
"I know." Taking the picture back again, Miranda traced loving fingers along the frame before, reluctantly, setting it aside. "I didn't want you to know. Selfish of me, I admit. In spite of everything you were going through, you brought happiness and joy into my quiet life. With you, I didn't have to think about losing Don. I'm sorry, Ana. You were right when you said openness should go both ways. Can you forgive me?"
The naked humility of Miranda's request shamed Ana even more. Of all the scenarios she'd imagined Miranda might use to explain her insistence on leaving at all those unwanted and inconvenient times; that she might be nursing a dying friend hadn't even entered her mind. She didn't know where to look. Silence grew between them, refusing to be dispelled. "I've been an idiot."
"That doesn't answer my question."
Ana set her untouched cup of tea aside. "You haven't done anything that requires forgiving, Miranda. I have—"
"No…"
"Yes, I have. I can't believe I got upset thinking…"
"Thinking what?"
Ana's cheeks burned. "Please don't make me tell you."
The
y both fell quiet again, at least until Miranda added, "I told him about you."
Until then, Ana hadn't known she could feel any worse about herself. It was hard to imagine Miranda having anything positive to say about her to her dying friend.
"He was the one who suggested I bring you here."
Ana groaned. "Why?"
"Because he wanted me to be happy." Miranda smiled at the memory.
Groaning all over again, Ana covered her face with both hands. She was shaking again now, too. Tears began to burn her eyes until, in despair, she threw her hands up in the air, letting them fall helplessly back onto her knees. "Look at how well that turned out."
Reaching for her hand, Miranda covered it with one of her own. "Don't you see, dear heart? You do make me happy. We've both made our mistakes, but I love having you here with me. I could not have endured this… losing Don… if I hadn't had you to help keep me sane."
Ana had to turn her head away. The air was so thick she could hardly breathe. "I've been so selfish. I was angry with you. I did… wrong things. I left…"
"I left, too."
"I can't believe you're not mad."
Releasing her hand, Miranda cupped her chin instead, applying just enough pressure to bring Ana's eyes back to hers. "Again, lovely, what good will getting mad do?"
Ana took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling inside. "It would make me feel better. I know you're trying to be nice and that you've forgiven me."
"There's nothing to forgive," Miranda insisted.
"You keep saying that," Ana laughed, trying hard not to cry. "But that's not how I feel. I feel like I've betrayed the best friend I've ever had!"
With the pad of her thumb caressing down Ana's cheek, Miranda said, "Only a friend?"
The disappointment in Miranda's tone made Ana catch her breath. Her heart squeezed. For the longest time, she couldn't move. "D-do you want more? W-with me?"
Shaking her head, Miranda stared down at her with such wonder. "How long has it been, lovely, since we truly talked to one another? We used to do so much better than this."
She was right, too. From the moment Ana had stepped down off the bus, they had been talking to one another, but for some reason, they just hadn't been talking well. What they were doing wrong, or how to fix it, she didn't know, but when Miranda suddenly jumped up off the couch, the separation that sprang up between them felt like an ominous premonition.
Everything she touched… Ana covered her face, too depressed to do anything but hide behind her hands.
"Sit up," Miranda said suddenly, coming back to her side.
Lowering her hands, Ana stared uncomprehendingly at Miranda's extended laptop. "Am I looking up plane tickets home?"
She'd half-heartedly meant it as a joke, but once it was said and out between them, it didn't sound or feel that way.
The Mistress was not far beneath the surface of Miranda, and Ana caught a brief glimpse of her in the warning flash of temper that passed over her. Her mouth tightened, but in the end, she only placed the laptop into her lap. "Open it, and log in."
Turning on her heel, Miranda picked up her cell phone and left the living room. Within seconds, the bedroom door down the short hall closed, leaving Ana sitting alone on the couch, surrounded by plants and silence, and feeling like a failure.
Not sure what she was supposed to do next, Ana did as she was told and opened the notebook. Heaven in Horticulture sprang up on the screen. It was already on the log-in page.
A slow bloom of warmth began to cut through the sick tangle of knots in the core of her. Laying her hands on the keyboard, Ana typed in her log in and password, and then hit enter.
CasMisMir was already waiting for her, a summons into a private chat blinked on the lower part of the screen. She double-clicked on it, and up popped the window. The second it acknowledged her arrival, CasMisMir's first message was received.
Hello, Ana.
Ana couldn't stop the smile spreading slowly across her face, growing up like the warmth inside her until heat and happy were all that she could feel. How many months had they spent talking just like this, online conversations in which they had shared so much and gotten to know each other better than most lovers knew after years of togetherness? I haven't talked to you in ages.
Yes, I'm sorry about that. I've had a visitor for the past week, but I'm afraid I wasn't a very good host.
Ana shifted on the couch, pulling her feet up under her. Miranda was making an obvious effort to connect, but she just didn't know how to respond. She typed and deleted a dozen times before settling on a reply. I'm sure you were a great host. Guests take a lot of time and energy.
I left her alone when I shouldn't have. I made so many mistakes. I don't know if she'll want to give me—and us—a second chance.
Ana's eyes blurred with tears. Don't be silly. She probably feels the same way, only stupid and young, and so vastly inexperienced that she can't possibly compete with all the amazing people you know.
There are times when I wish I were anywhere but at the Castle. People compare it to Disneyland, but for adults. They're right, it's a fantasy, not real life. That's what I so loved about this girl. She was real, all the time. Every single minute I spent with her, felt like magic to me. Even the bad minutes held a certain amount of magic.
Ana caught her breath. Miranda felt that way about her, too? Did you ever tell her that?
The cursor blinked. I thought she knew. Another mistake, I know. And then when everything started happening to Don…
Why didn't you tell her?
A long pause. How could I burden her when I'm the one who's supposed to be strong? Perfect? Infallible?
Maybe she doesn't want you to be strong, perfect, or infallible all the time, Ana typed, trembling in her chair. Maybe she doesn't want you to be anything but who you are. Maybe she wanted to be burdened.
My experience has always been that no one wants to be burdened.
Her hands shaking, Ana let herself confess all. When you love someone, you do.
From the bedroom down the hall, she heard the thump of feet hitting the floor and a herald of long-legged steps quickly coming back to the living room. Ana barely had time to set the laptop aside and stand up before Miranda reached her. When she saw the tears spilling over Miranda's lashes, she lost the fight against her own. Of all the battles she had fought that day, losing this one felt the least defeating.
"I'm sorry," Miranda whispered, throwing her arms around Ana.
Who lost her balance first, wasn't important. The couch caught them, though Ana barely felt the cushions. Miranda didn't let her. Twisting upright, she scooped Ana onto her lap, folding her arms around her, holding her so fiercely close that Ana struggled to breathe.
"I love you, too," Miranda confessed. "I've wanted you more than I've wanted anything in a very long time."
The longing she heard in Miranda's soft voice was more than her already battered defenses could bear. Cracking, like flecks of shattering glass, began to fill her up inside. Ana tried to burrow deeper, to lose herself in Miranda's tight embrace so she wouldn't have to feel the chasing awfulness, but it refused to be ignored, even when Miranda pulled back, cupping her face in both long hands. A woman could lose herself in the way Miranda gazed into her eyes, and yet, that fleeting happiness was dissipating. All Ana felt now was broken.
She closed her eyes, trying hard not to hate the gentleness with which Miranda kissed her. The saltiness of both their tears mingled in the twining of their tongues, but as much as she wanted to lose herself in the sweetness, in the feather-light wanderings of Miranda's fingertips as she traced down the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw, and up the curve of her cheek, there was a wrongness in the pit of her that she just could not exorcise on her own. The familiar scent of lavender and mint felt at once like coming home, and yet it wasn't the gentleness of Miranda's hand that she wanted just then. It wasn't gentleness that she needed.
Her breath quickening, and not from the
kiss, Ana pushed gently back on Miranda's shoulders until the kiss broke and they were once more looking at one another, eye to eye.
The magnitude of having to ask for what she needed was almost beyond her. "Will you please spank me?"
Miranda's fingers on her cheek stilled, but only for a moment. Cupping her chin between tender fingers, her eyes still glistening with the tears that tracked wet lines down her face, Miranda smiled. "Oh, my lovely." She stroked Ana's short dark hair, letting her fingers comb out through the wispy ends. "Of course I will. Go. Fetch me the Bad Ana hairbrush. It won't be nice, but when it's over, you'll be my good girl once again."
Nice wasn't what she needed anyway, and yet, when Ana rose to search out the hairbrush, her knees wobbled a bit. As scary as it had felt to have to ask for her spanking, knowing she was going to get it was even worse.
She found the hairbrush sitting on the dining table right next to the flogger, which was no closer to being put away than it had been all day. Had it only been that morning? After everything that had happened, it felt more like days ago. She picked it up, her other hand reaching back to touch her bottom, her fingers seeking out the fleshy places where Miranda had laid those sparse few stinging slaps. That had been a sampling; this was going to be the real thing.
The words 'Bad Ana' hadn't yet been engraved in the back or the handle, but Ana didn't need to see them to feel the weight they carried in every step that brought her back to the couch and Miranda, who'd positioned herself until she was centered on the cushions, her long legs providing a more than ample lap. It was like the first day they'd met all over again. Only now, sexy, blushing and stammering, were the last things Ana felt like.
She held out the hairbrush, offering it to Miranda by the handle.
Miranda took the hairbrush first, and then her hand. Gazing up at Ana, she gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "I love you."
Even knowing how much this was about to hurt, surprisingly, that made Ana feel better.
"I love you too," she replied, and then Miranda helped to guide her down across her knees.
Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (Masters of the Castle) Page 22