by Smith, Maren
He cut her off. “Are you scared right now?”
“Yes!”
“Of what?” he demanded.
“I don’t under—”
“Seven lies,” he snapped. “Seven cane strokes.”
She huffed again, turning her face away to case her glare out the opposite window. It was as close as he’d yet seen her come to expressing irritation at something he’d done. If he weren’t so upset in his own right, he’d have counted this entire argument as good emotional progress on her part. But it wasn’t good. It wasn’t progress. He wanted to trust her, damn it!
Catching her chin, fingers digging in, he forced her to give him the full brunt of that look directly. “Look at your Sir, not away.”
Whipping her hands off her head, loud as a gunshot, she slapped her palms against her thighs. If it stung, it wasn’t hard enough to make her flinch. “I don’t know what you want me to say!”
He didn’t flinch either. Getting right in her face, he belted out in his drill sergeant best, “What the hell do you have to be scared of, girl?”
Puppy snapped. Thrusting right back into his face now too, she yelled back, “Get rid of me already!” Bursting into tears, she slapped her hands over her face, twisting away in a belated attempt to hide, but he wasn’t about to let her. He pried her hands away, forcing her to retain eye contact even as she broke down, weeping, “Just get rid of me. I’m not worth this. Why haven’t you left yet?”
Letting go of her wrists, he cupped her face between his hands. His thumbs caught her tears, gently caressing them into her skin. “Because you need me,” he softly told her, but it was more than that and he knew it. “Because I’m the kind of Dom who needs to be needed. Because I don’t view people as things to be rid of. Because you’re worth more than you know. And most importantly, because I’m not that guy.”
Hitching a shaky breath, she quavered, “Maybe he’s the only kind of guy I’m good for.”
“Oh, baby girl.” He shook his head, once more caressing away the fresh tears still trickling from her cheeks. “That’s the kind of lie we skip straight to ten for.”
Sniffling, she surprised him when she nodded. “When are you going to do it?”
“I’m going to go in and grab your backpack, and a couple things so you can spend the night at my house. Don’t worry,” he said before she could do more than sniffle.
“Sex is off the table,” she said with him.
It was probably a trick of his imagination that made him want to read more sadness in that than there actually was. She looked at her lap.
“When you’re ready,” he told her, “you can ask me for your caning.”
She nodded.
“Remember how we got to ten. I’m going to expect you to count them out.”
She nodded again.
“Buckle up,” he told her. Standing, he shut the car door, motioned for her to lock it until he got back, and then headed for the house.
Someone was watching from the window, although she quickly vanished behind the curtain the further up the walkway he came. He thought it might have been Pony right up until an older woman with Puppy’s same brown eyes and an echo of her narrow chin cracked open the front door.
“Who are you?” she asked, more wary than unfriendly.
“Carlson Garvey,” he introduced, a little sharper than he’d intended. “I have reason to believe your daughter isn’t safe in this house. Until I believe otherwise again, she’ll be staying with me. I’m here to collect her things. You can either go and get them, or let me in and I’ll do it myself.”
She gaped at him. “You can’t take my daughter.”
“Your daughter is twenty-eight, she can go where she likes, and I’m not about to leave her in an abusive situation.”
“Abusive!” Offended, the older woman jerked open the door to meet him on the porch. “That was an argument. The two are like siblings. They have them all the—wait!”
Carlson had no interest in waiting. Taking the open door for consent, he pushed past her. Passing the living room and kitchen, he ventured down the hallway with the woman following at his heels and sputtering, “Now h-hold… I didn’t say… y-you can’t… This is my house!”
Opening every closed door he came to, he finally found the bedroom he was looking for. Or at least, he assumed it was Puppy’s bedroom, but only because he found Pony sitting forlornly on the edge of a camping cot in front of the closet. The rest of the room was overwhelmingly decorated for a small child going through a princess and My Little Pony phase.
Glancing up, Pony took one look at him peeking in through the open door and erupted in panic. She kick-scooted backward, slamming up against the wall. She grabbed her pillow, the only shield she had, and hugged it fiercely close.
Just looking at her made him angry all over again, but more than that, he pitied her. Hard though it was to see it, she was every bit as much Ethen’s victim as Puppy was.
“I’m just here to collect a few things.”
Shifting to the farthest edge of her cot, she eyed him as he came into the room. He was very careful not to jostle her cot in his search for Puppy’s pack, which he found next to the nightstand at the head of the real bed. It was so surprisingly light that he did something he never, ever would have thought he’d ever do. Flipping open the top, he looked inside.
She had the notebook and pen he’d given her, a crumpled ball of paper, her pink glittery Hello Kitty wallet, what might have been a slave collar but looked more like a cheap pet store dog collar, complete with silver bone-shaped emblem, and a house key.
He turned on Pony, pack held out. “Where’s the rest?”
“The rest of what?” Puppy’s mother replied from the doorway. “If you mean her cellphone, it’s probably on the charger in the kitchen. That’s where they like to put it.”
He frowned at them both, pack held out, certain one or both of them must have removed something of importance from this mostly empty pack purse. She’d said everything she owned was in this bag. The way she often clung to it, hugging it protectively, he didn’t for a second doubt her. What he was holding in his hand couldn’t possibly be everything. Hell, it barely counted as anything at all. Something had to be missing.
“Whatever you took,” he warned, “I want it back, and I mean right God damn now.”
The two women exchanged uncomprehending glances before looking at him again.
“I’m not perfect, but I am not in the habit of stealing from my daughter,” the older one snapped.
He turned on Pony. “Did you?”
Her breathing quickening, she shook her head. A quick back and forth jerk that barely qualified as no, and yet twisted his gut into instant knots.
He looked at the stuffed animal on her bed, the My Little Pony quilt with mismatched Powerpuff Girls pillowcase. The walls were pink, the nightlamp was a unicorn carousel, and there were Hello Kitty stickers and crayon scribbles all over the white nightstand.
No longer caring about gentle, he marched to the closet and slid open the door.
“Jesus,” he breathed. Everything squeezed into the left-hand side behind the door was professional business attire, dress suits and skirts that he found far easier to imagine on Pony than Puppy. Everything on the right, was as pink as her bedroom. It was unicorns and kittens, embroidered hearts, and statements of self-worth written bubble font and glitter.
“What the hell are you doing?” he heard himself say before he could stop it.
The older woman was definitely Puppy’s mother. There was nothing but family resemblance in the hurt that flashed through her eyes. “The best I can,” she replied, her lower voice quavering.
“This?” Carlson flung out his arm, inadvertently smacking the back of his hand on several shirts, rattling the plastic hangers. “This is the best you could do? You do realize she’s not a kid anymore, right? She doesn’t want you to cut the crust off her sandwiches, and she sure as hell doesn’t want this.”
Grabbing a
handful of unicorns, cartoon kittens and crap, he yanked them from the closet and threw them on the bed.”
“How do you know what my daughter wants?” the woman spat back.
“Because if she did want it, she wouldn’t be out in my car desperate to get out of here.” It was the wrong thing to say, and later he would regret it, but as angry as he was, he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Lady, your best isn’t anywhere near good enough.”
She leapt back out of the doorway, quickly getting out of his way when he came stalking through it. Taking only her backpack, he marched to the kitchen. He took the cellphone he recognized, along with the charger and cord it was on.
“You’ve got no right!” Puppy’s mother chased him as far as the front door. “Don’t take her from me! You can’t! You—”
He rounded on her, storming back up the walkway so nothing he said would be heard as far as the car. It stopped him, however, when she not only jumped back into the house, but grabbed the front door and slammed it shut.
The look on her face right before she vanished was Puppy at her most terrified, the very first day they’d met.
Frozen with one foot on the cement porch step, Carlson stared at the door. “What the hell did that man do to you all?”
The door did not open again and no one answered him back.
Shaking his head, Carlson shoved back off the porch. Returning to his car, he got in, set Puppy’s pack in her lap, and then he got them both the hell out of there.
Chapter 12
“Bathroom?” he asked, unlocking his door and letting her back into the quiet darkness of his house. He had a nice home. She’d been too nervous the last time she was here to pay much attention, but it really was nice.
The door opened on a massive rock wall that obstructed the view of anyone not allowed access beyond the threshold, but on the other side was a massive fireplace, a spacious open concept living room with glossy black hardwood floors that bled beautifully into both the dining room and the kitchen. Granite countertops with white rocks caught the kitchen lights and sparkled. Everything was tidy. Everything was clean. It was all so warm and inviting. From the moment she stepped in behind him, holding onto her myriad fears became a whole lot harder than simply allowing them to seep away.
“Bathroom?” he asked again, shutting and locking the door behind him.
She nodded and, although she already knew where it was, he still pointed to the small guest room down the hall.
“Hey,” he called, as she headed toward it. “No panic attacks allowed. Remember, nothing happens until you’re ready.”
Her chest tightened and yet, her stomach warmed, spreading that now familiar longing all through her. Nodding, she closed the door.
For the longest time, she stood there, staring first at the sink and then, reluctantly, at her own reflection in the mirror. She tried to see something positive in the woman staring back at her. That her perspective must be skewed was all she could think of. She wasn’t lovely, not by any means, but she thought she might be pretty. And yet, probably not, since sex was always off the table.
She didn’t think she was ugly. Surely Ethen would have made her Piggy if she were. Or maybe Lizard. Or Bossy the Cow, or something equally awful.
She turned from the mirror, shutting all that out. It was starting to tickle her anxieties and really, when it came to cruelty, there was no telling what Ethen would have done if he thought it might hurt her.
Carlson was far from that kind of man, but that didn’t mean she could trust what he said. She wanted to, especially when he was being reassuring. He was good at reassuring. And yet, she had learned a long time ago that words were easy. Actions spoke louder and were far more honest. So far, all Carlson’s actions did was leave her feeling safe, cared for, and confused.
Why didn’t he want her?
The last time she’d been here, in the intimacy of his office, with his fingers thrusting up inside her and the wand humming relentlessly against her needy clit, she could have sworn she’d seen hunger in the way he’d watched her. He’d had an erection. She was sure of it, and yet, once she’d come, instead of taking his own satisfaction from her more than willing body, he’d walked her back out to the table and continued going through the negotiation contract as if nothing else had happened.
He’d punished her with lines then. Tonight’s punishment would be so much worse.
Except first she would have to ask for it, and she already knew he was going to be angry with her when she did. Remember how we got to ten, he’d said, because she was going to have to count them off. But today had been nothing but one nerve-rattled rollercoaster after another. She remembered the fight with Pony, and then Ethen. She remembered getting slapped. She remembered the on-again, off-again fighting that had finally exploded from verbal to physical the second Pony realized who had pulled into their driveway and Puppy bolted for the door. She remembered shouting and crying and fighting just to get air into her too-tight chest, but for the life of her, she couldn’t recall what she’d said that made him keep on counting.
At some point tonight, she was going to have to admit as much and when she did, he would be so… Puppy stopped. Staring at the tile floor, she hugged her backpack and, in particular, the notebook he had given her. Would he be angry with her?
Two brisk taps at the closed door startled her. “Are we having a problem?” Carlson asked.
Looking at herself in the mirror once more, Puppy steeled herself for things to go badly. Sliding the pocket door open, she let him see that, while her insides might be knotted into writhing snake ball, but at least she wasn’t having another panic attack. “No, Sir. I’m just thinking.”
“About anything in particular?” he asked, propping his shoulder against the doorway.
Cradling her pack, she held her breath for only half a second before, half anxious and half curious, she hesitantly offered, “I-I can’t remember how we got to ten.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “May I ask why not?”
“I remember talking, but what we said… it’s all blurry.” She tensed, hands tightening into fists as she waited for him to react.
Nodding, he pushed off the doorjamb. “Fair enough. When it comes time to take care of the issue, I’ll remind you of each infraction, but I’m going to expect you to count them and to strive as hard as you are able not to repeat them. Agreed?”
He didn’t hit her. He didn’t even look upset.
“Yes, Sir.” She stared up at him, spirally floods of relief and disbelief both washing through her.
“Finish up,” he told her, turning away. “Leftover fried chicken and potato salad for dinner. You’re setting the table.”
She could do that. The kitchen and laundry were her primary chores in the Menagerie too.
Initially a happy thought, while he reheated the chicken, she made it through the entire setting of the table before old ghosts reared up to bite her. She was standing at the head of the table, admiring the precision with which she’d lain out his plate and utensils, a water glass, a tea glass, a simple salt and pepper shaker within his easy reach but doing double time as a centerpiece since he had no flowers. He had paper napkins, not cloth, but she did her best to fold it into the neat triangle Ethen liked best and it was as she was double checking that she had everything evenly spaced with one another that it occurred to her what she was doing.
Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Carlson was still preoccupied with the chicken in the microwave, she quickly poked his fork, nudging it out of alignment. An electrified quiver ran straight up her back as she stared at the now crooked fork.
Would he even notice?
Did he even care? It wasn’t as if he’d ever specified how he wanted her to set the table.
He wasn’t Ethen. She didn’t have to do things for him the way she’d done them for her previous master.
Hand shaking, she quickly moved the glasses to the wrong side of his plate.
No, no. This was too much. He
was sure to notice this, and just because he wasn’t Ethen, what kind of submissive was she not to want to make everything perfect for—
Puppy jumped when an arm hooked her waist, pulling her back against the solid heat of Carlson’s body.
“Very nice,” he said, his low voice rumbling just behind her ear and sending a whole new wave of electrified awareness sparking up and down her spine. “Pour the tea for us, please.”
He swatted her bottom before turning back to the stove, and she jumped, but not out of fear. The gentle pat felt more like a compliment than a correction. Her skin tingled everywhere his hand had touched, as if branding his ownership into her in a way that she could feel buzzing in every nerve ending all the way to the fridge and back.
She poured the tea and, making sure he wasn’t watching, switched the glasses back. That was just too much and too sloppy. Now she couldn’t stop staring at the fork.
“Hot plate,” Carlson warned, coming up behind her to drop a hot pad between their settings. He placed the chicken within both their easy reach and, try though she did to bite it back, she couldn’t help confessing.
“The fork’s crooked.” She covered her mouth with her hand, worrying as he looked at the fork. Even more softly, regretting that she’d ever done it, she admitted, “I did it on purpose.”
Glancing pointedly from the fork to her, he asked, “Am I reacting the way you thought I would?”
She shook her head.
“Do you suppose that might be because I never asked for perfect place settings on the table?” Arching his eyebrows, he said, “That’s not one of my rules. That’s the rule of…” His voice trailed off into a deliberately hanging question.
“Someone who doesn’t matter,” she supplied, tension melting away again.
“I hope you like cheese and crispy bacon on your potato salad, because I’ve added plenty of both.”
He went back to the fridge to get it, leaving her standing at the table, flush with soft feelings and that subtle warmth that just a touch from him could so easily spark into full-blown throbs of wanting. He was a good man. More than anything, she would have loved to curl into his arms and just spend the rest of her life feeling safe, secure, and cared for. Maybe someday even loved. It was really too bad that he didn’t want her the same way.