Cries of Penance: 5 (Chronicles of Surrender)

by Harte, Roxy

  It’s just—I need to work. I miss Lord Fyre so much. The pain is so raw in my chest. It seems as though he left only this morning, it seems he’s been away forever. I was twenty-three weeks pregnant then, and now I am into my third trimester. I am absolutely miserable. I’m done with the whole thing and have considered begging for a Cesarean section now just to put me out of my misery.

  Staring into space, a field of turquoise is all that I see, my office wall at The Darkness, though I could as easily be at Lord Fyre’s beach house, the place he took me when I was solely his for three months. I close my eyes, breathing deeply, my hands held over my baby bump. I feel one of the babies stretch inside me and I fight back tears. I miss their father so badly.

  With my eyes closed I still see the blue. Blocking out the ringing telephones, copying machines and people chatter on the other side of my closed door, I can even see the shadows cast by the flickering flames of candles spent long ago.

  There was a time when I was solely his. Garrett and I had separated so that I could spend three months finding my darkness with Lord Fyre. Our time was cut short. God, our time is always being cut short. But that particular time was because his estranged wife was having a baby. He rushed to her side and she wasn’t even carrying his child. I wonder if he will be so noble when my time to deliver comes.

  Fighting tears is useless. I want to cry. I want to sob and rant and rave and scream, and although it might be all right for Kitten to do any one of those things at Lewd Larry’s, Celia Brentwood, CEO of The Darkness has to represent at least a modicum of respectability.

  Silent tears slide down my cheeks as I embrace the memory of Lord Fyre paying tribute to my body a final time before leaving me for his wife. I lay across his bed facedown, my body exhausted from a night well-spent and warmed from the attention he paid it with paddle, flogger and his bare hand. I was surprised when he asked, “Are you ready for the birch cane, sweetheart?”

  He’d never used a cane on me before. No one had. And I was so afraid. I almost safe-worded, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I loved Lord Fyre so in that moment that I would have allowed him to do anything he wanted to my body.

  Surrendering to the fear was the hardest part but once I did, once I said, “I am ready, Lord Fyre,” I knew utter and complete peace.

  He helped me to roll over, because my body was already settling into the pain of our previous encounter, and then there was no delay, no time to regret or renege.

  The birch landed across the tops of my thighs. Once, twice…four times. Agonizing pain split me in two, making my body spasm in reflex. I screamed and covered my thighs with my hands, not because I wanted him to stop. Because I didn’t. Primal instinct made me try to protect myself from more injury.

  I was trying to force myself to relax, embarrassed I couldn’t, when he flicked the birch against my stomach. My hands flew to the new source of pain. I wasn’t consciously in control anymore, my body reacted on instinct. He would have had to restrain me at that point to keep me from trying to block the blows, but I didn’t know where or when the birch was going to bite next. I’d stopped screaming, I was resolved to more pain.

  More pain.

  Anything for Lord Fyre.

  Anything to please him.

  Because he was saying goodbye and as far as either of us knew, he was saying goodbye forever. He would never own me again. Never master me again.

  He slashed the cane against the inside of my thigh and the pain tore through me, such ridiculous pain, I sat up. That was the reflexive move. That was the only way left to protect myself. I sat up and threw my arms around his neck, not begging him to stop, not begging him to stay, but begging him to remember me…without words…just with the language of my body. Then he left me.

  And now he’s gone again.

  At least this time I have his promise to return.

  My secretary Holly buzzes my intercom. “Celia? Line three.”

  I sit up, wiping my face and grabbing a tissue before pushing the intercom button. “No calls, Holly. Remember?”

  She answers, “I know, I’m sorry, but he said it was urgent and I thought… Celia, it’s Thomas.”

  “Fuck, Holly, why didn’t you say that?”

  I pick up line three. “Thomas?”

  “Why aren’t you answering your cell?”

  He sounds frantic and I wonder what is wrong but then I realize he is worried about me. I rummage in my purse and find my cell, my Thomas only cell, registered to an alias he created for me, Blair Harrington, which makes me feel so much closer to him, being part of his cloak-and-dagger world, even though I’m not, not really. I check the settings. “I’m sorry, I had it set on vibrate and I didn’t hear it.”

  Seeing ten missed calls, I feel horrible for making him worry.

  “As long as you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie, because what would be the point of telling him that I’m mourning the lack of him in my day? “I miss you terribly.”

  “I miss you, Sophia. I love you. Do not scare me like that again. What in the hell are you doing at work?”

  He calls me my birth name and it makes me feel cherished. He is the only one who has ever called me Sophia except my mother. I shake my head although he can’t see it or the smirk on my face. Neither he nor Garrett understand that whether I am miserable at home or at work—I am still miserable. “Stop worrying. Please. I saw Dr. Wang yesterday. Everything is fine.”

  “Just be careful. Twins almost always come early and often unexpectedly. I just want you to be prepared.” He sounds wistful when he adds, “God, I wish I was there with you.”

  “I wish you were here. You sound so close over the damn phone. It’s hard to believe you are two thousand miles away.”

  “Almost twenty-seven hundred,” he corrects. “Closer to three thousand.”

  I growl. “You aren’t helping.”

  He chuckles and I know he is teasing me. Still, it is very far and I am very sad.

  “I don’t have long, sweetheart, so tell me everything as fast as you can.”

  “Everything?” I can’t think of a single thing to say beyond how much I miss him. “The babies miss you. They’re kicking and rolling around all of the time now. I feel like my stomach is going to split open any moment and an alien will lash out and this will have all been a dream.”

  “It isn’t a dream,” he assures me. His voice sounds wistful. “I’ll bet you are sexy as hell.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “What is it with men and pregnant women? Trust me, I am not sexy.”

  “So-o Garrett thinks you’re sexy too, huh?”

  I bite my lip, feeling like I’ve said too much, but I’m also smiling because I can hear the smile in his voice. I answer, “Maybe,” before admitting, “it’s weird. I just don’t get it.”

  “Do you feel more sensual?”

  “I feel fat.”

  “And?” he encourages.

  “I feel…raw…you know? It’s different now, when I’m at Lewd Larry’s, when I’m crawling around. It seems like I can connect with my animal more now. So, yes, when I am in character I feel sexy, primitive, feral.”

  “Then that is what he’s responding to.”

  I sigh, holding on to the sound of his voice. It’s so comforting—hearing him.

  “He wants to move us out of the penthouse,” I blurt out.

  “I know,” he admits. “We’ve discussed it.”

  They talked? Well of course they did, but knowing they did hurts a little. Not jealousy, never that, just a little left-out-ed-ness. “You think it’s a good idea to sell the penthouse?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m the guy that owns more properties than I can keep track of. And if it was me, I’d hold on to it. But I also understand Garrett’s perspective. You have to remember he shared the penthouse with Tony. They lived there. They loved there. After Tony was killed, Garrett couldn’t let go of their home, he couldn’t move on. He’s ready now. He wants a new place to start over
in. A place to create fresh memories in.”

  Duh. I feel like a nimrod. “I didn’t even think about that.”

  “So you will stop fighting him now?”

  Garrett told him we’re having a major war over this issue if he’s mentioning it now. “Is that why you called me? Master asked you to?”

  Thomas sighs heavily. I don’t want to fight with him. I don’t want to fight with Garrett. I just don’t know that I’m ready to move back to suburbia and nosy neighbors.

  “What are you afraid of, Sophia?”

  “People talking. People saying that I don’t deserve my babies because I’m a sexual deviant. I don’t ever want Children’s Services to show up on my doorstep to take my babies away. It’s crazy, but I feel safer in the city than I would in suburbia.”

  I can imagine him nodding, understanding. We get each other. Why can’t it be this easy with Garrett?

  “First, you would have to invite them in. They can’t just enter your residence. They won’t be able to just take our babies without some provocation and then they would come with a court order.”

  “What if a neighbor complained?”

  “Why would a neighbor complain? In suburbia you will be Celia Brentwood, not Kitten.”

  “Exactly,” I agree. Can’t he see that that in itself is a problem?

  Thomas laughs. “I wish I was there to see your face, to hold you and tell you that reintegrating into Vanillaville won’t be as horrible as you think it’s going to be. To show you how much fun it is to go in and out from under the veil of darkness, sneaking around, being more than one person, being a different person to everyone you meet.”

  “That’s you. I like being Kitten.”

  “You also like being Celia Brentwood, CEO of The Darkness. You like dressing for work in your stockings and garter belt, your high heels, and then hiding all that incredible naughtiness under a skirt, a button-up-the-front blouse and a jacket.”

  I don’t deny the truth because he knows me better than I know myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it either.

  “Do me a favor,” he says.

  “Anything,” I answer.

  “I’m sending you information for a house that I want you to go look at. Look at the photos and tell me what you think.”

  I sigh, resigned. If both of my Masters want this, I don’t have much to say. I wait for the download on my PDA, frowning. It sits on the corner of a busy street in Russian Hill. This isn’t suburbia. This is minutes away from everything. Garrett will never agree. He wants away from the city. The description reads seven bedrooms—which seems like overkill, even adding a full-time housekeeper and a nanny, but as I do the math in my head I realize it is about right—and seven baths.

  As I start clicking on photos of rooms, I do not want to know how much this house costs. It has wood floors throughout, like Garrett’s condo, walls of windows, like Garrett’s condo, and a gourmet kitchen, no, not even close to Garrett’s standards. “The kitchen would have to be redone.”

  “Obviously,” he agrees. “But there is room enough for him to make the kitchen of his dreams.”

  “Yeah.” My heart drops. It seems Thomas has found the perfect place for us. I have no arguments. It is Garrett’s penthouse only on a grander scale…a house…with an insane view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. “Tell me what you know about it.”

  “I’m in Washington, DC. I can tell you what the Realtor told me over the phone.”

  “Peachy.”

  “Don’t sound so glum. It’s a modernistic neoclassical residence that boasts soaring double-height ceilings in the living areas with grand-scale Palladian-style windows.”

  “I see that,” I agree, looking through the photos, not admitting how really beautiful the windows or their view beyond is.

  “Sleekly designed staircases and an elevator to service the four levels.”

  Four levels? Holy crap. That isn’t obvious from what he sent me.

  “Do you see the patio photo?”

  I scroll. “Found it.”

  “It’s directly off the kitchen, and those raised beds are filled with herbs and it’s surrounded by citrus trees.”

  God, Garrett is going to die over this place.

  “There are actually two patios, there’s no photo for the second but I am assured by the Realtor that it is a flower lover’s paradise with mature trees and ample room for children to run and play. There isn’t one now, but when the babies are old enough for it we could add a play set.”

  I snort, imagining what my Thomas would consider a play set. Probably one of those extravagant wooden monstrosities with swings and slides, a fort on stilts and a climbing wall. It would be perfect.

  “There’s a very private terrace off the master bedroom.” His voice alludes to our shared memory of me tied over the railing at his beach house. My lower belly tightens in memory. I want him so badly, I ache. Sighing heavily because wishing him home won’t make it true, I tell him, “I’d like to see it.”

  “Really?” He sounds like a kid promised a pony.

  “Really. I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult. It’s perfect, but I don’t think Garrett will agree to it. He wants acreage away from the city.”

  Thomas chuckles. “Unless he has changed, he’s still allergic to grass and fresh air. He doesn’t have to make the kinds of sacrifices he believes he does just because babies are entering our lives. I’ll make arrangements for you and Garrett to have a private showing and text you the details.”

  I feel the wave of his happiness through the phone and it makes me glad that I’ve made him so jubilant. “I love you, Lord Fyre. I miss you.”

  “Me too, sweetheart. More than you can know.”

  He hangs up, no final goodbye, no additional I love you, just the silence of the disconnect. I smile, strangely cheerful. I made him happy. I pleased him. Even from almost three thousand miles away.

  “If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together…there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart…I’ll always be with you.”

  A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh (Pooh’s Grand Adventure: The Search for Christopher Robin)

  Chapter Five

  Thomas

  Office of Senator Abigail Wainwright-Fuller, Washington, DC

  Sitting behind a desk isn’t my style. I have too much energy and end up feeling chained and caged, especially this morning. I woke up from a dream of Garrett and Celia and it has ruined my day. Last night I was able to view some photos of her Garrett sent to my email and I fell asleep missing her terribly. I want to be there with her, experiencing her pregnancy with her, and instead I must trust that Garrett is taking good care of her, meeting all of her needs. I’ve never been a jealous man, but in this I envy him.

  I called her. I shouldn’t have. My mind has been distracted ever since.

  Around me there is a bustle of activity as interns and aides all prepare for Glorianna’s first big speech. They don’t call her Glorianna of course. Nor do I to her face, but it is important for me to remember at all times just exactly who this woman is that I work for, how dangerous she is, and so in my mind she is always Glorianna.

  Her entourage calls her Ms. Fuller; I call her Abbie and it pleases me she blushes when I do so. It also pleases me that there isn’t another person on the planet who would dare be so familiar with her. She is a fearsome woman with many enemies. It is with that truth in mind I do my job, the full-time safekeeping of her person, in the guise of executive personal assistant, though I have three people who report directly to me. One maintains her schedule, one screens her calls and fields her emails, the third takes care of all the tedious details from dropping off and picking up dry cleaning to walking her little dog, a Bolognese named Zita. The mutt is her Achilles heel, making the animal a liability in my mind. She’s too easily distracted by it and worries about it incessantly. Until I
came to work for her in this capacity I had no idea she could be emotionally manipulated, but seeing her with Zita, I know she can be.

  The hairs at the back of my neck prickle and my gaze goes immediately from Abigail, who is sitting behind her desk and staring at her monitor with furrowed brow, still working furiously on her speech, to Zita, who is curled asleep in a desktop doggie bed. From my seat I concentrate, trying to pick up on any subtle nuance, any shift in pattern or deviance of sound. There are littered conversations, soft and monotone, some one-sided spoken into phones. Two televisions play almost silently, one tuned to CNN, the other BBC. From the other side of the door come the normal sounds of a large corporate office building, ringing phones and chatter. Everything seems boringly in order, but I don’t discount the premonition of danger. Trusting my gut has saved my ass more times than I care to remember.

  Late-morning sunlight streams through the windows, casting a sheen of gold across surfaces. Everything is perfectly normal.

  I am just about to credit my paranoia to the guilt I’ve been feeling over the Celia distraction when through the open office door I notice a flower delivery guy in the outer office. One of the agents is giving him the third degree, messing with him.

  The young man is sweating bullets.

  Abigail stands, smiling, seeing the flowers.

  My gaze travels from woman to agent to courier and the prickling sensation intensifies. Standing, I command, “Close the door!” and immediately race to Abigail’s side.

  I have no reason to believe the flowers are a threat. I know they have been scanned, checked and double-checked. All I have is my gut.

  Fortunately Abigail had instructed every person present, including the agents, to follow my every command and as the door latches closed an explosion blows it off its hinges. I cover Abigail with my body, pressing her to the floor. In a split second, splinters and debris are showering over us.