by Sam Crescent
Oh, God. He thought she was stupid. He sounded like some sort of teacher with the way he spoke. Sure, she’d read plenty of books in her time, was well learned even if she did speak coarse and common, but come on—‘the reference is completely irrelevant’? Was that kind of response really necessary? It was a figure of speech, not something that needed argument.
“I apologise. I’ll keep my silly statements to myself,” she said, cheeks blazing hotter.
He turned away and Ruby couldn’t resist sticking her tongue out at his back.
“That act simply makes you immature and makes me feel the need to call child services.”
Ruby jumped, looking all over his back for some kind of third eye.
How the fuck did he see that?
“I see from your shock you’re wondering how I saw you pulling the predictable face of sticking the tongue out. Well, from your attitude it was easy to predict, but then it helped having the aid of a mirror there.”
Harry pointed to the wall opposite and there it was. She had been so struck with her thoughts and his fine arse she’d failed to see the mirrors dotting the spaces between doors along the entirety of the landing.
Had he seen her checking out his arse? She hoped not. Embarrassed, she looked down at the floor and prayed for it to open up and take her, to end the torment.
She expected to stop outside one of the many doors, but eventually they went up another flight of stairs, where there were more doors and mirrors.
Ruby couldn’t contain herself any longer. It seemed being free of Master had loosened her tongue. “Why do you have lots of mirrors?”
He stopped at one of the doors, which looked like so many others she’d passed. He opened it and invited her to move in before him.
The room was so typically a rich-man guest room. A four-poster bed dominated the space, a wardrobe and a few other pieces of mahogany furniture butted against the walls.
“This is one hell of a room,” she pointed out, and for the first time she heard him chuckle and saw him grin.
The sound was so different from his previously gruff manner. They’d known each other no longer than thirty minutes and already she’d detected that he very rarely smiled. Such a shame—his was so charismatic. She wanted him to keep it firmly in place as it touched a piece of her heart—a piece unused to being warmed by such a small thing.
“It’s quite refreshing having a woman here who’s not used to all these amenities.”
Amenities?
“You’re aware we’re in a mansion and not a campsite, right?” she asked. “I mean, I’m sure you have a loo somewhere along here. The amenities can’t be very far away.” She ploughed on, her tongue even looser now. “And me being the kind of woman who isn’t used to those amenities… Please, just say I’m common and be done with it.”
She stared at him, saw the shock and surprise on his face, then looked at the floor, a gesture ingrained in her, even if she had found her voice again. She thought of camping to take her mind off his hot stare at the top of her head. She loved camping, and thinking about it brought on a smile. Nothing like being outside and fending for yourself, the entire experience bringing you closer to the joys of nature. Not right now in the snow and sub-zero temperatures, but during spring and summer months the prospect always appealed.
His scoff broke through her happy, holiday thoughts. “I wouldn’t dream of camping. Hotels all the way.”
Of all the people to rescue her, Ruby was stuck with a man who was uptight and didn’t like camping like the little people.
She didn’t know if she would have been in better company with the mounds of snow outside.
“I’m sorry you think that. You’ve obviously had really bad camping experiences.” Ruby shrugged, not knowing what else to say. From the few words they’d spoken, it was clear they were worlds apart.
“Why do you keep fingering that collar?” he asked, suddenly coming closer.
Ruby instinctively took a step back and covered the band of ownership with her hand. She wasn’t allowed to let anyone touch it. She didn’t even know how to take it off. She’d spent so many times almost strangling herself by yanking it. It was tight as hell.
She refused to tell him. “Where is this bath?”
He walked forwards, and it brought a lump to her throat as she backed up against the wall. She’d tried to distract him away from that question, but it was obvious he was adamant in hearing her answer.
“Don’t be afraid.” He held out a hand. “I won’t hurt you, but I want to know why you keep touching that. How you got it.”
Despite his gruff ways, Ruby wasn’t afraid of him. He may have the presence of a giant, but like giants before him, he seemed as though he would be tame unless fought with. No, it was the fear of what he’d do to her that scared her. The beating she’d once taken when removing another simple black collar had drilled it into her early on—she was to keep it on and nothing this man said would make her remove it until she was ready and sure of her safety.
The collar would stay for now—Master’s last bit of power over her, but the fear of him finding her without it was indescribable.
“Please show me where the bathtub is.” She cringed at the shaking in her voice, her body a quivering mess of nerves.
Holding her breath, she watched him remove her hands from the band. Her skin beneath was sore from her constant rubbing. He touched the collar and frowned. Ruby didn’t know what to say or what to do, so she kept holding her breath until she saw stars.
He touched her stomach and asked her very gently to breathe. Harry assisted her while she came down from her terror, and she released her breath in one long, slow exhalation.
“Someone hurt you badly,” he said.
She remembered her situation—that he thought she’d lost her memory. She could use the lie from earlier to help her now. “I don’t know.” With all of her might, she wished she really didn’t know.
“Keep your secrets for now.” Harry opened the door to her left. “There is your bathroom. Towels, toiletries—everything you’ll need to get clean and feel like a woman is in there.”
Ruby nodded and moved past him. She wrapped the blanket closer around her, trying to create a layer of insulation to stop her showing how terrified she really was.
“I’ll get some of my old clothes for you to wear. I won’t have anything for a lady, though.”
Ruby noted the word lady used instead of woman. Who was this man? Had he stepped out of some old-fashioned movie?
She was so out of place in the whole house.
When Ruby was sure he’d left, she went into the bathroom and closed the door. She sighed in exasperation. There was no lock.
Resting her head against the wood, she closed her eyes for a moment then opened them as she turned to look at the room. More mirrors. The guy—Harry—was obsessed with them. She didn’t want to look at herself. She no longer wished to see the pitiful excuse of a woman she’d turned into. After all of her mother’s work to make her independent and hard-working, to fight for her right to an opinion and everything else her mother thought she needed in her adult life, here she was. At the mercy of a man she didn’t know, surrounded by the most beautiful artwork ever seen, and running from a Master who thought he could use her in the most callous of ways. No getting away from it. Her mother would be embarrassed.
Shaking her head of the awful negativity claiming her, filling her, Ruby walked to the tub which stood in the centre of the room like a glorious statue. It looked as though it could hold three people easily, twice the size of a normal bath and God knew how much it had cost…and this was just a guest room?
The more she thought about her surroundings, the more uncomfortable she became. Before her life had turned to shit, she’d rented a simple little flat…no, apartment. A one-bedroom, second-floor apartment in an up-and-coming area—a far cry from the place where she’d been brought up. Once he had entered the equation, the freedom and the apartment went, along with he
r job at the local library. The more time she dwelled on the changes in her life back then, she saw a new aspect and level to the changes. He’d made her completely, one-hundred per cent dependant on him, and now she was fleeing like some criminal instead of the victim she’d become.
Ruby pushed the plug into the hole and ran the water, testing the heat. She found some salts and soap and placed them around the edge for easy reach. The salts were lavender and the scent made her drowsy. Pulling off the blanket, she climbed into the hot water and allowed herself the luxury to relax. Bath time had become a chore where Master inflicted other untold evils on her body, and it was nice to be left to lie back and enjoy the scents.
You did it, Ruby. You got away and you no longer have to worry.
The name Ruby stuck more than her birth name, and she liked it. A fitting name for her new life. Placing a hand to the collar—it seemed to be an action she couldn’t stop—she wondered how long it would be before she removed it. The collar was a symbol of possession and an honour not only for the submissive to wear but an honour for her Dominant in the fact she’d chosen him to be her protector and Master. But the collar around her neck was ownership and had a different meaning intended than the development of increased feelings.
Don’t think about him. Don’t give him the power he’s taken from you for so long.
A tear slid down her cheek, and for the first time since the start of her life with Master, Ruby allowed the tears to fall without fear of being caught. First one and then two, and with time they increased, a silent, wet protest against the agony she’d somehow survived. No noise escaped her, and Ruby was thankful, proud of herself for mastering how to cry unheard. Tears had meaning to them, but talking to Harry about her tears would highlight that she knew who she was. He was still a stranger, and knowing her luck he might know Master and would be obliged to give her back.
She wiped the tears from her eyes and stared at her bitter reflection in a mirror opposite.
“This is it, Ruby. The last time you’ll ever allow that bastard to control you. Your tears and fears must end now,” she whispered, hoping deep in her heart that she would one day look in the mirror and see the fun and vibrant woman she’d once been. A small part of her had come back with her responses to Harry, so there was hope, wasn’t there?
She took a sponge and lathered it with the heady-smelling soap. Did Harry use the same? The man had sure smelt fantastic, like the best soap ever.
Clearing her thoughts of the threat of Master, Ruby used the time to herself to soap her body and hope the cleansing of the dirt brought about the cleansing in her heart and soul.
The collar itched, and she hoped one day she’d have the courage to remove it.
It stood out, ugly and disgusting against her pale skin. She sank down beneath the bubbles to hide it. She loved being underwater, the silence amazing buffered from the natural sounds of the outside world.
One day, she promised herself. One day she’d be back to who she was. Happy, fighting for life, and with a man who loved her and wanted her love.
Ruby smiled, coming up for air.
She could live and hope for her dream to come true.
Chapter Three
Harry took the two flights of stairs back down to the living room, shutting out images of Ruby in the bath. The last thing he needed was to allow her to snake inside his heart, to allow feelings for her to develop. He would get through this weekend, and if she hadn’t regained her memory by Monday morning, then she would have to go.
He scooped up her wet clothing and went to the kitchen, entering the laundry room through a door beside his red double oven. He placed her garments in the washing machine, adding detergent and switching it on while he entertained thoughts of her collar. She was quite clearly a submissive and belonged to someone, had perhaps run from that person, judging by her lack of footwear and coat. Maybe her mind had shut down when she’d passed out from the cold, but he wanted answers and didn’t quite believe she’d lost her memory.
No matter. He’d coax information out of her.
There was something about her that hadn’t seemed right to him, her words somewhat coarse yet laced with proper speech, as though she’d affected her accent to fit in with him. He’d encountered people like that before, who adopted a refined way of speaking so he thought they were from his class. He frowned, annoyed that people felt the need to do that. Why not just be themselves? Did they think him so shallow he wouldn’t accept them?
Ruby’s neck was sore around her collar, and her constant lifting her hand to it, worrying the leather, told him she did this gesture often and without realising. It was too tight, and he’d noticed there was no buckle but a small keyhole in the back. Removing it would require it being cut off.
He returned to the kitchen and switched the kettle on. As it boiled, he selected a few cold cuts from the fridge, a wedge of quiche and some pickles, and buttered some slices of French bread. Anyone in their right mind could see she didn’t eat much, and as he hadn’t found out how long she’d been outside, he could only guess that she must be hungry.
She shuffled into his peripheral vision then, once more wrapped in the tartan blanket, only this time she’d secured it beneath her armpits. A towel covered her head turban-style, and the redness around her collar didn’t look so pronounced now her skin had gained a rosy glow from her hot bath.
“Hello,” she said, walking to the kitchen table with small steps and sitting with her back to the wall.
“Hello.” Harry smiled and took the food-filled plate to her, setting it on a mat and placing a knife and fork either side. “I suspect you’re hungry?”
She nodded and ignored the cutlery, picking up a hunk of bread and stuffing half of it into her mouth. Where the devil had she come from? He turned away so she couldn’t see his deepening frown, could eat in peace without the embarrassment of him watching. He busied himself making hot chocolate, taking an overly long time to stir each drink so he could compose himself. Something about her tugged at him, made him want to rush over and crush her to his chest, but he sensed his attentions wouldn’t be received too well. What woman—dressed as she was, in the house of a stranger—would accept a hug from a man she didn’t know?
He sighed deeply, blowing air out in a long, quiet stream, and picked up the steaming cups. With his gaze averted, he placed a cup before her and sat opposite, staring at the kitchen door in a bid to make her feel comfortable in his presence. He watched her from the corner of his eye, noting raised scars on her forearms, as though she’d been wounded with a knife. Or had she done that? Did she self-harm?
“I can see you looking, you know,” she said, lifting the triangle of quiche and holding it in front of her mouth. “And yes, someone did that to me.”
He whipped his head around at her confession, and she blushed, taking a large bite and looking at the back door.
“I think,” she added quickly after swallowing. “I mean, I saw these scars when I was in the bath and just assumed someone had hurt me. It’s not like I know for definite or anything.”
She was playing him for a damn fool, he was sure of it, and who could blame her if she was running from someone who had made those hideous marks? But he wouldn’t allow this charade to continue. If she wanted to stay, she would have to admit she hadn’t lost her memory, and if it meant him threatening to oust her from his home, then he would do it, guilt be damned.
“You may as well just admit it,” he said, raising his cup to his lips and avoiding eye contact…for now. He took a sip then cradled the cup in his lap. “It’s in your best interests, after all. It means you get to stay longer.”
“Fuck!” she said, dropping the quiche to her plate.
He winced at her language, his suspicion that she wasn’t a woman from his circles confirmed. Oh, he wasn’t averse to bad language. Far from it—he enjoyed using it and hearing it in the bedroom—but he wasn’t used to women he dated using it in everyday speech.
But this isn’t a d
ate, so what does it matter how she speaks?
“Come on,” he said gently. “It’s obvious you have a Master. You may as well tell me about it—him, your situation. Perhaps I can help.”
She snorted and picked up her fork, toying with the cuts of meat. “What the hell would you know about Masters?”
He smiled, took a sip of his drink and eyed her over the cup rim. “More than you might think.”
She widened her eyes, realisation dawning, and let her fork go. It landed on the plate with a clatter, and she stared at him open-mouthed. “Oh, fuck me. Don’t tell me you’re a bloody Master?”
He almost choked on his chocolate. “I am, and I sense yours isn’t a good one.”
She lifted her hand to her collar and stared at the back door again.
“I also suspect that collar should come off. Keeping one placed about your neck by a deviant isn’t advisable. Have you been mistreated?”
He knew she had, but his question was to get her to open up, not to just nod absently like she was doing now.
“Do you even know the proper rules?” He watched her eyes cloud over, as though memories had taken all her attention.
She tensed, fidgeting with that collar so harshly her nails scraped the skin of her neck.
“Please, stop doing that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Felt worse pain than this,” she whispered, lowering her hand and embracing herself around her middle.
“I have no doubt you have. Do you wish to talk about it?”
The floodgates opened then, and she related horrors no person should have to endure, all the while keeping her gaze fixed on that back door. He imagined her running, finally breaking free, the bite of the cold on her feet, the wind whipping her hair and freezing her body. He resisted the urge to get up and embrace her, resisted even making the simple gesture of reaching across the table to touch her arm, worrying any action may spook her.
“I knew all along he was a wrong’un,” she said, tears wetting her cheeks. “Knew I shouldn’t be there, pretending to be a damn lady when I wasn’t and never will be. But he told me…he said that was the way a Dominant and submissive behaved, that I had to do whatever he told me whether I liked it or not. I’d read a bit about it in books, you know, when I worked in the library, but he said that was all a load of bollocks, that the books were wrong…”