Laura

 

 

 

The first thing I notice when I wake up is the pain. It's hard to pinpoint because the ache throbs through my entire body. My arms hurt, my legs hurt, my throat hurts - and the area between my legs pulsates with burning soreness.

I'm completely naked, wearing nothing but the collar around my neck. My sore body is wrapped up in the softest sheets I've ever slept on, and the way the sheets are crumpled up next to me suggests that I didn't spend the night by myself.

I sit up, lazily rubbing my eyes as I try to find my bearings. He's not in the room, but I know he'll be back any moment. He hasn't left me alone for longer than a few minutes since I arrived, and the only reason he ever left the room was to get food.

Is he getting breakfast? Is it even time for breakfast? I have no way of knowing because the windows remain covered, not allowing any guesses about the time of day or night. I've heard of people losing their sense of time under these conditions, but I never knew what it felt like. There's a strange feeling of being lost, without anything to connect to. Scary.

I hear the lock on the door turning, and I instinctively tense up for his return. Ryan, my master, is in fact carrying a tray when he makes his way back into the room, balancing it on one hand while handling the door with the other.

"You'd make a great waiter," I tease. My voice is hoarse and the words come out croaking and lower in volume than intended.

He places the tray on the low floor table we ate at last night. Every trace of our dinner is gone, but I can't remember him clearing the room. Did he do it while I was sleeping? Was someone else in here?

"Don't get cocky with me, doll," he warns, casting me a mischievous look. "You're sore today, so anything I'll do to you will feel twice as bad as it did yesterday."

He approaches the bed, climbing onto the mattress beside me, his blue eyes searching mine. This is the first time that I see him wearing anything besides a suit unless he’s displaying his muscular chest. He's dressed in a soft cashmere pullover and matching black pants, and he smells and looks a lot fresher than I'm certain I do. He must have showered already. His hair isn't neatly combed to the side as it usually is, but instead it frames his face in boyish tousles that make him look younger.

"I'm sorry," I say, letting instinct take over. "I must look like shit."

He casts a warm smile at me.

"You look like you've been fucked and played with all night," he says, somehow confirming my suspicion. "I like that look on a woman."

I feel my cheeks blushing at his words, and while my instincts tell me to avert my eyes and lower my gaze in a coy motion, I stay put, bathing in the warm waves of his dark blue orbs and let his sweet words wash over me.

"Come, let's eat," he says, leaving a loving peck on my cheek before he rises and walks over to the small table.

I unwrap myself from the bed sheets and cast him a questioning look before attempting to cover my nakedness.

"May I wear the robe, master?" I ask him.

He looks at me, his face laced with surprise.

"Yes," he replies. "But only because you're such a good girl for asking."

I slip the robe over my shoulders, but don't tie the belt. He's watching me as I walk over to the low table, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Watch out, or I'll just have you for breakfast, doll," he warns playfully.

"Who says I would mind that?" I flirt, sitting down on the floor next to him. I'm immediately reminded of the pain he inflicted upon me yesterday, as my bruised core and skin come into contact with the hardwood floor beneath us.

He laughs at my pained grimace, but doesn‘t comment. The tray he placed on the table holds a small selection of breakfast items, some buttered toast, scrambled eggs and - to my great joy - crispy bacon, all arranged neatly on two little plates next to a tiny bowl of fruit salad. I hadn't noticed before, but there's also a carafe of coffee and two mugs, both of which he must have brought in earlier.

I reach for the carafe and place one of the mugs right in front of him before pouring his coffee. He's watching every single move I make, his eyes never diverting. His attention still makes me as nervous as it did in the very beginning, and I can’t help that my hands are shaking as I pour.

"Good girl," he praises me when I'm done. "Serving your master without being asked to. You'd make a good domestic servant slave."

I huff and raise my eyebrows.

"With all due respect, I highly doubt that," I say, filling my own mug. "I'm not a good homemaker, at all."

He winks at me. "Maybe you just never had the chance to prove yourself as one?"

"That's definitely true," I mutter, sighing. "I've always had to work. A lot."

"Always as a waitress?"

Our eyes meet in awkward silence, as if we're checking each other. Was it okay for me to talk about myself, about my life outside of this? Was it okay for him to ask me about it? He always insisted that we push reality aside, not even allowing me to call him by his name or letting him address me by mine.

Right now it seems as if he's wondering about all of that himself, and the question lingers solemnly in the air between us.

"No," I say, my eyes fixating on his. "I've held many different jobs."

"Like what?"

"Several of them were waitressing jobs in restaurants or with catering services," I admit. "But I also did proofreading and tutoring when I was in college."

He raises his eyebrows, casting me a curious look.

"College, huh?" he says. "Where did you graduate from?"

I feel as if a cold clamp closes around my chest, choking my breath out as I'm filled with remorse and grief. Talking about my failed attempt at college is still hard for me, even after all this time. You'd think that more than two years would be long enough to leave even the worst of times behind and be able to speak about it without having the pain return with such vicious force. I've pushed the memory as far away as possible, but every time it comes up, I'm overwhelmed with the same pain that filled me back then.

"I... didn't graduate," I say.

"Oh? Why is that?"

I lower my eyes to the food in front of me, shoveling some scrambled eggs into my mouth instead of giving him a reply right away. He continues eating, too, but his eyes are on me, heavily weighing on my consciousness.

"I had to quit," I simply say, shielding the truth from him.

"I kind of figured that," he says, not sounding satisfied. "But why did you have to quit?"

I look up at him, meeting his eyes with what I hope he perceives as determined strength.

"Someone needed my help," I say. "It was more important to me than college, and I had to be there for her."

"Her?" he inquires.

"My mother," I reply. "She... got sick, very sick. I wanted to be with her and I couldn't do that while I was living across the country."

"That's very good of you," he states in a matter of fact tone. "Is she doing better now?"

I swallow, fighting back tears. My mother died more than two years ago. She died from cancer, mainly because it was diagnosed way too late. We had no health insurance at the time, and living on the brink of poverty didn't exactly help matters. For my entire life, my mother had scrimped and saved up what little she had so I could go to college, even though she knew the only way I’d still be able to afford it was if I received a scholarship. I did, and I went, but I forfeited everything when I decided to drop out of college to help her with her battle.

There was nothing I could do for her, no matter how much I worked, prayed, hoped, cared. The best I could do was lie to her. I lied about dropping out of school, I lied about the debt that was piling up as we fought our way through her illness and she became too sick to handle anything. I let her believe that I would be okay, and that she wouldn't have to worry about me.

I wanted her to die in peace.

"No," I say eventually, my gaze darkening. "No, she didn't get better."

He sighs, grasping the meaning of my words. I almost flinch away when his hand reaches over, closing around mine.

"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice, heavy with empathy. "I'm really sorry to hear that, doll."

"It's okay," I say, lying. "It's been a while. I'm doing okay."

Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and he casts me an apprehensive look, as if he was trying to see the lie in my eyes.

"I'm sure you will be," he concludes. "My doll is a warrior."

His words are so intimate and honest, as if we've known each other for years. After all he's done to me, it strikes me with a strange sense of pride that he sees me as a warrior. It's encouraging either way.

"Maybe I am," I whisper, smiling at him.