The tap shut off, and he wished he’d stolen a few gulps of water. She untied him and led him by the chains to the mattress that sat on the floor. No frame or box springs in this hell hole. He dripped water onto the room’s only rug, shivering like a wet poodle, and waited to see what she’d come up with next.
Maybe she’d command him to perform a tumbling act, sing karaoke, or wear a toga and feed her grapes. Hopefully, something low impact. Dehydration, chills, and exhaustion were riddling him with all sorts of irritable problems, from blurry vision to unmanageable mood shifts. He was so recklessly angry and tired his brain was spinning out of control.
“Requirement number seven. Slave will kneel when Master is present.”
Hallelujah. His legs were wobbling anyway. He lowered, and his knees gave out before he made it to the rug.
She connected the chains to a padlock and eyehook on the floor in the center of the room, spun the combination to secure it, and dragged a cardboard box to his side. “Eat.”
With enough slack in the chains, he raised the lid, and the sights and smells of cheese, sausage, yogurt and hard-boiled eggs sliced through his haze. He went for the bottled water first, the metal links connected to his wrists snagging on the cardboard. He suspected the menu was intentional. High protein, high fat, likely meant to give him energy for activities he didn’t want to think about.
When he finished the water and reached for a second bottle, she grabbed the cuff on his wrist. “Slow down or it’s all going to come back up.”
He yanked his arm away and dug into the food, using the spoon provided. His body responded instantly to the yogurt, as if it contained magical little sugar motes that seeped into his system, clearing the fog from his head and soothing the quakes in his bones.
She watched from her perch on the mattress, legs crossed at the knees, breasts threatening to tumble from her corset with each inhale. She looked absolutely uncomfortable. He decided to make it worse.
“Are you supposed to be seducing me with that outfit, Mistress? Because I got to say”—he pointed at his soft penis, cold and shriveled as it was—“epic fail.”
A total lie. If he hadn’t reached his mental and physical limitations, he would’ve been battling arousal and his outrage over it.
A sound huffed behind the mask. Could’ve been a gasp. Impossible to guess since he’d heard very few reactions pass her lips.
He swallowed down three hard-boiled eggs, chewing on his original game plan. Making friends with her, unholy creature that she was, gave him the best chance to glimpse beneath the mask and, with time, influence her. To do that, he needed to shed some of the superiority his buddies teased him about and consort on her level.
He bit into a slice of cheddar. “Does th— I mean, Mistress, does this job ever fuck with your head?”
“Wow. That’s a pretty vulgar word for you, Jesus boy. First time trying it out?”
The cheese stuck in his throat. The muffling of her voice through the mask only made her words more aggravating. She might have known some things about him, but she didn’t know enough to judge him. And calling him a Jesus boy wasn’t an effective way to get under his skin.
“I couldn’t habituate myself to using bad language,” he said. “Imagine if it slipped out in the company of a parishioner.”
“The horror.” Her tone was deadpanned, bored.
His shoulders stiffened. His social circles were comprised of people like his folks, who so willingly devoted their lives to holiness they took their rules to another level. Study the bible daily, never miss worship, and live in perpetual fear of everything: other religions, gays, cursing, bikinis, pop music, alcohol, smoking, premarital sex, and hell. It was as if they believed humans were demons in the flesh.
The laid-back Christians on the opposite end of the spectrum were content to simply have a relationship with God. Without the obsessive focus on rules, they seemed to better appreciate all the good in the world. It would crush his parents if they knew this was the sort of Christian he wanted to be.
He also wanted a career in football, but his decisions had never been up to him. Especially not now. Given Liv’s job, he knew discussing his future in ministry would not help her relate to him. “You didn’t answer the question, Mistress.”
A motionless tension fell over her. She shot to her feet and kicked the box of food across the room. “I do not answer questions.”
Her boot swung again, aimed at his head. He caught it, tucked it to his chest, twisting her leg and rolling her. Using her loss of balance and the taut rope of chain to trip her other foot, he dumped her face-down on the floor and threw his weight over her. Strangely, she lay like the dead, arms trapped beneath her body.
Without thought, his hands went to the mask, released the buckles on the back, and chucked it to the side. He’d already seen her face, so the disguise must’ve been meant to conceal her expressions. Screw that. He wanted to force her responses to the surface and bare every twitch and twist of her gorgeous features.
She didn’t try to free her arms or raise her face from the rug. Her breath whispered evenly through the mane of brown silk tousled around her head.
He lifted his chest, pinning her legs with his, and flipped her over. “Do you and Van anally rape your prisoners?”
Arms limp at her sides, her expression was a blank canvas. But her detachment seemed to make her eyes look even more dangerous as they drew into slits and locked on his.
The length of chain gave him enough range of motion to strangle her with his hands, but then what? He didn’t have the code to the door, and she didn’t seem concerned about her safety,
