Nasa gave his friend the look of annoyance he deserved. “I never said she wasn't.”
Like a dog with a bone, Teague turned to face him fully, unwilling to budge from the subject.
“You met this woman two weeks ago. Why did you hold her hand and walk her in here yourself?”
Jesus. Nasa sure was glad he'd left out the part about giving Dillon the smart watch he'd programed.
Teague would probably read into it and ask him what date they'd set for a wedding.
“First of all, because I hate it when Cher shakes her tits at me, and for some fucking reason, you won't fire her for the nine thousand and one reasons I've brought up before—”
“Being disagreeable in the face of your overbearing attitude hasn't been a fireable offense,” Teague cut in. “In fact, it's one of her more sterling qualities to not buckle under the pressure of dealing with you, but I understand why you find her unattractive.”
Nasa went on as though he hadn't been rudely interrupted, “And because I had hopes Cher would come to some wildly over-exaggerated conclusions about my taste in women.”
“You are so full of shit,” Teague declared with a shake of his head.
“Really? Is that your professional diagnosis?”
“Oh, we'll get to that later,” Teague promised ominously. “So, you asked Dillon to hold your hand in order to spare you a sexual confrontation with Cher, is that right?
“And you wonder why I haven't been keen on therapy.” Nasa hissed impatiently, back to considering planting his fist in Teague's face. “Did the shit for the game room show up?”
Teague didn't answer the question, patiently staring at him in such a way Nasa knew he wasn't going to escape this conversation.
For all his tenacity, Teague had the patience of a saint, and this wasn't going to be over until Teague got what he wanted.
Nasa whipped his hat off and raked his hand through his hair, looking back down the hallway where Dillon had disappeared.
“Dillon was extremely anxious about coming to this appointment, and I hoped having a hand to hold would help her relax.
"Yes, she's fucking important to me, but I'm not discussing the details of why with you before I discuss it with her.
“Yes, I would love to train her. She responds beautifully to the sound of my voice in the middle of a panic attack—thank god—and despite my confidence in my ability as a dominant, despite knowing I have the tools to possibly help her face her fears and conquer them, she has no idea why she feels the way she does around me. Considering what I know of her past, I'm taking it slow.”
“Slow is good,” Teague confirmed. “You've fortified this warehouse with every top-of-the-line gadget, device, and system to ensure what happened to Collette in Dallas never happens to any of us here.
“You've never mentioned placing defensive barriers in front of the entry way doors before today, and I assume it's because you had the steel shutters installed.
"The concrete planters are overkill, here and at the compound, so what crossed your mind the second you decided to build them?”
Nasa grimaced, not because the answer was difficult, but because it was a dead giveaway about the true measure of his feelings for Dillon.
“Don't think about it,” Teague ordered. “Just say what's on your mind.”
“When I bring her here, I want Dillon to walk past the planters, through the doors, and know without a doubt that I did everything I could to make it safe for her to relax and let me take care of her.”
Teague gave one of his signature Zen style nods and shocked the shit out of Nasa by wrapping up the conversation instead of probing deeper.
“If there comes a time when you're not sure how to proceed, let me help you, because if you fuck it up with her, she will never give you this opportunity again.”
“I'm going to rely on Dillon to ste the pace, but I'll...” Nasa winced, because saying the words physically pained him. “Ask if I need help.”
Teague nodded slowly, relief evident in his expression. “I have one more question—”
“Of course you do,” Nasa muttered darkly.
“If you answer me honestly, no bullshit evasions, I'll only make you sit through thirty-two hours of sessions.”
Nasa let his eyebrows slide up incredulously, but he knew better than to open his mouth and pop off with some smart-ass remark.
Teague was offering him a stellar deal, and Nasa wasn't dumb enough to fight him on it.
He waited for Teague to get to the punchline, because for all his stubborn, invasive, pestering questions, Teague was a good guy.
“Gee had paint all over him when he came for his session and mentioned you'd put away all your dungeon furniture, all your toys, redecorated the space, and asked him and Ruckus to help you paint the basement white. Did you do that for Dillon?”
“It was too dark down there and she was so scared she couldn't make it past the door. Fuck yeah, I did it for her.”
*****
Dillon took a ragged breath as she came to the end of her story, having recounted everything she'd experienced since waking up paralyzed in her own bed.
She confessed to having lied about her backstory and being a victim of a serial killer at the behest of a man with dead, doll eyes.
She talked about the nightmares that plagued her: being back in the black site chained to the post and bleeding or twisted up on her side on the freezing cold concrete, her wrists and ankles zip-tied together.
Or the times when she had been shivering, buckets of icy water dumped over her as she was relentlessly questioned about Georgia Styles and her children’s whereabouts.
She told Collette what it felt like to take a life, how seeing Tobias sent her off the deep end, how it felt to be around him now, how it felt to be around Nasa, and how confused she was by her sexual responses to him.
Tears pressed hard at the back of her eyes as she
