5 EMMA
I spend the next few days in the cell, only leaving to get hosed down and washed in the evenings, though with warm water now instead of the icy cold spray of the first night.
The guards bring me food three times a day. I barely eat any of it, but they don’t seem to care. They simply set the bowl on the floor and leave it there until the next meal comes.
I don’t see Mikhail again, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because I don’t want to find out what he has coming for me next; disappointed because I need something familiar to cling to. Maybe even a little conversation, if only a few exchanged sentences.
In between meals, I spend most of the time sleeping, shutting down the fear and panic in favor of blissful numbness. But when the lights turn off and darkness slithers around me, the terror hits me like a punch in the gut. I lie on the mattress, trembling, hugging the comforter, pushing it away, twisting and turning, unable to find any rest. My heart beats so hard I can barely breathe, dragging me toward a full-blown panic attack.
Sometimes, I manage to shove the fear down into a painful ball of tension, but when it explodes, I dart to the door, banging on it and screaming.
A guard always comes in when it happens, ripping the door open and shoving me onto the mattress. With a knee on my back and a hand on my nape, he pins me in place as I weep and cry, bang my feet into the foam, and claw at the wall until I’m so exhausted that I drift off.
Then I wake a while later, drenched in cold sweat, and I spend the rest of the night in restless loneliness, jerking on the mattress as my legs refuse to be still.
I’m constantly cold. The warm water they hose me down with is only a temporary fix. The cell quickly sucks out my warmth again once they throw me back in here.
Time stagnates as I fall into this numb routine of sticky porridge three times a day, warm water delivered by cold hands, and terrifying darkness.
The only thing veering from the routine is when a guard comes in to measure my neck one day. But it’s over in a minute, and I’m back to staring at gray walls, succumbing to nightmares, and fighting strangers who hold me down.
Between the restless nights and my daytime sleeping, I lose track of time. I think five days have passed when someone finally comes to take me out of the windowless cell for something that’s not a hose-down, but it might as well be three or seven.
The guard takes me to the medical room, where Dax awaits. Unlike the first time, he doesn’t seem bored, and instead of looking through me with an indifferent expression, his eyes are sharp and assertive as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks me over. Even his posture seems a bit taller today.
I want to draw back and cower under the weight of his attention, but somehow, I remain in place, though with my head lowered and hands clutching each other.
“She looks thin,” he says to the guard who brought me here. “Have you fed her?”
“Three times a day, but she won’t eat, and Mikhail told us not to beat her.”
“And you couldn’t come up with other ways?” Dax says with an irritated edge and adds under his breath, “Goddamn incompetence.”
Dax’s military boots thud against the smooth stone floor as he closes the distance and stops in front of me. Like he did the last time, he presses the back of his hand to my chest.
“Goddammit!” he erupts, removing his hand. “Didn’t Mikhail tell you to take care of her? She’s freezing.”
“We—” The guard is about to say something, but Dax cuts him off.
“Get out!” he barks, pointing at the door. “I don’t want to see you any-fucking-where near her again.”
The guard hurries out, and I can’t hold on to my bravery anymore. I retreat a step, my shoulders drawing in even as Trevor’s irritated voice runs through my mind, berating me for cowering. But I just can’t remain upright in the face of all that anger. Squeezing my eyes shut, I draw back further, expecting some kind of violence.
I jump when he touches my arm. But there’s no brutality. He simply wraps his hand around my biceps in a gentle grip. “Come.”
He leads me toward the desk and gestures to a flat pillow on the floor. “Kneel on this.”
He keeps me steady with his hand around my arm as he helps me to my knees. Then he pulls the rolling chair over and perches on it in front of me. Taking my chin between his calloused fingers, he guides my attention up to him.
“Have you ever submitted to a man before?”
I shake my head.
“Good. I like to work with a clean slate.” He studies me for a moment before adding, “I’m gonna teach you how to be a good submissive. If I succeed, we’ll find a good master for you, who will uphold my training.” His mouth twists. “I’m not gonna let my hard work go to waste by selling you off to the highest bidder at auction.”
I want to ask what happens if he doesn’t succeed, but I can’t find the courage.
Turning to the desk, he picks up a black item made of leather. “I have made something to help the training along.”
It’s a collar, I realize, as he holds the thickly padded leather before me. A wide leather band with thick padding on the inside and four metal rings on the outside.
“Hold up your hair and bow your head,” he instructs.
Gingerly, I gather my hair and lower my head. The leather is soft and smooth as it touches my skin, but the feeling is oppressive as he wraps it all the way around my neck. There’s no buckle, only two ends that he clicks into each other. It doesn’t press on my windpipe, but the fit is snug—a constant reminder of my lowly position. A collared animal. Property.
“Release your hair and lift your head.” Dax grabs my chin again and turns my head from side to side, leaning back to take in the full vision. “Perfect fit,” he says with a smile before releasing me. Turning to take something from a drawer, he continues, “I can’t wait to put it to its full use, but we’ll wait a bit with that.” He snaps a chain to the front ring with a small padlock, then attaches the other end to a metal ring screwed into the floor, allowing me just enough room to stay in position, but not enough to move back.
Watching me like I’m a piece of handiwork he has just finished, he picks up his phone and calls someone.
“Bring me some beef stew—in one of the new bowls,” he says, then hangs up. Getting up, he points a finger at me. “Stay.”
He goes about retrieving different things from drawers and cupboards, placing them on the rolling table close to the exam table. Paper rips and plastic crackles as he goes, and then there’s some clicking and buzzing.
I don’t lift my head to see what he’s doing, afraid he’ll get mad and afraid to see what horror awaits me. So I keep my head down, frozen in place as I suppress the pounding need to fight or flee that rages inside me. I barely move a muscle when someone enters the room and sets something on the desk.
Dax retakes his seat on the chair before me, and my eyes widen, my pulse thrumming hard, as he sets a dog bowl full of beef stew between his feet.
“We’re not going anywhere until you’ve finished the whole bowl.”
Clenching my jaw, I glance up with a protest hovering at the tip of my tongue. But the sight of his crossed arms, bulging muscles, and piercing eyes has me swallowing the words and staring back down at the food.
There’s no way I’m eating that. He’ll have to shove my head into it or beat me.
God, I hope he won’t do that.
Dax shows no signs of violence as we wait. Nor even impatience. He simply sits there with his arms crossed, feet wide apart and planted firmly on the ground as he watches me. I don’t glance up again, but I feel the weight of his gaze like an invisible force, prickling at my skin and weighing down on my shoulders.
I have no idea how many minutes pass—ten, maybe twenty. When he finally breaks the harrowing silence, my legs are twitching and my feet are going numb.
“Look at me.”
I peer up but shoot my eyes straight back down, shaking my head. I can’t face him. His eyes are too sharp. Too demanding.
He leans down to unlock the chain from the floor ring. Gripping it close to the collar, he pulls my head up and deepens his voice. “Look at me.”
His rumbling tone prompts my instant obedience.
“Don’t you dare lower your eyes,” he says, narrowing his eyes in a hard expression that sends a rush of ice through my veins. I want to crumble beneath him, but it’s not in a fearful way that makes me close in on myself. I just want to crumble—give in to his powerful presence. But I can’t even do that. The sheer demand in his face has me locked in place. I blink my eyes repeatedly, but it offers no relief. His eyes keep boring into me, deeper and deeper, and my mind feels like it’s about to cave in under the pressure. I can’t think. I can’t move. All I can do is keep watching until I’m trembling beneath the intensity, my breaths coming in heavy drags.
“Are you ready to eat?” he finally asks.
Pressing my lips together, I nod. I barely know what I’m agreeing to; all I know is that he wants me to.
“Good. Then bow your head and obey.”
With a staggered exhale, I bend forward, leaning my elbows on each side of the bowl—between his boots. Sticking out my tongue, I lap up the first small mouthful, then pause.
“Keep going,” Dax urges several times as I repeatedly pause. After the fifth mouthful, he says, “I’m not gonna tell you to eat again.”
There’s no threat in his voice, but I know nothing good will happen if I pause again, so I eat at a continuous pace, lapping up the sauce and the smaller vegetables. When I get to the larger pieces of meat, I struggle to get them into my mouth without making a big mess. I’m about to lift my hand and wipe my cheek when the meat slips and smears sauce across the side of my mouth, but Dax stops me.
“Uh-uh,” he reprimands, moving his boots onto my hands. “No touching your face.”
I release a staggered whimper as I keep going, curling my fingers against the cold floor as I struggle with the rest of the portion, getting sauce on my cheeks, nose, and chin.
“That’s it,” Dax praises, leaning down to pet me behind my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut in shame, but as he keeps scratching the back of my ear and rubbing my head, I sink into a strange place—not quite accepting but not quite rejecting. I hover somewhere in between, wanting to stop the humiliation but also wanting to keep going to receive his affection.
When the bowl is finally empty, half my face is smeared with sauce.
“Sit up straight,” Dax demands.
I do as he says, though keeping my head down.
“Straight,” he corrects with a warning.
Clenching my hands in my lap, I close my eyes and lift my head.
“Such a mess you’ve made,” he tuts. But there’s no harsh disapproval. It’s more like he’s simply shaking his head at a dog that can’t help itself. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He goes to soak a cloth in the sink across the room. I expect cold water as he returns and presses the terry cloth to my mouth, but it’s nice and warm as he gently wipes it across my face, cleaning the mess I’ve made. I feel oddly cared for, and my head is in a weird daze that clouds the fear.
Once my face is clean, he removes the collar and says, “This is only for training purposes. I will give you something else to remind you of your place.”
He turns his gaze toward the exam table with the stirrups and all the straps, and a foreboding sense rumbles in my stomach.