24 DAX
My sub is right. It’s the first thought that pops into my head as I slowly wake up in her cell with her in my arms. She already belongs to me, body and soul. I feel it as much as she does. But even as my whole system seems to know it, my head struggles to catch up. Because I don’t know how to own someone beyond the violence and constant control I exert down here. I don’t know how to make myself vulnerable and fall asleep with another person in my arms. Yet somehow, I did it. I fell asleep in her cell once again. But I have no idea where to go from here.
As I tighten my arms around her and inhale her sweet scent, I know for sure. I want her. I want to keep her to myself. I want to stay here and comfort her and make sure she’s okay after the brutality I unleashed upon her last night. I want to take care of her even as I control her. Maybe even take her out of here. Bring her up to my quarters and keep her there, where the sun shines and she can see the mountains and the trees.
But that idea gives rise to another urge. One that has become so embedded within me that it’s instinctive. I’m not sure where it comes from, if it’s the army and all the losses I suffered there, my many failures as a regular Dom in the regular world, or just something that has snuck up and solidified over time. It’s the urge to close myself off and take control that wins the upper hand and makes me slip off the mattress and leave her cell.
During the next few days, I distance myself from her. Instead of taking her to my office and letting her comfort the girls and help me there, I keep her in her cell most of the time. Whenever I do enter her cell, the first thing I do is demand she stays quiet, not giving her a chance to speak before the muzzle is in place, and when it’s time for her to eat, I leave her alone with the food. I don’t want to risk hearing her say those words again. I’m already yours. I’m afraid of what they’ll do to me.
But what scares me even more is the way I act when I don’t have her close. I’m unfocused, cranky as hell, and tired. Even my insomnia is getting worse. I sometimes spend nights on end without shutting my eyes for more than one or two hours a night, and those hours are riddled with nightmares.
I feel out of control and unraveled, and it scares the shit out of me. So I consider selling her. But every time I open my laptop to look at my list of potential buyers, I slam it shut within seconds. The mere idea of her going to any other man has me feeling sick to my stomach.
So I keep postponing, hoping something will happen to shove me out of this rut.
***
“I need you to add a girl to the auction tonight,” Dorin says when he comes into my office one day.
“Which girl?” I clip, unable to hide my persistent irritation.
“248101,” he states.
I throw him a surprised look. “Number one? The girl who sings?” The one he seemed so protective of after he had punished her.
“Just do it,” he snaps and is out the door before I can respond.
I don’t dig anymore into it, staying out of others’ business just as I prefer they stay out of mine.
So I add her to the list and go about my usual routine as a guard brings her into my office for me to prepare her. I wax her, flush out her bowels, and do a quick medical exam. Then I pass her on to a guard who makes sure to hose her down, get her into the right outfit, and take her to the auction room.
All the while I have her on my table, I keep thinking about my sub. After Dorin asked me to put the blonde on auction, I decided it would be best to keep my sub in her cell for the rest of the day. Seeing how she reacted to Dorin’s girl getting punished, I don’t think she would react well to knowing the blonde is getting sold.
But once I’m done for the night and go upstairs, I can’t shake the itchy feeling that I made the wrong decision. Restlessness has my legs bouncing as I weigh the pros and cons—wondering if she’ll hate me when she finds out her friend is gone and I didn’t let her say goodbye.
It shouldn’t matter. She submits to me and I decide what happens to her. But no matter how much I try to rationalize, I can’t shake the itching worry that she’ll hate me.
I’m on my way to bed, even knowing I won’t be able to fall asleep, when my phone rings and Mikhail’s name flashes on the screen.
“What?” I snap as I pick up.
“I need you to come down and fulfill an order on a girl.”
“It’s one in the morning; I’m on my way to bed. Tell the buyer I’ll do it in the morning.”
“He wants it done now.”
“Then tell him to get it done elsewhere. I’m not available.”
“It’s Dorin’s girl. I’d like to get her out of here as soon as possible. I don’t want to find out what he’ll do if he suddenly regrets his choice to sell her while the buyer is here. A disappearing customer is not good for business. It’s just four simple tattoos. You’ll even get extra profit. The buyer is eager to take her and will pay just about anything to get what he wants.”
“I’ll be there,” I say with a grunt and hang up. Then I pull on my jeans and a T-shirt and step into my boots.
On my way down the six flights of stairs to the dungeon, I realize this is my chance to make things right—to make sure my sub won’t hate me. So I decide to let her be at my side while I complete the order.
“What’s going on?” she asks with worry in her voice as I wake her in her cell.
“Dorin’s girl is getting sold. If you want to say goodbye, this is your only chance.”
She hurriedly sits up, blinking her eyes to chase away the drowsiness.
“Can I please talk to her?” she says as I hold the muzzle harness over her head.
“No,” I say and drag it into place.
Being the good little sub I’ve trained her to be, she doesn’t protest. But even obedient as she is, it bugs me that I’m doing this in the first place—that I’m acting out of concern for her feelings. I never do that down here.
Shoving the itchy feeling that has been nagging at me all day aside, I bring her to my office and make her kneel on a pillow by my desk.
“What do you want?” I ask the buyer, not even bothering to try and hide my irritation. He’s already here, and the girl is on my table.
He hands me a paper. “Four tattoos with these words. One on each arm”—he draws a finger along the upper side of her lower arm—“one on her stomach, and one on her back.”
I scoff as I unfold the piece of paper and read the two words. Zoltan’s whore. I’ve had lots of orders like these—men who want their new possession to never forget who they belong to. I get the sentiment, but the method is crude and uninspired. I can come up with ten more aesthetic and more effective methods in the blink of an eye. But it’s not my place to meddle. I’m just here to make them happy so they’ll feed the numbers in my account.
“The ones on her torso, do you want them regular or upside down? And do you want the one on her back mirrored?”
The idiot gives me an uncomprehending shake of his head. He’s so full of himself and his need for control that he hasn’t even thought his order through.
With a sigh, I place the piece of paper on her stomach, the bottom of the letters toward her pussy. “If I do it like this, she won’t be able to read them properly when looking down at herself, but they’ll look right to you.” I flip the paper one hundred and eighty degrees. “Like this, they’ll be upside-down to you, but she’ll be confronted with the words more easily. As for her back—I suppose you want her to read the words in the mirror. That will only work if I mirror the letters.”
His eyes light up with sadistic intent. “That’s brilliant. Mirror them on her back and upside-down on her stomach.”
I turn to prepare my tattoo gear. “You can go now. I have what I need. She’ll be ready for you in an hour or so.”
“I’m staying,” he says in a demanding voice.
“That’s an extra five grand,” I say as I push the needle into the gun. It’s a hell of a nuisance when they sit there, watching me work and shooting ridiculous derisions and words meant to scare at the girl on my table, making her tremble when I need her still. And tonight, I’m particularly annoyed at the idea of an audience. That’s why I ask for double the price I usually demand to allow a buyer to stay and watch.
“Fine,” the guy says.
I finish preparing the gun, then cast a look at my sub, saying, “Sit still.”
She nods obediently, but there’s worry in her eyes as she casts a quick glance at the blonde, and I wonder if bringing her here was a stupid decision. Especially with the buyer being here. Something about the whole situation bugs me more than usual. This guy needs to demonstrate power like he needs to breathe, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s trouble. A grenade without a pin or something like that.
He interrupts my routine again as I lift the first strap to restrain the girl.
“No, I’ll keep her still,” he says, popping a switchblade open and pressing it to her throat.
“That’s gonna cost you another five grand.”
“Fuck no, I’ve already paid you people more than enough.”
Shrugging, I grab the strap at the mid-section again. I don’t want the hassle of her trembling and jerking if I don’t get paid.
“Fine,” he relents just as I’m about to buckle the strap over her stomach. “Five grand extra.”
I release the strap and turn to the side table to get the gloves and prepare the ink. Glancing at my sub again, I find her peering up at the blonde repeatedly, and the uneasy feeling in my stomach keeps growing. I don’t know what could happen, but too many things are off about this situation—the overly eager buyer and my sub swaying from her usual obedience. And I trust my gut. Chaining her to the floor won’t cut it. I want her out of here.
Putting my tattoo gun down, I go to the door, needing to get someone to escort her back to her cell. I already have my phone to my ear to call for someone when a guard appears at the end of the hall.
“Hey!” I call out, taking a few steps into the hall. “I need a hand down here.”
Stopping, he points the way he was headed. “I need to—”
“Get your fucking ass down here,” I bark, taking a few more steps toward him. “Now!” And that’s when I hear it. A loud, angry growl followed by a chaotic clatter of the metal rolling table falling over. The foreboding sensation in my stomach crashes into full-on churning alarm. I dart back to the room, and just before I get through the door, I hear a muffled female cry that sets ice running through my veins.
The first thing I see is blood. On all three people in there. But I only care about one of them. My little sub, who’s clutching a hand to her stomach, blood seeping out between her fingers.
I don’t know what happens. It’s like I’m back in the army, bullets whizzing through the air, bombs going off with ear-splitting cracks. But all I see is the bleeding person I’m headed for—tunnel vision in a pit of red lights and blaring alarms.
Grabbing my sub, I shield her with my body as I pull her aside, away from the blonde who’s holding the switchblade.
The guard is here a moment later.
“Get her out of here,” I demand, gesturing at the blonde girl that clearly cut my sub. The moment I see him grabbing her and hear the knife clatter to the ground, I turn to the woman behind me. The small, vulnerable girl with an open gash in her stomach. My girl.
“Keep the pressure,” I tell her, placing her hand flat above the wound.
“Get her back here!” someone demands behind me.
I throw a murderous glance at the rich prick as I get up and yank open the drawer with bandages. “Get the fuck out of here. Now!” I roar.
The fucker tucks his tail between his legs and runs out as I hurry back to my sub and rip a pack of sterile gauze and press it to her wound.
“Breathe, my sweet sub,” I tell her, pressing my other hand to her cheek as I lean down to look in her terrified eyes. “Just breathe. I’ve got you. Everything will be okay. I’ve got you.”
She makes a small nod like she believes me, but I’m not sure I do myself. Panic is pounding through my veins as I wait to see if the pressure will stop the bleeding.
Someone else comes rushing in. Mikhail, to my great relief.
“What the hell happened?” he demands.
“Shut up and help me get her on the table,” I say, carefully lifting my sub under her shoulders.
“I want Lavinia brought back here immediately.” The idiot buyer is once again here, holding a towel to the cut on his arm. But Mikhail, who is quick to see that there’s something much more pressing than a furious buyer, slams the door in his face and rushes through the room. Lifting her legs, he helps me get her onto the flat exam table against the wall. “What do you need?” he asks, a worried expression furrowing his brows at the sight of the blood trickling out between her slender fingers.
Glancing at the floor, I’m relieved to see the pool of blood where she lay is small. But it’s not enough to calm my racing pulse. I’m stuck in a state of alarm as if I’m facing a man who has had his lower body blown off by a roadside bomb and bullets are still whizzing through the air, men screaming with alarm.
But even that memory doesn’t quite compare to the feeling of terror pulsing in my veins. Nothing does. Because nothing has ever made me more scared than thinking—if only just for a moment—that I’m about to lose my sub.
Forcing my focus in place, I jerk my head toward the storage cabinet at the far wall. “Get me sterile gloves. Third drawer.”
Mikhail is back with the gloves within moments, and I quickly don a pair and carefully lift the gauze on my sub’s stomach. She’s still struggling to breathe as terror tightens her features, and her nostrils flare with the effort above the rim of the mask.
“Take the mask off her. Keys are in my pocket,” I tell Mikhail. Usually, I wouldn’t order him around, but I’ve gone into full medic mode, and being there, there’s no room for that kind of consideration. He knows it too as he quickly grabs the keys in my pocket and removes the mask.
“Breathe,” I tell my sub, glancing up from the wound to grab her attention, but her eyes are glazed and unfocused. She’s not getting enough air. “Get her some oxygen,” I demand.
Mikhail is already on it, setting the oxygen concentrator beside the table.
“Keep breathing,” I tell her as Mikhail pulls the elastic band of the mask over her head. “I’ve got you.” Turning my attention to the gauze, I repeat the words on a whisper, hoping to God I’ll be able to fulfill that promise. “I’ve got you.”
Carefully lifting the gauze, I find that it’s a long but not very deep cut. It hasn’t hit anything vital, and the bleeding has already receded somewhat. But she’ll need quite a few stitches, and I’ll need to monitor her to make sure the wound doesn’t get infected.
“How bad is it?” Mikhail asks.
My shoulders drop with relief as I look up and say, “She’ll be okay.”
Pressing the gauze back to the wound, I get Mikhail to hold it while I go to place a hand on my sub’s forehead. “You’ll be all right,” I tell her, stroking her damp forehead. She has barely uttered a sound since I found her bleeding, but the escalating trembling in her body and her dilated pupils tell me she’s in a lot of pain.
“I’ll take away the pain,” I promise as I lean down to press a kiss to her forehead. Then I go to retrieve a syringe and a sedative. She barely even flinches as I inject it into the crook of her arm. She just keeps staring at me with those round, vulnerable eyes as if I’m her only anchor at a stormy sea. And I guess I am. And somehow, those eyes are mine. As they go distant and she blinks her heavy lids, my chest tightens and the room seems to grow smaller. Along with it comes the guilt. And murderous fury.
I don’t know what I would have done if something even worse had happened to her. That fear when I didn’t know how bad it was—the idea that I might lose her—made me realize how important this girl is to me. And just how badly I want to hurt anyone who hurts her.
The need for revenge keeps growing with each second I watch the angry wound as I administer local anesthesia and stitch it up.
That blonde girl with the voice is going to pay for what she did.