Break Me (Enslaved #2)

32 DAX

Emma bucks and jerks beneath me as if she’s undergoing an exorcism, and her moans turn into screams that bounce off the walls and fill the air with an intensity that shoves me straight over the edge along with her. I pump hard into her as my balls draw up, and pleasure shoots like bolts of lightning through me. I growl like a beast as I shoot my load into her.

“Mine.” I slam my hand onto her throat, overcome by a rush of possessiveness that makes me see red. “Tell me,” I demand, giving her a shake as I keep pumping into her.

“Yours. All yours,” she says on staggered breaths, moaning as I draw her pleasure out into pain. Her knitted brows above hazy eyes are the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen as she accepts my dominance and says, “Always yours, Dax. Only yours. No matter what happens.”

Her words soothe the irrational possessiveness inside me, and I slacken my hand around her throat as I roll onto my side beside her. “Rest, my sweet sub,” I tell her, ready to let subspace claim her.

And so it does. Emma is far gone for almost an hour. I stay at her side, where I free her hands, caress her, and pepper kisses over her skin. If it wasn’t for the soft hums she lets out every now and then, I’d think she was asleep. I wonder if she’ll even remember that I called her by her name. It wasn’t something I had planned on doing, and I consider whether I should do it again. I don’t think I will. It’s too personal, and she’s still my slave. I don’t want her to ever forget that. But most of all, I want to keep her firmly in that box inside my mind.

As she starts stirring, I hope she won’t remember that I said her name. I’ve already crossed so many of my own boundaries just by taking her up here.

“Good morning,” I say as she slowly comes to, blinking her heavy eyes up at me.

She groans a little. “Where am I?”

I draw a small sigh of relief. She seems confused, so she probably doesn’t remember my slipup. “You’re safe, with me. Upstairs,” I reassure.

“Upstairs?” She flits her eyes to one side and to the other—to the window and through the homey room.

“We’re still in the old castle,” I clarify. “Only four levels above the ground instead of under it.”

“Oh.” She licks her lips and swallows, and I lean over her to grab the soda with a straw. She sucks in a healthy mouthful, and a slow, shy smile spreads across her face. “This is my favorite.” Releasing the straw, she draws back to look at the can, and then uncertainty draws her brows together. “Well, used to be.” She looks away and pulls the comforter a bit tighter as she once again takes in the new space. “Sorry. I don’t know—” she stops herself, clearly not knowing how to react.

“It’s okay. You’re allowed to have a favorite soda.” Turning her head back to me, I pop the straw into her mouth. When she hesitates to drink, I urge, “Go ahead.”

She tentatively sucks, and when I only give a nod for her to continue, she lets her eyes drift shut as she drinks more eagerly. And there’s that smile again. It’s more careful than the first time, and I find that I want to learn every single way to draw it out. I want to know her favorite foods, her favorite books, and her favorite movies, so I can get them all for her. I want to find out if she has humor, if she likes to dance, and if she’ll enjoy a game of chess with me. I want to know all about her. But I don’t ever want her to doubt who owns her and that obedience comes first.

So once I’ve set the empty soda can aside, I take her chin in my hand and say, “You’re mine now. In every sense of the word. Mine to use, mine to control, and mine to keep safe. I promise I will do all of those.” I lean in, connecting our lips in a soft kiss, underlining that promise. I haven’t found out how to keep here safe in the long haul yet—how to fix things with Dorin. But I’m sure I will. And soon. Because I can’t keep her locked in here all day. I want to take her back to the dungeon with me. I want her there at my side as I work, silently locked into submission behind the muzzle. And I want to be able to lock her in a cell once in a while to solidify her enslavement. She needs it too—the reminder of where she belongs.

She sweetly reciprocates as I kiss her, following my lead, moving her lips against mine and parting them as I seek entrance to her mouth. My cock grows hard again as I taste her for the first time—the first woman I have truly kissed in years. As our tongues dance together and I soak up her sweet, feminine taste, I can’t believe I haven’t done this before.

“Things will change,” I say, breaking the kiss but keeping our lips a breath apart. “But you’re still a slave. Property.” I roam my eyes over her face, taking in her pretty features and branding them to my inner eye as I give her time to sink my words in. “You’re the most precious thing I own. I will do everything in my power to give you what you need and keep you safe.” I trail my fingers over her cheekbones, her forehead, nose, and mouth, taking in her beautiful features, relishing the woman that is now mine. “My slave,” I repeat, needing to establish it firmly. “My slave, my property…” Trailing my hand across her hair, I cup the back of her head and lean in to press my forehead against hers. Shit, I want to say it again. Because I want that side of her too. So I finish in a whisper, “My Emma.”

She doesn’t say a word, but her body speaks volumes—a whole language of its own that I have learned to decode and understand through months of training and careful observation. It’s not just her who has grown attuned to me and learned to read my needs and desires. I’ve done the same with her—gauged her reactions, learned her tiny tells, and discovered how to hear her even when she doesn’t have a voice.

And right now, I can tell the flood of emotions bursting through her as she trembles against me. I can tell by her soft sniffles how she tries to hold herself together. And I can tell by her twitching hand on my chest that she needs something to hold on to. Because she knows as well as I do that there’s no way for her to hold back the storm—not if I want it to rage.

And I do. I want to feel her sweet tears and take her in my arms as the emotions rack through her. I want to feel the power of being the one she leans on—the one she grants her trust.

So I break her quivery shields. Leaning back, I gain her eye contact, imbuing my expression with all the sincerity of my heart. “My slave, my property, my Emma.”

The last word breaks her into a sob that shakes her whole body. I pull her into me as she cries—for the thing she thought she had forever lost and now has regained. It feels good to be the one to give it back and to allow myself to see her as more than an object to manipulate and bend to my will.

I feel powerful and strong as I hold her close, comforting her and leading her through the storm. I’m almost surprised by how good it feels to give her something—not just take and strip her bare. But grant her something that means so much to her and feel her deep-seated gratitude as she starts chanting, “Thank you, Master. Thank you so, so much. For everything.”

I know she means it. Everything. The quiet graceful submission I’ve taught her. The humiliations and degradations that solidified her place beneath me. The tattoo that marked her as property—gave her a place whereshe belonged. And now for giving her back what I ripped away.

“You’re welcome, my sweet little sub. You’ve deserved it,” I say, rewarding her with another kiss on the lips. Because even as I’m returning her name to her, that title is not what counts. She’s still, first and foremost, my precious little submissive. So I say the words that have bound us together in perfect union with a small but paramount change that makes my heart tremble. “You’re a precious little submissive who has made her master so very proud.”