Chapter 4
Chapter Four
When I lay her on her back, she’s absolutely still. I can tell she’s very much uncertain about what the hell I’m doing with her. Hell, so am I. And I don’t like it.
Settling in the damask chair, I lean over her, watching her. Her unsteady gaze darts from my eyes to my mouth, then around the room before settling back on my face, her expression wondering. Slaves are meant to simply accept, but it’s my doing, the questions I see in her expression.
I want to shake my head, more at myself than her, but I don’t do it. I consider for a moment calling Robert to have her taken away, but I don’t do that either.
“Stay,” I tell her, then get up and leave the room, closing the door behind me.
In the hallway I tuck my dick back into my trousers and pace the narrow Persian-carpeted hallway.
What the fuck is my problem? All I did was beat her and fuck her, something I’ve done to dozens of slaves, but never have I been left in this condition. Sure, my head’s been fucked up over this Girl for years, but I’ve managed to use her before without it coming to this.
I run a hand through my thick thatch of hair, scrubbing at my scalp.
“Pull it together, man,” I mutter aloud.
What must she be thinking right now? But I’ve never fucking cared before.
What the slaves think and feel is of no concern, other than in making the most of their service, in giving them what they need, what they’ve all signed up for when they scribble their names on the slave contracts.
I just do me damn job, taking whatever evil pleasure in it I can. But this? This is something else.
Because it’s her. It’s always been different with her.
And Damon and Christopher must be aware of it, because they haven’t had me work her for a good year. Victor never did, either. And a part of my head feels well and truly fucked to hell, understanding that they know.
“Fuck.”
I stop the goddamn pacing. It’s not helping, and I’ve been gone too long.
I go to the hall closet and pull out a collar and leash—there’s a nice selection in there at all times, and this one is a thick rolled leather in a simple brown.
The dog leash, we like to think of it, being brown, rather than black or red or made of shining steel chain, which is what we often use.
The elite of the kink community love their classics.
I drag in a long breath before opening the doors and stepping back into the room.
It’s warm in there—or maybe it’s just me?
She’s still lying on the velvet couch, her eyes at half-mast, her lovely thighs slightly parted so I can see the pink nub of her swollen little clit, and if I hadn’t just come I’d need to right here and now.
I grab her by the hair and pull her upright so I can buckle the collar around her long neck.
She sits quietly as I do it, her back straight, her limbs graceful, her palms turned up as she rests them on her thighs.
This is her usual self: formal, obedience in every line of her body, her posture perfect. But she feels different.
When I tilt her chin with my fingers, she looks straight at me, something the slaves never do without being commanded to—other than that brief moment with her sister, who was taking advantage of an unusual situation.
But this Girl…she doesn’t really have that in her.
Not with that kind of attitude. No, this is all big, innocent eyes, her brows a little drawn as if she wants to ask a question. I’m damn sure she does.
And it fucking does something to me, which shouldn’t be surprising given that every single thing she’s done today has fucked me up, but there it is.
Pulling on the leash, I get her to stand up and take her out into the hallway. And despite my best intentions to lead her back to her room, I take her downstairs to mine instead.
When I close the door behind me, I drop the leash, point to a dog bed on the floor, and she instantly goes to it and kneels there. And again, her attitude is one of supplication, nearly flawless, except that she’s watching me very fucking carefully from under her long lashes.
So goddamn beautiful, this Girl.
I leave her for a minute to grab a bottle of water from the fridge in my small pantry, open it and lean over her, offering the bottle to her pink lips.
She tilts her head back and takes a few graceful swallows, her gaze on mine.
I can’t deny that she knows something is up, with her looking at me so directly.
I pull a long swig from the bottle myself, then stand there and stare at her.
What the fuck am I doing? And maybe more importantly, what the fuck am I gonna do?
Because this shit has got to stop. It’s not good for either of us.
It’s not good for the House, me being this thrown off balance, especially with me in charge now.
Although, that’s what set this whole thing off, eh?
Not that I’m blaming anyone but myself. No. But still, here we fucking are.
Her name is on my lips, wanting to come out. I step away from her, pull in a deep breath, blow it out. It doesn’t help.
“Giselle.”
Her eyes go wide, and there’s the smallest shake of her head.
“Giselle,” I say again, with more force this time.
Tears pool in her eyes. There’s the slightest trembling of her chin.
“Giselle.”
Her eyes drop, then, and she whispers, “Please don’t.”
Her voice, even at a whisper, sounds rusty. It sounds unused, and I suppose it is.
I stalk back to her and lift her chin with my fingers.
“Look at me.”
She tries to turn away, but I don’t allow it, and a tear slips down her cheek.
Jesus fucking Christ. What am I supposed to do with that?
I try again, gentler this time. “Giselle? I need you to look at me. We’re going to have a conversation, you and I.
You understand I am the current Master of the House.
You will do as I say, and I am telling you, your vow of silence is suspended for the time being.
You do not have any say in this. Am I clear? You will speak to me.”
I can barely believe the words as they come out of my own bloody mouth. Do I even have the authority to do this? With any other slave but her, I’d have all the answers, wouldn’t I?
“Gilby…”
Lord, to hear my name from her! My heart stutters in my chest, like I’ve been full-on slammed by a big, meaty fist.
“Talk to me, Girl.” I pause. “Giselle,” I correct myself, since she can’t be the slave Girl if we’re to have a conversation.
And did I even bring her here to fucking talk with me? What was I thinking? But I wasn’t, and I know it, and maybe she does, too.
She’s watching me as I stand there dithering like an old man coming down with dementia, and I have to do something, for fuck’s sake.
I try to remember what Robert said to me, but it’s a blur in my head.
Fucking dementia. Except it’s not old age or dementia.
It’s her. It’s me. It’s me and how I feel about her, how I’ve always felt about her.
And maybe now it’s just coming to a head because I know I can have her all to myself for a time and no one has to know what happens in these rooms. It’s not right.
It’s a violation of her bloody contract to force her out of slavespace, but I’m finding it harder and harder to care with every minute that goes by.
I shake my head. But then I take her by the shoulders and force her to her feet.
Her hazel eyes are wild—oh, yeah, she knows damn well something is very much off.
I move her to the dark-green velvet sofa, press on her shoulders until she sits.
She’s stiff as a board, her posture perfect.
Tension in every line of her goddamn beautiful body.
The tips of her hair tremble with every breath.
Yeah, total mind-fuck, but not the kind she signed up for.
Well, it’s a mind-fuck for me, too. I don’t even know what will come out of my mouth next.
Should I call Robert right now and have her returned to her rooms?
But it’s too late, isn’t it? I’ve done this.
May as well buck the fuck up and move ahead. Fuck it.
“You and I are going to have a chat. I know you don’t want to, but you are going to.”
She starts to shake her head, but I’m not having it. I sit down next to her and it’s an odd sort of thrill, just sitting next to her without the intention of beating her or fucking her. We kink folks—weird shit makes us goddamn giddy.
I reach over and take her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. The fact that she’s clearly trying not to cry and not doing a great job of it makes my dick a little hard, but then, I’m still me, ain’t I?
“Giselle, you and me, we have some shit to work out. It’s time. Maybe it’s fucking selfish of me, but it’s time for me, at least, if not for you. But it’s happening right now, like it or not.”
“I can’t,” she says, her voice still rough, like she’s talking with sand in her throat.
I get up long enough to grab the water bottle and force it into her hand. “Drink.”
She does, maybe needing to buy a bit of time.
“Look here,” I start, “we need to get this worked out somehow, and I know you know what I’m talking about. I have questions.”
“So do I,” she says, surprising me.
“Well then, now’s the time to ask.”
She bites her lip, her straight, white teeth coming down on that little pillow of flesh with the crease in the middle. I want to kiss her. But I need to hear what she has to say even more.
“It’s been six long years since I’ve heard your voice,” I say. “I have some ideas about why you took your vow, but maybe they’re all too egotistical to be the truth. Tell me.”
“Are we…are you commanding me as Master of the House?” she asks.
And Lord, I’d forgotten how fucking beautiful her voice is, the one thing that’s wildly different from her sister. Somewhere along the way she developed the edge of a posh English accent on top of her very French accent, her tone evenly modulated.
“I… Nah, I can’t really, can I? No, this is you and me talking.”