19. To own is to… Attend
Chapter nineteen
To own is to… Attend
W arrick
Pup’s ass is hugged sinfully by the insulated athletic leggings I picked out for her, my hands death-gripping the handlebars of my bike as we walk out of the garage. Two months I’ve had her, and where my attentions typically last a week at best, I still can’t get enough. I want to drink her down, spend every waking moment figuring out all the little things she does and why she does them. I want to know her every thought, and then I want to consume them. I want to punish her if every single one isn’t about me.
She swallows hard, glancing behind at me as I straddle my bike, waiting for her to do the same. We’ll take the shorter gravel path; it goes around my lake versus the one I typically take that spans the entire front half of the property. Her blonde hair is braided down her back, sticking out from underneath the helmet I made her wear. I smirk as she bends down, fussing over the knee pads she has on.
“I-I don’t want to wear these, Sir. They’re uncomfortable.”
I roll my eyes, engaging my kickstand before walking over to her. Her pale pink lips part as I wind her braid around my fist, steering her attention back to me. “I take all matters of your safety seriously, Pup. Enough complaining.” I tighten my grip, making her suck in a sharp breath. “I’ve got a meeting today.”
She meets my eyes, pursing her lips.
Fucking brat.
And I love it.
She doesn’t even try to be one.
Her complaints and whining make my fucking cock throb because it’s all done so innocently.
Fucking hell, you’re an idiot. Warrick.
She’s a pet .
No different from the ones I left behind for Andres and his wife. Well, the one who lived. I debated on telling Pup I got rid of the other women, but it wouldn’t serve me well to feed into her jealousy, no matter how big of a thrill I get out of it.
I release her head with a tiny shove. “Come on. If you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll reward you once you get to the lake.”
I watch her as she steels herself, determination shining in her pretty, wide eyes. To be honest, I’d paid no attention to her bad eye at first. It simply didn’t matter to me one way or another, but the more I see it, the more I adore—
Adore?
Not even remotely.
I’m distracted again by her ass, so much so that I almost don’t notice the awkward way she mounts the bike, staring down at the pedals like they’re about to relinquish their secrets. My smile widens as she places one foot on the pedal, testing it with enough of a push to make the bike creep forward a little, her other foot still firmly planted in the gravel. Mounting my own bike, I bite down on my inner cheek, fighting to keep a neutral expression. It seems my little pet is being dishonest again.
I sigh, curious to know how far she’ll take it. “Ready, Pup?”
“Yes, Sir.” She looks over her shoulder, giving me a smile that wipes mine from my face. My chest constricts like a boa around my heart. It’s an ungodly feeling, an irrational one. I push off, riding past and ahead of her. She kicks off too, so I keep going waiting for—
Slipping gravel and a yelp followed by a hiss make me apply my hand break a little too hard, a little too quick. My bike skids as I turn to check on her. She’s fucking stunning, sprawled out in the gravel. I resist the urge to go to her as she gets up, pretty tears budding in her eyes. It’s a wonder she has any left at all. “Master….”
“Yes, pet?”
She stares down at the bike. The defeated look on her face makes my chest squeeze again, forcing air through my lungs as I turn and ride the short distance back to her. “I don’t know how to do it.”
I kick my stand down, the lightly chilled morning breeze making my breath a puff of smoke as I near her. She’s tiny compared to me, and she looks even more so in moments like this, moments when she’s lost to thoughts I’m not included in, ones when her sadness doesn’t end in tears but detached silence. For someone who smiles so much, she’s remarkably broken. It’s those smiles I think bother me the most. What fucking reason does she have to smile in a place like this? I’ve heard it all: begging, screaming, sobs, and even the silence that follows it all, when whatever human parts inside that make them finally snap. They’d smile because they were meant to, but it was a tool just as much as their bodies were. Pup smiles because she wants to. She smiles because somehow, she found a reason to.
I’m desperate to know what it is.
“I’m sorry for lying.” Her voice cracks as I stand in front of her, still holding onto my bike despite the kickstand being down. I hold it because if I let go right now, I’ll hold her, and that’s the last thing I want to do.
“You really don’t know how to ride a bike?”
She shakes her head, still not meeting my eyes, and fuck, if it doesn’t irritate the hell out of me. “I wasn’t allowed.” She flexes her gloved hands, and I can see all thirty-two scars on the left and all twenty-eight on the right. I can see their layout, the patterns they make on her pale flesh, and the wounds they stand for, the invisible ones.
Fuck me.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Tell her to go inside. This isn’t your problem. You don’t care.
I don’t fucking care if you can’t ride a bike, Pup.
“Then I’ll teach you.”
Her head snaps up, tears breaking over her line of thick, light-colored eyelashes. Her freckled nose wrinkles, something she does when she’s trying not to blubber. When she opens her mouth to speak, something akin to a choked sound escapes, so she just nods. Fucking hell.
She’s adorable.
The next hour and a half only serves to make me miss my morning meeting and confirm that there isn’t an athletic bone in Pup’s body.
“Straighten the handlebars and push down on the pedals. Come on, you can go faster.”
She huffs, her forehead creased as she focuses. I smile as she picks up pace, self-correcting when the bars wobble.
“There you go! You got it.” Her eyes widen as the tire hits a dip in the gravel, making the bars jerk. “Don’t you dare stop. You’ve got it!”
Her bottom lip is held hostage between her teeth, and watching her fear turn to excitement only adds to the pride budding in my chest. “I-I’m doing it! Holy shit!”
Language, pet.
She picks up pace, laughing like mad as I step out of her way before she flies past me.
“Okay, now practice stopping yourself. Squeeze the brakes slow—”
Pup does not squeeze slowly.
My heart drops as she tips over the handlebars, throwing out her hands, a yelp leaving her mouth as she skids. My footsteps sound louder than usual as I run to her, my heart thudding hard in my chest.
She’s fine. Relax .
The bike tire is still spinning as she groans, lifting herself into a sitting position just as I reach her.
“Are you alright?” I ask, kneeling as I check her over. She doesn’t answer, something I don’t even notice thanks to the violent pounding of my heart, not until I’ve ensured nothing is broken.
Her hands shake as she jerks off her torn gloves, staring at the blood welling on her palms. A sick feeling pools in my gut as she goes still.
“Pup.”
“My hands .”
“It’s just a few scratches.”
She shakes her head, her nearly nonexistent breath suddenly leaving her in a rough, choking gasp. “I-I’m sorry. I- My hands.” Her voice pitches up as she frantically starts wiping the hem on her pants. “ Oh God .”
I sit back, watching for a moment in confusion as her panic attack grips her. I’ve inflicted far more pain on her than this; this isn’t about how much it hurts. “Pup…”
She gasps, her wide eyes wild as she turns to me, “I-I…uhm. I am… I don’t feel good.”
That uneasy feeling in my stomach surges stronger as she looks at me for help. Neither of us really understands what she needs. The anger that hits me next floods my chest as I grip her hands, pressing her palms to the spot where it burns the most. My own hands eclipsed hers to hide them. “It’s nothing.”
“My…uhm. My hands—” she pants.
“Pup, your hands are fine.”
“No. No. I’m sorry. Yeah, it’s fine. They’re fine.”
My heart lurches as she looks back up at me. She has tears in her eyes, but it's more than that. It’s the fear I see there that doesn’t sit well. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, baby, you aren’t, but I need you to breathe.”
She shakes her head, and I can tell the moment my voice stops reaching her. My jaw flexes as I try to control my breathing.
“You’re mad. Oh- oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t supposed to—”
I’m not mad at you, Pup.
I can’t bring myself to tell her. I can’t understand for the life of me why I want to make it better, why I would trade anything at this moment to make her stop feeling this way.
Why it pisses me off that I don’t know how to fucking help her.
“Breathe for me.”
She doesn’t.
She can’t.
Okay then.
I squeeze her hands harder than I should, making her cry out, but it brings her eyes back to me, where they should be. She’s looking up at me with a frazzled version of the same face she shows me every morning while she kneels, waiting for her orders.
She needs me.
Her master. Not comfort, but control.
That I understand.
That I can give her.
I keep the pressure on her hands. “Breathe slowly, in through your nose and out from your mouth.”
She shakes her head, her chest heaving. “I can’t. I can’t handle it. I need—”
“It’s up to me what you can and cannot handle. Or have you suddenly decided you know what’s best for you better than I do? Is that it, huh, dog ? You think it’s up to you whether you’re okay or not?”
She breathes in through her nose, releasing a shuddering breath as she shakes her head.
“Your hands are fine because I told you they are.”
Another deep breath as she nods.
Suddenly, it makes more sense, the way she maliciously guards her hands, the annoying amount of time she spends scrubbing her nails.
“Are you a good dog or a bad dog?” I ask, finally releasing her hands to stand—no tower— above her .
I watch as she slowly gathers herself, getting into her presenting position, retreating into her submissive space. A sob bursts free from her as she looks up at me. “I’m bad.”
Fuck…
I glare down at her instead of gathering her in my arms, caging her to me like I want to. The desire to do any of that is foreign and almost as uncomfortable as the knife she just wedged somewhere in my ribs. Still, I keep my face indifferent, a mask I don well. “Tsk, you’re trying my patience.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Are you a good dog or a bad dog?”
“I learned how to—" She hiccups. “I learned how to ride a bike. I’ve minded well today.”
“And you’ll do your chores later?”
“Y-yes, Master.”
“You came very prettily for me this morning.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been good , little pet. I’m proud of you.”
She gives me a shaky, fake smile, and I find myself disappointed it’s not the bright, unsettling one. “But my hands… They’re ruined.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your hands.”
She sniffles, tucking them into her lap.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and fed.”
She winces as she gets to her feet, lingering as I turn away to grab her bike. “Sir?”
“Yes?” I ask as I jerk it up, kicking the stand into place.
“Thank you.”
I don’t respond as I snap at one of my security staff who stared openly for most of the encounter. “I recommend making yourself useful before I put a bullet in your skull.”
“Yes, Basilisk.” He swallows before scrambling over to grab my bike as I wheel the one I ordered for her back toward the garage. Pointedly ignoring her, I wonder if she liked the teal and white colors I picked out for it, the little wicker basket in the front.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
****
It’s not until I bring the sponge over her shoulder, watching the steamy water cascade over the smooth, soft planes of her skin, that my sanity well and truly snaps. Pup has been quiet, holding her good eye closed as she stares at the water, for the last ten minutes. Where I’m usually grateful for her silence, at the moment, it only serves to aggravate me further. I want to know why her hands are scarred. I want to know who inflicted each mark. I want to know how the fuck a concert pianist ended up being sold on the skin market.
For obvious reasons, Bloom omits most information about their so-called flowers. Fewer strings, the better. I’ve never had an issue with it before. I shouldn’t now.
“Pup.”
She opens both her eyes, lifting her head off her knees as she turns back to me.
“I need your name.”
She pauses, looking at me like I’m trying to trick her before she goes back to staring at the steamy water. “It is whatever you see fit.”
“I see fit that you answer my questions.”
“My name is Chloe.” She whispers it like it’s a forbidden word, and I suppose it is.
Chloe.
This is fucking madness. “Your last name.”
She stares at the water.
I give her a warning, a simple gesture in her line of slight. The idea of her hiding anything from me makes me want to shove her head under the fucking water. I watch her doe eyes follow the movement before she relents. “Tyson.”
“Social security number.”
The fear in her eyes is evident. Her hands lift from the water to grip the edges of the bathtub. “Why?”
I stop squeezing the warm water over her shoulders. I let the sponge drop into the tub as my hand finds the back of her neck gently, slowly making her eyes go wide with fear. “Because you’re mine.” I whisper the words against her cheek, trailing my lips to her neck. “There's nothing of you I don’t own, pet . Your life, your cunt…” I press a kiss to the underside of her gentle jaw, feeling the way she’s shaking. “Your future and your fucking damage.”
“Please… I’ll tell you anything—”
“I have no interest in half of a story.”
“This is—”
“I don’t need the number, Pup. It simply makes Stuart's job easier.”
I want to know if she’ll give it to me, how far my pet will bend.
With a steadying breath, she recites the number almost robotically, her fear such a tangible thing, I can almost taste it. The unease in my chest loosens, because in the blink of an eye, everything is how it should be. She should look at me like this, terrified and uncertain. I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, letting my tongue dip out to taste her lips.
“Good dog. Get yourself dried off. You’ll take breakfast in my office while I’m on a conference call.”
She nods, wrapping her arms around herself like a barrier as I leave.
My breath comes easier as I walk toward my bedroom. That knot she tied and weaved in ribbons around my chest is slowly loosening until it flutters to my feet. There are no allies, no comfort to be had here.
For either of us.