Chapter 6
Mason
“Training?” A frown emerges between her brows. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see,” I retort, taking the empty tea cup away from her.
I get up from the bed and place it on the tray, feeling her eyes on my back the entire time.
“Who the hell are you?” she asks, followed by an exasperated exhale.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” I warn her as I walk back to the bed.
She’s still sitting in that awkward position, with her legs spread and stretched out while her back is curved and her hands still resting in her lap, barely protecting her sex.
“Lie back down,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, her chin lifted defiantly. “No.”
A gasp of surprise flees her when I grab her by the shoulders and force her back down on the mattress with one decisive push. I lean over her, pinning her down with her arms stretched out above her head. Her face contorts in a grimace of pain and she squirms beneath me, but to no avail.
“Rule number one: When I tell you to do something, you do it,” I hiss at her. “No backtalk, no arguing, no objections. Understand?”
Grace presses her lips into a thin line and stares up at me with delicious fury. She can hate me all she wants, it won’t help her one bit.
“Do you understand?” I press. “I want to hear you say it. Or do you want to feel the teapot again?”
Fear flickers across her pretty face, before she whispers: “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I understand,” she clarifies with gritted teeth.
“Good girl,” I praise, and her expression softens. “Now, can I trust you to leave your arms where they belong when I let go?”
She swallows dryly. Her inner fight becomes visible in the way her head twitches ever so slightly, defiance arguing against fear, strength against the alleged sense of weakness.
And then she nods—again without saying a word.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” she breathes.
“Yes what?”
She rolls her eyes at me, before she gasps in shock when I let go of her left arm, only provide her with a calculated slap in the face, not strong enough to actually hurt her, but vicious enough to put her in place. It all happens fast, and my hand is back on her arm and pinning her in place before she can even think of a way to react.
She’s panting heavily when she stares up at me now, her left cheek a shade darker than her right and her lips slightly parted.
“You really need to learn to speak properly,” I reprimand. “Or this will become harder on you than it has to be.”
Her eyes are watering now, but she fights back the emerging tears, sucking in a sharp breath of air before she finds it within herself to respond in a way that pleases me.
“Yes, I will behave.”
Her voice is just a whisper now, the agony of having to give in palpable in every syllable.
She sighs with relief but doesn’t move an inch when I let go of her. Her arms are limp when I lift them one by one to re-attach the cuffs around her wrists, and when I sit on the edge of the bed to look at her, she averts her face away from mine.
“Repeat rule number one for me,” I demand.
Silence. She keeps her eyes locked to the wall on the opposite side of the room and doesn’t even acknowledge that I said something.
“Grace, repeat number one for me,” I repeat.
And this time she reacts by turning her face back to me, her dark eyes hollow and watery when she asks: “How do you know my name?”
I exhale audibly, silently pointing to the teapot in lieu of a response. Her eyes follow, studying the pot before traveling back to me.
“It won’t be as hot by now,” she informs me. “Go ahead.”
“It’s still hot enough to inflict some serious pain, little girl,” I tell her—and she flinches when I place my left hand on her core, just below her belly button. “Especially if I find a more sensitive spot to place it.”
Her chest heaves under nervous breaths when I inch closer to her soft lips. I’m not touching her just yet, but threatening to do so.
“I will do what you tell me to do,” she hurries to say. “That’s rule number one.”
“Good girl,” I praise, instantly removing my hand. “Rule number two: You’ll address me as sir and respond with ‘yes, sir’ when I tell you to do something. Understand?”
I expect another surge of defiance when she narrows her eyes, but she’s more than compliant this time.
“Yes, sir,” she says.
I regard her with a benevolent smile, to which she doesn’t react in any way.
“Rule number three: You’ll look me in the eyes when I tell you to, but when I enter the room, I want your eyes down on the floor. Understand?”
She frowns at me. “I’m on my back and tied up. How am I supposed to-”
“You won’t be tied up like this forever,” I interrupt her. “Unless you ask for it.”
I can tell that she’s close to objecting or rolling her eyes at me again, but she’s smart enough to refrain from doing either.
“In fact, you can be free of those restraints right away,” I reveal. “You just have to do something for me.”
Her eyes widen with piqued interest. “And what would that be?”
“Tell me about those scars on your legs,” I reply. “How did you get them? And why?”
She swallows dryly, little creases appearing on her forehead as she considers the opportunity—before she decides against it and shakes her head in silence.
“Very well then, let’s go on,” I say, not skipping a beat. She’ll talk at some point.
I will make her talk.
“Rule number four: You’re not allowed to hurt yourself ever again,” I continue. “Understand?”
She scoffs in response. “Oh, but you are allowed to?”
“Yes.”
My quick and honest reply leaves her stunned. She studies me for a few moments, a blend of confusion and fear coloring her expression, before she nudges her chin forward.
“What else?”
She’s fierce, even more so than I anticipated. It’s endearing, almost dangerous.
“Fifth and final rule: Everything you want has to be earned from now on. You can’t just ask for things and expect me to hand them to you,” I conclude. “Understand?”
“What do you mean by that?” she digs.
“Well, is there anything you want right now?”
Grace huffs and shakes her head. “Yeah, I... I want to be free?”
She’s posing it as a question, not a demand.
“Freedom is too dangerous for you,” I retort.
Her lips part and the crease between her eyebrows grows deeper than I’ve ever seen it before.
“Yeah, people keep saying that to me,” she utters, sounding more sad than angry.
I’m not sure what to make of that. In her file it said that she’s suffering from depression and possibly a bipolar disorder. The latter was still to be determined, but she initially ended up at the ward, because she was considered to be suicidal. By the time I first saw her she’d been at the ward for just a couple of weeks and was still under constant supervision, despite the fact that she insisted on having no intention of killing herself.
It would be plausible to think that she’s talking about the staff at the ward, but something tells me she’s not.
“So, what, you’ll hurt me if I hurt myself?” She wants to know. “Isn’t that what they call fighting fire with fire?”
“You think pain is the only form of punishment?” I ask back.
She narrows her eyes and tilts her head to the side. “What else is there?”
“I could take things away from you,” I answer, adding a nonchalant shrug.
“I have nothing. What could you possibly take away from me?”
The sadness in her voice leaves a burning sting in my chest. Her sadness runs deep, so deep that it’s neither visible nor comprehensible to most people.
And it’s my job to make it vanish. Forever.
“We all have something to lose, Grace.” I tell her.
The frown on her face is gone when our eyes meet this time, and she parts her lips as if to speak—but finds herself bereft of words once again.
Yes, this girl never wanted to die. She wants to live.