Chapter Seven
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May blessings never cease.
Malcolm
I love her. I adore her. I want her. She’s precious. She’s everything. She’s a flower, an angel, air, water, life.
“Shall I help, or would you be more comfortable doing it yourself?” I ask, as I step past the threshold of the nicest, but smallest, dual-bed hotel room I could find in the area.
Though I could have rented a massive suite, that would have wholly defeated the purpose of being as close to my beloved little dove as possible.
So, here we are, in a delightfully intimate little box.
In silence, I unload my things, then I face her. “Did you hear me, dove?”
Aghast, she stares at the brand-new, plastic-covered mattress resting against the wall in our room—per my instructions. “What…is this?” she whispers.
My brows rise. “An extra-firm Helix Midnight Luxe. Brand new. For you.”
Her sky-blue eyes shift, crawling toward me. Intelligently, she says, “Huh?”
I dip into one of my duffle bags of supplies for Azalea and procure the pristine white, freshly packaged, Egyptian cotton sheet set I brought for this evening.
Next, out comes the snuggliest white blanket I could find.
I present them both, like lover of the century.
“I brought detergent and made sure this room had a washer and dryer. Do you need to do it yourself, or may I?”
She says nothing.
“If it suits you,” I dip again, into my other Azalea supply bag, and get my bottle of foaming cleaner, “I can get started on wiping down the shower after the wash is rolling.”
Emotions run rampant in her eyes, then—one by one, per usual—she kills them. The light dies out, and I hold back my inclination to pout. Composed, she says, “I don’t understand. If you think I should be fighting it, why are you simultaneously feeding it?”
“Contrary to your beliefs, dove, I don’t want to drop you in the ocean and watch you drown.
You’re not dealing with isolated battles; you’re facing off in a war.
Ideally, you don’t kamikaze in the first confrontation and build even worse anxiety around taking the steps toward reprogramming your brain.
One step at a time. One broken rule here and there.
One win. Then another. One distraction that shuts down the obsessive spiral.
I intend to stack survival in your favor as I press on the seams of this bubble you’ve created to keep yourself safe.
Because, even if I’m a fan of bondage, no one deserves to live their lives completely chained, and certainly not by their own brains. ”
Her mouth opens, and shuts. Contemplation causes her pale blonde lashes to flutter. Finally, she chokes out, “Did you…just say…”
“Bondage? Sure.” I smile. “What about it?”
Careful, she takes a wary step back.
I laugh and chase her retreat. “Does that frighten you, little dove? Didn’t I already tell you how I want you caged with your wings clipped at my bidding?”
Her flesh prickles, hairs rising on her arms above the lacy fringe of her quarter-arm white gloves. I have never seen her bare hands before. I’m obsessed with the possibility that tonight I might.
“You already know I’m not a good person, Azalea.
” I close in, an advance for every retreat.
“I can’t fathom why you agreed to come here with me.
Overnight. In my vehicle. You’re trapped.
” Her back hits the pale blue wall, and her chest heaves as it fills with breath.
For propriety’s sake, I retrieve my own pair of gloves, slide them on, and cup her face in my hands.
“You’re mine,” I murmur. “I can do anything I want to you.”
“No,” she whispers.
“Yes.” I tip up her face, slash my thumbs across her cheeks, daydream about a world in which our skin might collide.
“So…” I say through the delightful haze, “…would you like help unpacking your mattress and getting your bedding washed…or shall I clean the shower for you instead?” Stepping back, I drop my arms and tuck my hands in my pockets. “I’m at your disposal.”
Agape, she watches me, shivering, breaths uneven. When she regains her voice, it’s raw. “What—” She swallows, the word vibrating with illicit threads of emotion. “—is wrong with you?”
I hum. “Probably…everything?”
Her eye twitches.
“But, primarily, I’m afflicted by a deadly disease.
” I lower my face, all pitiable. “It’s called love.
I’m thoroughly, completely, and uncontrollably in love with you.
” Lifting a hand, I look at the leather cloaking it.
“It makes me mad; and by mad, I mean insane. Hopelessly unstable, really. You know, I was a positively upstanding and mentally sound individual before you came into my life. Regrettably, however—for you—thinking about you hits my system like a drug. I have a thing where obedience grates against the grain of my spirit even when the command is hardly implied, but with you? Everything changes. I want to submit. I want to obey. I want to kneel. And you told me to be kind, so kind is what I have been, isn’t it?
Have I not poured effort into every kindness, every consideration?
You told me to treat you like a wife, or like my wife, and wouldn’t clarify for me which you wished for, so I decided myself.
” I close my hand into a fist. “You are mine.”
“You’re…crazy.” She shakes, her own fists clenching into tight balls. “You can’t just own me.”
“Can’t I?”
A muscle in her jaw tweaks, and I revel in it. It’s glorious. She’s exhausted, so the lid she keeps on her soul is straining against the pressure of her true feelings. Soon, I’ll be caught in the vibrant explosion, and I can hardly manage the anticipation.
Except, suddenly, without a single scrap of warning or mercy, she catches herself, and my swelling heart stutters.
No.
No, no, no.
Breaths heavy, she begins stuffing her emotions away, calming the storm in the bottle, fixing the lid on tighter around the neck. Bit by horrible bit, she crams those beautiful glimpses of her all up wherever the heck she always hides them, in whatever pit she condemns them to.
Desperate, I prod, poke, jab. “Nothing to say to that?” I ask.
She turns her face, clenches her jaw.
“You’re mine,” I remind her. “I say jump, you jump. Up, down, left, right. You do what I tell you. Every breath you take is with my permission. You are my bird and my doll and mine.” Pinching her chin, I fix her icy eyes back on me.
“So when I say look at me, you obey. Look at me now, darling. Tell me what you see.”
Her eyes spark.
The lid wobbles once again.
I’m so close.
So I shove just a little more. Just to the brink of the cliff.
Lips curling, I lean in and whisper, “Tell me. Do you see your future husband in your current master?”
That’s it.
That’s what it takes.
She snaps, careening over the edge, unleashing everything she always holds back. It’s thrilling. It’s lovely. It’s wonderful and gorgeous and real.
Though, to be sure, I didn’t expect her to grab my hand on the way down.