1. Jersey
JERSEY
Aviolent surge of electricity tears through me, every muscle locking as searing heat unfurls beneath my skin.
I jolt upright, choking on a gasp as my gaze sweeps wildly around the room, searching for the source of this rude as fuck awakening.
The screen on my Guardian cuff glows in the darkness, tattling on itself.
I slouch back against the headboard with an irritated sigh, the residual shock still crackling beneath my skin.
The other side of the bed is empty, the ensuite’s dark, and Commander Martin's phone is gone from the charger. Knowing nothing’s lurking in the shadows, my nervous system starts to settle.
Well, nothing besides the usual threat, and it seems he's already downstairs.
The screen flashes again, and I scowl down at the matte-black device permanently fastened to my wrist as his message scrolls across the screen.
Bring coffee to the office.
I huff out a breath, swiping the message away and kicking back the tangled duvet. As I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, I cast a resentful glance toward the photograph on the nightstand, muttering, "Bet he never tased you awake for coffee."
Grace smiles brightly back at me from the framed wedding picture while Commander Martin presses a kiss to her temple.
It creeped me out at first, the way she seemed to stare into my soul while her husband used my body to purge his aggression.
Eventually, it became my distraction. I'd let my mind wander, studying the intricate details of her dress, counting the roses in her bouquet– twenty-six, to be exact– and trying to understand the happiness shining in her hazel eyes.
The eyes he claims I have.
The reason he had to have me.
Sliding off the bed, I grimace when my bare feet hit the hardwood, a dull throb radiating from between my legs.
My jaw tightens with each step as I head down the hall, tugging off my oversized sleep shirt and discarding it on the bed as I pass through my room.
With as rough as Commander Martin was last night, I half expect to see blood when I glance down, but there isn’t any.
And the pain is nothing some ibuprofen and a hot shower can't fix– more than I can say for the bruises littering my thighs from his harsh grip.
I twist the water on, finger-combing my hair into a messy bun before setting a fresh towel on the counter. Steam billows around me as I pull back the curtain, and I step beneath the scalding spray without flinching, water pelting my body and dissolving the tension from my muscles in seconds.
He's not always brutal. Most of the time he’s playing out the sick fantasy of making love to his dead wife.
Calling me by her name as he pairs soft kisses with tender strokes, savoring every minute.
I like it when he’s rougher, when his movements pulse with rage, rather than the sensual courtesy of a Hallmark card.
I’m sure it’s a fucked up preference, but I’d rather be punished for being me than be worshipped as his perverted stand-in. But last night was different.
Stress etched his features as he flipped me over, yanked me by the ankles to the edge of the bed, and slammed into me.
The first time that happened, I tried to fight back, then spent weeks recovering from a bruised trachea and dislocated jaw.
The most fucked up part was that I still had to service him daily.
Now, I just lie still.
Commander Martin doesn’t like to acknowledge those moments. When he loses control; when I can’t soothe him the way she apparently did. He wants the evidence washed away so he can go on ignoring his shortcomings.
The soap lathers beneath my palm as I scrub at his marks. The bruises sting as I rub harder, as if I can erase them with more pressure, more soap. But even if that were possible, it'd only be a matter of time before he left new ones.
I'm his Asset. That's what he bought me for.
Too bad I'm the one paying the price.
I cut the water off, pat myself dry, and pull out a soft grey lounge set.
Between last night and this morning’s crass wake-up call, I don’t waste time getting dressed. I'm not stupid enough to provoke the devil when he's already on edge.
Silence stretches around me, the hazy glow of sunrise beginning to seep in through the windows as I descend the stairs.
The warm scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air as I pad into the kitchen and pluck two cups from the shelf, making sure my guardian’s is full to the brim before pouring my own.
The carafe hovers in my hand as I try and fail to hold back a yawn, staring down into the mugs while gnawing on the inside of my cheek, watching the dark liquid swirl around temptingly.
Should I take Commander Martin's cup in to him? Yes.
But is my exhaustion-riddled body practically begging me to take a drink? Also yes.
Fuck it.
The glass pot clinks against the burner as I rush to replace it and snatch up my mug. I hum in satisfaction as the coffee hits my tongue in all its caffeinated glory, my shoulders sagging in relief.
The joy is tragically short lived.
My muscles seize, knees buckling as I drop to the floor like a ragdoll. The mug shatters, scalding liquid splashing my skin as an electric current rips through my system, my back arching and limbs jerking uncontrollably as sharp, blinding pain splinters through my body.
Five excruciating seconds later, the convulsions stop, the screen of my cuff lighting up with another message.
Now.
My fingers tremble as they curl around the edge of the countertop.
With a groan, I slowly pull myself up, leaning on the cabinets for support.
My palms splay against the granite, my pulse thrumming in my ears as the last tremor races up my spine.
Unsure of how long until he’ll issue another zap, I choose to ignore the mess around, pluck his mug from the counter and force myself down the hall.
The Registry already got paid, so my Guardian can do whatever the fuck he wants with me– nothing is off limits for the lawless elites of Northbrooke.
Hell, no one even batted an eye when Commander Martin sent me on an all-expenses-paid trip to the infirmary.
For the most part, he’s not a particularly cruel Guardian.
He rarely uses the cuff's compliance functions, and his rougher moments mostly stem from piss-poor moods.
But the fact that he was rough last night and has already shocked me twice over a goddamn cup of coffee leaves unease prickling beneath my skin.
Anxiety burrows deeper in my chest with every soft thud of my feet against the floorboards.
A sliver of light spills through the cracked office door, and as I move closer, the frustrated murmur of my Guardian’s voice gives me pause.
My throat aches with a phantom pain, my mind flooding with every twisted way he's tortured me over the years.
No.
He already owns my body, I won't let him have free rein of my mind.
Shoving away the fleeting thoughts, I push open the door and steel my nerves as I step inside.
Commander Martin darts me a glance as the hinges creak, his jaw tightening while his eyes return to his computer screen. He waves his hand, the smoke of his cigar scattering as he motions for me to come in.
"It's almost done," he mutters into the phone, depositing his cigar in the ashtray.
He swipes a hand over his stubbled chin as numbers cascade into rows across his screen, data quickly populating.
Registry documents scatter the surface of his desk, my eyes flicking over them as I search for a place to set the mug down.
Right as I start to lower it, his hand shoots out to grab on and I flinch, hot coffee sloshing over the rim.
He doesn't react. He just takes the cup, raises it to his mouth, and takes a sip while humming absently into the phone.
Too uncertain to leave and too nervous to ask whether I can, I linger in silence, picking at the skin around my nails. My focus shifts to the flow of numbers on his screen, the seconds stretching as I watch in a trance.
The computer chimes, a notification popping up, and the sharp clap of his hands makes my pulse stutter.
The chair creaks as he leans back, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, disheveling it further.
"Nineteen hundred hours," he barks, hanging up and tossing his phone onto the desk.
Then he turns toward me with a sigh, slapping his thigh. "Sit."
Without argument, I move closer, lowering myself onto his lap. He huffs softly, arching a brow as his hand circles my waist possessively. "So you haven't forgotten how to follow orders after all."
I swallow thickly. "No, sir."
"That was a very important and stressful call, I needed that coffee," he grumbles, his other hand resting firmly on my bare knee.
"I'm sorry," I reply softly.
"You should be," he scoffs. "I take care of you. I give you a home, a comfortable life– an easy life– hardly asking anything from you."
I bite back a laugh.
What goddamn life? The Registry killed my father, hunted me down, and auctioned me off like a prized poodle. But even Commander Martin’s dogs are better off than me. I would know, since I attend to them, too.
"Isn't that right, my pet?" he presses.
"Yes, Commander."
"Yes, what?"
My jaw clenches, the words bitter on my tongue as I amend, "You take such good care of your property."
"And yet you couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to bring me a single cup of coffee this morning without me having to use the compliance functions of the cuff. Maybe I've been too lenient with you." He pauses, his hand abandoning my knee to collar my throat. "Maybe you need a firmer hand."
My breath hitches, my spine going rigid as I await his next move. He studies me, the cruel edge of his gaze dulling with a memory as he murmurs, "just like her." The moment fades just as fast as it appeared, his eyes darkening again, tongue darting out to lick his lips.