29. To own is to… Affirm
Chapter twenty-nine
To own is to… Affirm
C hloe
Master caned and took my ass for trashing my room, and I loved every second of it. The only trace of the woman I saw after that was when I peeked out of the kitchen windows and watched someone pressure wash her blood off the pavement. Master had scooped me up, coddling me away from the gruesome cleanup scene. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t upset by what I’d done, not after the initial shock. I was, though, terrified Master would be even more cross with me. It appears to have had the opposite effect. All’s well that ends well, I suppose. I’m by his side again, where I should be.
I nuzzle against his thigh as he eats lunch, reading over some final travel plans. I don’t care what they are, only that this time, I’m coming. Stuart glares at me from over the top of his newspaper as Sir offers me a bite of my food. The flavor of maple candied bacon over chicken bursts on my tongue. Things aren’t where they were before. Arm’s length would be too close for how he’s keeping me, but I’m no longer spending my days stalking the halls and sobbing. I eat my meals with him again, allowed time in his office, although it’s limited. I have more daily chores than ever. He seems…more tense, a far cry from the way he was after I killed that woman. His real estate agent, apparently.
“Pup.”
“Yes, Sir?”
He swallows hard, laying down the papers in his hands. “The event is tomorrow night. I’ll need your help there.”
I pause, nodding up at him. “This is the lead Andres gave you, right?”
“Yes.”
“How can I help?”
He hesitates, his fists clenching. He doesn’t get to open his mouth before the chime of his phone interrupts. “They started the conference early, fuck ,” he hisses, making me jump before he leaves his seat, gesturing for me to fill it. “Behave.”
I just nod, staring after him as he pauses in the doorway. “Oh, and Pup… Stay away from the snakes.”
My lips part as he leaves, Stuart only remaining long enough to glare before he follows him out.
I last until nighttime before I try to find him again, before the pulsing hole in my chest starts to ooze and fester. Those bizarre, violent thoughts batter my brain like hornets.
I’m only halfway to his office before Henrietta stops me. “Oh, I was just looking for you! Sir has tasked me with readying your attire for tomorrow’s event.”
I stop, glancing toward the wide doors before letting her guide me into my room. “Master is usually the one to dress me.”
She shoots me a small smile, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t strike me as sympathetic, the way you smile at the man raving about the government putting a tracking device in his ass via flu shot. “He gave me a note dictating the outfit himself. You even have a new necklace.”
Necklace?
“Collar,” I correct, because there’s no point in not calling it what it is. This woman has seen me bound, gagged, and stuffed in all states of undress. I have no shame, not like there was at first, the tinge of embarrassment that comes with publicly being collared and treated like a pet. In fact, the role of his dog suits me quite well, I think, but maybe I’m biased.
Or insane.
Likely both at this point.
I did kill a woman and feel quite indifferent about it, which certainly isn’t normal.
She pulls out the garment bag, giggling with excitement as she lays it out on the bed to open it up. I can’t help but smile at first—a smile that leaves the moment the zipper fully exposes the dress. A sick feeling pools in my gut as she pulls out the garment. “This isn’t the right one.”
Her excitement snuffs out just as quickly as mine had.
I’ll need your help.
That’s what he said.
“I assure you this is the right one,” she argues, frowning. “It’s a stunning dress. The Scott Henshall he bought a month ago.”
I stare at the fitted, knee-length, semi-sheer dress, faint gold inlaid in damask designs. It's beautiful, sure, but there’s one glaring issue, one that has my hand gripping my stomach. “It’s black. I wear blue, royal blue.”
She huffs, pulling her note from Sir, shoving it at me. “It’s right there, in his hand. The black damask Henshall, paired with the gold serpent collar.” My fingers smooth over his penned cursive scrawled along the page.
She drapes the dress over her arm, leaving me there with the note. “I’ll have this steamed.” With that, she leaves.
All the while, I’m in the midst of a staring contest with a piece of paper. It takes a while, too long, maybe, for my mind to rationalize how silly it is to be upset. I’m a whore .
A sex slave.
A dog.
How else would I help?
I am most useful silent and spread.
The sound of the paper crumpling in my hands seems to shock me out of whatever state of mind I slip into just in time for me to bolt from the room, making it to the toilet seconds before I vomit. My throat burns as I upend everything from my dinner, my stomach cramping from the force of my heaves by the time I press my clammy forehead against the chilled porcelain of the toilet.
The phantom hands are there, prodding, caressing, spreading, pinching. My chest vices around my lungs, making them shudder and rattle in my chest. I bow over to press my forehead against the marble floor, but I go in too quickly, effectively head-butting the ground.
Oh God.
God, I can’t breathe.
The slight hum that’s born from a lived-in home is too much. It’s a quiet buzz, but it might as well be as pungent as a scream. The smell of my vomit fills my nose as I struggle to force air through my lungs.
I don’t want them to touch me.
I don’t want to be touched.
The phantom hands pull and tug, and again, I’m in the water.
My throat is hoarse as I scream, my mouth dipping under the waves as I take in gulps of water. “Help! Someone help! ”
“Chloe!” Renee sputters. She’s drowning. We’re both drowning.
My arms shake from exhaustion as I try to right my grip on her, underneath her shoulders with one arm, the other acting as my only tether to her floatie. I hadn’t even realized.
God, we’re too far out.
Another wave slams us, saltwater assaulting my eyes and nose as she goes under. For a moment, I think I hear it—the rumble of a boat, like I thought I heard it hours ago, dangerous, fleeting hope blooming in my chest.
I sob. “Renee!”
My arm clinging to her floatie slips, and suddenly, my sister is an anchor. The dark water below seems infinite, only the shape of blonde hair swirling around as we struggle. Despite the weakness in her arms, she drags, clawing at me. My chest aches as I hold my breath, my head going light as we’re tossed around by the waves.
I’m going to die.
We’re going to die.
I can tell the exact moment I’m going to take a breath, when my lungs are going to force the issue of breathing, but there’s no air to be had down here. My grip on my sister loosens, slipping from me entirely as a sharp, agonizing pain erupts in my eye. Like I’ve been gored, I scream, sucking the saltwater into my lungs as my body stops responding to the panic in my mind .
Water drips from my face as I stare at my blurry reflection in the mirror, my breath coming to me in small little gifts from my lungs. It’s just enough to keep me alive, but not enough to give me any comfort. My good eye squeezes tightly shut, blocked by my hand.
One of the men who jumped in and pulled me from the water shoved their finger so hard in my eye, it left me with a large corneal laceration. It was done in a moment of panic as he grappled with whatever he could to haul me up, leaving me with an injury that required three surgeries to repair and partially blind. The bizarre, bisected way my pupil healed came later. I kept us above water for two hours. The police said it was amazing I’d kept her up that long. They praised me . Told me I did a good job while we waited for my sister’s body to bloat enough to float to the surface. Mom and Dad couldn’t bear the sight of me. All Grandma could say was, at least you made it out .
At least I made it out.
I lived.
I should’ve felt grateful, vowed to do something amazing with my life, written a memoir and dedicated to her. I did none of those things.
Guilt, like the saltwater, was always too deep. The anger, the resentment, and the bone-crushing sadness were always suffocating. The moment I thought I might snap out of it, the moment there was a tendril of light, I’d wonder how she would’ve spent her years, if she would’ve wasted them like me. We were told by the doctors she did well for children with her condition. We were told she’d have thirty to seventy years, good or bad, suffering or not.
I robbed her of every one of them.
Because I was mad at Mom and Dad for not showing up again. Because I was mad at Grandma for hurting me. I was mad at myself for not being good enough. I was mad at her for having it so easy. How the fuck could I have ever thought that?
I wanted to take her into the water that night because she loved it, because I loved it too, but nowhere near as much as I loved her, but I should’ve said no.
Like I had since the last time we got caught.
The difference?
I was mad.
Hurt.
I was bad . Fundamentally .
Grandma told me so over and over again until I was sure it was her favorite word.
I was already bad .
So why should I listen?
I was fucking stupid.
And I still am.
Standing outside his bedroom door sobbing, begging to be let in, his note crumpled in my hand. It’s almost funny the way history repeats itself.