Chapter 4 Joan
JOAN
I wake up sore, disoriented, with images from last night still haunting my mind.
I glance at the red marks on my wrists left from the rope Amon tied me with and feel something stir inside me. My hips move on their own, swaying against the mattress—
No. It’s time to pray.
I brush the sheets aside and fall to my knees, clasp my hands together, and close my eyes.
This has been my routine for months now. I know what to do.
“O God, I find myself at the start of a new day…please give me the strength to be ready for whatever might come…”
My voice gives out. It’s no use. My thoughts are elsewhere. Not on God—on him.
Amon.
I take a deep breath and try again. I can do this. It’s just about having faith. Being devoted.
“O God, I find myself lost at the start of a new day. Please…help me find the strength to…to…”
My voice falters. I fail again. Try as I might, I can’t do it.
I shower, hoping the warm water will wash away the guilt, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about it…
…my punishment.
Stomach rumbling, I throw on some sweats and a loose T-shirt and head downstairs to the kitchen, only to find him sitting at the table already eating. He’s on the phone, laughing about making tons of money.
“Two hundred and twenty-five million? Hope you bought that Porsche for yourself!”
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of tight, black briefs.
I try to avert my gaze, but my eyes move on their own, pulling me back to his sculpted physique—broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and of course…those ripped abs.
I remember them from yesterday. From the quick glance I shouldn’t have taken.
A warmth swells below my belly, and I race back upstairs. Maybe if I just put some distance between us…
But when I get back to my room and shut the door, I just feel like I’ve imprisoned myself. I have nothing to distract me but prayer, and we’ve seen how well that went already.
I feel ridiculous for running. But what other choice do I have? Stay and gawk at my half-naked step-brother?
No, I’ll just wait until he’s gone, then I’ll go about my day.
It takes him a painful thirty-seven minutes to leave the kitchen. Once I hear his footsteps fade and the back door open, I burst from my room and race downstairs.
His dirty dishes are in the sink. I guess he expects me to do them for him, seeing as how I’m his new housemaid and under his complete control.
He hasn’t even bothered to wash them off. It’s like he wants to make my job harder. Oh, well. I grab a sponge and get to work.
Once I’m finished, I’m about to pour a bowl of cereal when I notice a handwritten list by the counter. I know instantly it’s written by Amon. The handwriting, elegant yet bold, somehow fits him perfectly.
Your Chores for Today:
Sweep and vacuum all of downstairs.
Dust every room.
Take out the trash.
Do my laundry.
“Do my laundry…” I take a deep breath and set the note back down. “Arrogant son of a…”
I stop myself. I shouldn’t curse. It’s wrong. But the whiplash I’m experiencing from last night to this morning has me completely off kilter.
Although I’ve been trying to convince myself otherwise, my…punishment last night awakened something in me. And Amon is responsible.
I thought it may have brought us closer in some way, but I see now from this note with a list of my duties that it hasn’t.
I’m just a servant to him. A plaything. And still, despite all that, I can’t stop myself from buzzing as I grab the broom and begin my chores.
I’ll eat once I’m finished. I just want to get this over with while he’s still outside. Then I’ll get my cereal and take it up to my room and hide. I don’t think I can handle another confrontation with him today.
Last night’s events prod at me like a splinter under my skin. Your first orgasm…That’s what he said to me. Somehow, he knew about my lack of experience. It’s like he knows everything about me.
I’m putting his clothes in the dryer when I hear a sound behind me. Before I can turn, Amon’s voice shakes me. “Make sure it’s tumble dry. No heat.”
“I-I’m sorry,” I reply, quickly changing the setting.
His eyes probe me without restraint. He may want no heat on his clothes, but he has no problem setting my body on fire. I turn so he can’t see my cheeks go red.
He glances at the laundry I’ve already finished and folded—just some towels and things. My heart is pounding. Why am I desperate for his approval?
Slowly, he steps closer, his sheer presence filling the room. He’s wearing khakis and a shirt now, but they can’t hide his Adonis physique. How can one man have so many muscles?
I’m tingling again. My same secret places that were stimulated last night start buzzing with anticipation. He reaches an arm out, and I brace myself for his touch—
But he reaches past me, grabs one of the towels, and examines it. My body relaxes as I let out a sigh of relief.
“Not bad,” he says. “But not great.”
“Not great?” I don’t get him. How great can he want a towel to be washed and dried?
Tossing it aside with no care whatsoever, he snaps his fingers at me like a dog and motions for me to follow. “Come.”
“But your laundry—”
“Later. I have something else for you.”
He doesn’t wait. He walks out of the room, expecting me to obey. And what else can I really do? If I don’t, I’ll end up in the closet again, chained to that machine…
But would that really be that bad?
“Shush!” I hiss under my breath, scolding myself for having such wicked thoughts.
He leads me into the lavish living room that looks like something out of an old British mansion. The furniture probably cost more than Momma’s old house.
“Here,” he says simply, pointing to an elegant chess set sitting on an ornate coffee table.
“You…want me to clean them?” I ask.
“Dust them. Carefully. And once you’re finished, arrange them perfectly. I want equal distance between each piece. Understand?”
Is he kidding? That sounds impossible. But what am I supposed to do? Argue with my enormous, six-foot-plus step-brother who has a contract to run my life?
“I’ll do my best.”
“No,” he snaps. “You’ll do as I say. You know what happens if you fail, Joan.”
Before I can speak, he exits the room.
I realize I’m trembling. Not because I’m afraid of being punished but because I’m afraid of disappointing him.
I start right away, dusting each piece with my cloth and placing it back where it was. I don’t have a clue how to play chess, so that’s the only way I can do it without messing up the board.
Amon wants equal distance between the pieces, so I search the room for a ruler, only to come up empty.
“Fudge,” I say, still feeling slightly guilty for uttering something close to a swear.
Then a brilliant idea hits me. My cloth! It may not have numbers on it, but it’s patterned with blue and green squares.
Laying it beside the board, I’m able to use it like a grid to situate the pieces so they’re almost perfectly spaced.
Almost…
This has to be good enough. Amon must know what he asked is basically impossible without tools.
I’m on my last piece—I think it’s a castle—when Amon comes back into the room. My heart is ready to pound out of my chest as he approaches the board.
“I did my best,” I start to explain. “But without a ruler—”
He silences me by simply holding up his hand. I close my mouth and step aside, letting him pass.
His familiar scent enters my nostrils. My eyes close automatically as a hurricane of emotions threaten to overwhelm me.
I want to stand still—appear obedient—but as my head starts swimming, I have to step back, or I might just faint.
I’m actually shaking as I watch as he leans over the board, circling it, inspecting it like a government official. His body language reveals nothing.
I want to scream at him.
What are you thinking!?
But all I can do is stand there and wait, trying not to break a nail as I fidget my fingers against each other nervously.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Amon stands and turns to me. His eyes pull at me like gravity, threatening to devour me if I make one wrong move.
“Good,” he says simply. I can’t believe it.
“So…it’s okay?”
“No.” He shakes his head, causing my heart to skip a beat. “It’s good. Good job, Joan.”
I did it. I did what I was told, and I succeeded. Relief flows through me, but as I look back at him, I realize something terrifying.
The praise in his eyes is addicting. I want more. So much more.
But I can’t. That’s wrong. Amon is my step-brother, and I’m supposed to be pious…pure…
His cell rings, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. He checks it, then looks at me. “You can go, Joan. For now.”
Thank God.
I rush from the room like a rat with its tail on fire, up the stairs to my room, and slam it behind me. Panting like a maniac, I collapse onto the bed and try to calm myself down.
But Amon’s words ring in my ears like church bells.
“Good job, Joan.”
Even replaying them now causes the same feeling of pride and joy to fill me. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it’s dangerous.
I read Scripture for the next three hours. I don’t even leave to go to the bathroom. My goal is to stay away from Amon—from temptation.
But as the hours pass, my resolve starts slipping. It’s like an invisible force, pulling at me from down the hall.
Chewing my bottom lip, I try to fight it. I bury my head in the Bible, but eventually, my will gives way, and I’m on my feet.
I step slowly out into the hall, listening for sounds of my step-brother.
I can see it, just a few doors down. The closet door where I was brought—where I was awakened.
My breath comes in short gasps as I sneak down the hall, trying to calm my rapid heartbeats.
Sin and curiosity has gripped me, and I can no longer fight it. I need another look at that…thing he had me tied to. That thing that wrung me out like a wet dish towel.
My hand trembles as I take the knob and twist. The hinges of the door squeak as I pull slowly, feeling my pulse beating heavy in my ears. And then, I see it…
A typhoon of emotions sweeps me up in its grasp, threatening to break me from the inside out. My eyes close as I remember last night—my wrists bound together, my ankles tied to the floor.
The hum between my thighs pulling me closer and closer—
“Next time, you won’t fight as much.” The sound of Amon’s voice snaps me back to reality. I yelp, slam the door shut, and whirl to face him.
He stands there like an immovable object, arms crossed casually across his massive chest, looking down at me with amusement and…something else. Something I can’t quite read.
“I…”
Before I can react, he turns, leaving me with a smirk that bores straight down into my bones.
I have to force myself not to call out to him. But my throat is tight, and my breath won’t come.
I race back to my room and lock myself in. Grasping my cross, I pray to God that he will grant me the strength to make the right choices. The strength to be good and do all the right things.
But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that I will end up making a mistake. And that I will pay for it.