Tender Mercies (11 page)

Later, she was back to writing her sentences, the cartoons still humming on low in the background. She didn’t notice when the door opened. Grace looked up to find Asher watching her.

Her anxiety returned. Had she gotten too comfortable? Was she doing something wrong?

“William is working in the garden, and I thought I’d grab the tray and check on you.”

She remained silent, still unsure how to behave.

He glanced back at the television and then at her again, and she tensed. “Are you able to concentrate on what you’re writing with the television on?”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Do you want . . . me to turn it off?” She’d had to think, to carefully form her words and make sure she was speaking correctly and not lapsing back into that awful third person speech.

“If you can concentrate, you can leave it on in the background.” Then he was gone.

A few hours later he returned again. By this time her hand hurt so much she could barely move it across the page.

“What number are you on?”

“Two fifty-two.” She’d promised herself she was going to stop all the stupid blubbering and crying about everything, but it really hurt, and she couldn’t stop the stray tears that escaped and ran down her cheek. She quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand before they could wet the paper she was writing on.

“Stop,” he said.

“But . . . I can finish.” Was he upset she wasn’t done yet? Was she in trouble? Her muscles tensed, poised. For what she didn’t know. The next words to come out of his mouth caused the tension to flow back out of her again.

“I know you can, but I’m asking you to stop. You will finish, but not today. You’re in too much pain. It’s time to take care of you.”

She wanted to finish the lines. She’d been so close to completing the task, that it felt like she’d somehow failed him to stop so close to the end. But she didn’t protest, partly because she wasn’t really sure if she physically
could
complete it right now, and partly because he’d just told her to stop, and she wasn’t about to argue with a direct order. Since the conversation with William all she wanted was to please her master. Not because she was trying to appease to delay punishment but because if this was real, the only thing important to her was obeying the man who had made it real.

“Thank you, Master.” She put the pen down on the table, and he smiled. The smile warmed and lit her up inside.

He clicked the television off. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

A minute passed, then two, then three. He finally returned with a cold wrap used for sports injuries and a jar of something she didn’t recognize. She flinched when he sat beside her on the couch, but quickly recovered.

“Give me the hand you were writing with.”

Grace extended the hand to him with only a little hesitation, and he opened the jar. The room filled with the sweetest fragrance, and if she closed her eyes she could almost believe she was in a lush garden.

“The native people make this salve from a rare flower known for its healing qualities. We use it for muscle and joint pain, and also sometimes for wounds.”

Asher took some of the cream and spread it onto her hand, massaging each finger individually. She let out an involuntary sigh as he used the salve and the massage to soothe the pain. It seemed to go on forever, and she didn’t want him to stop.

There was a part of her brain that knew she’d only been in his care a day and that it was still far from safe to believe he was good, but another part––the part that existed only on primal feelings and urges, not logic––hoped he’d soon touch other places like that.

Then there was the orgasm from earlier that morning. How fucked up was it that she wanted him to do that again, and she wanted to return the favor?
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The chant started up in her head again.

“Grace, are you all right?”

She looked up to see those intense, concerned blue eyes drinking her in. Asher wasn’t empty. His eyes didn’t pretend. Did they? She couldn’t be sure. How stupid was she going to be, trusting a fantasy again? She hadn’t been careful enough with Lucas. Everything had looked so good on the outside, then reality had come crashing down. No, it was too soon to be so stupid again. It would always be too soon.

But the word in her brain changed. Now it was Asher’s voice in her head.
Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace
. That word that finally meant something again: Mercy. Favor. Goodwill. Could those things actually be coming from this man? If they were, she wanted to kneel at his feet and never get up.

“Grace?”

“I’m sorry, Master. I was thinking.”

“Tell me.” He’d finally stopped rubbing her hand and wrapped it in the cold pack, taking the fabric strap with the Velcro tab and firmly attaching it in place.

She hesitated.
Stupid. Stupid. Don’t tell him anything. Don’t tell him the truth. Don’t be stupid again. Never trust another man. Never.
But she couldn’t listen to the voice in her head, not with him so close, his very presence and touch and look compelling her to obey. She no longer knew how not to obey when an order was delivered. She’d stupidly do whatever he wanted.

“Same things,” she whispered. “Afraid it’s not real. This is all . . . a lot.”

“I understand. I’d wanted to let you be outside some this afternoon to get used to the sunlight again. You’re so pale.”

She looked down at her hands, wondering if he found the pallor of her skin repulsive. She wanted to know if he wanted her outside so she could be healthy and glow, or for his own personal aesthetic. In the end, it didn’t really matter. She should be grateful to go outside. Her gaze traveled behind the sofa and through the glass doors. The sun was setting.

“Have you been on the balcony yet?”

She shook her head.

“Come. I want to show you.” He took her unwrapped hand and led her through the double doors. The balcony was much larger than it appeared from inside her room. There was only one lounger and a table, but there was room for much more. It was as if he was sending her a message that this was a private spot for her.

The railing came up just over her waist, and she gripped it as the island breeze ruffled her hair. They were right on the ocean. She could both hear and see the waves lapping the shore as the sun seemed to slowly sink beneath the water.

“It’s lovely.” She still held back, reserving her excitement for weeks or months from now, if things stayed this way.

“It’s real,” he whispered in her ear, the rich baritone of his voice like a song. Asher ran his fingertips through her hair, and she leaned into him without thinking. “I love this hair,” he murmured.

She flushed at the compliment, glad there was something he found appealing. It was hard to see herself as more than a piece of broken trash that had been thrown out. What could she give him in return for all of this?

He unwrapped her hand. “How does it feel?”

“A little better. Thank you, Master. You didn’t have to . . .”

“I take care of what’s mine.” He was so fierce about it that it stole any reply she might have had.

If it was real, he was going to so much trouble for her, that to show any trace of doubt in him seemed like the highest betrayal. So she kept it inside.

“Go put some shoes on. I want to show you something while there’s still enough light to see it.”

He let go of her hand and she went to the closet and slipped sandals on, then he took her down to the garden. It was tucked away next to the house, where the grass still grew before sloping into sandy beach.

“I thought you could take over some of the gardening. William can teach you. It’ll get you outside in the sun more. I want to start you off gradually. Just a few minutes a day until your skin gets used to it.”

She’d expected a lavish and well-manicured garden as lush and perfect as the rest of the house, but there were piles of perfectly good uprooted flowers and lots of dirt. Had he not liked the flowers William planted?

“It’s time to move on,” he said.

Looking from the pained expression on his face to the uprooted garden, she guessed it was about the other slave. Had it been a garden for her? Too many memories, maybe?

“Have you ever done any gardening?”

“No, Master.”

“William still has to clear all this away and add some nutrients to the soil, but in a few days it should be ready. We can get you some books so you can decide what types of flowers you want. I’ll mark everything we can get and grow here.”

She searched his eyes for hints of dishonesty, but it still seemed real. It still felt like he meant all of this. The idea of working outside with a gentle breeze and the salt air and sound of the waves was so much freedom, so much more than she thought she’d ever get to taste again.

Seven

Grace tried to get comfortable, but she couldn’t. The cold, damp stone of the cell made it impossible, and the holes in the blanket kept her from being able to get warm. The faucet over by the wall wouldn’t stop its incessant prattle. Drip. Drip. Drip. The dog whined and scratched at the cell door. She could hear him sniffing from behind the thick, weathered wood. Her blood ran cold.

Not again.

The door opened and Lucas stood there with an evil gleam in his eyes as the dog started sniffing his way over to her like a bloodhound. Then he was trying to get at her naked skin with his tongue through the holes in the blanket. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. Lucas had trained him that way.

Her master just laughed. She’d long ago stopped seeing Lucas as handsome. The permanent coldness in his dark eyes made it impossible to remember what she’d found attractive about him at all.

His features had a statuesque perfection, and that was what he reminded her of. A statue. Cold, emotionless marble that she was incapable of moving toward a humane action with even her most desperate pleas or cries for mercy. He moved with purpose, his heavy shoes thudding over the stone.

Then hands were on her, shaking her. “Wake up.”

The nonsensical words coming out of his mouth, and the even more nonsensical concern in his tone, jolted her out of the dream. Grace looked frantically around her, but she wasn’t in the dungeon. She was in Asher’s bedroom. In Asher’s bed. The bedside lamp was on.

For one terrifying slice of time, she’d thought Asher had been the dream, that she’d woken there, returned back to her real reality. But it had only been a nightmare.

She remembered now how she’d gotten here. After the garden and walking down to the ocean, they’d had dinner on the terrace. When it was time for bed, she’d gone to her room, thinking she’d sleep on the sofa, but he’d guided her to his room instead.

“You sleep with me,” he’d said, his tone possessive.

So that was why she hadn’t had a bed. She should have thought of that option, but the idea he’d actually allow his slave to share his bed had seemed so ludicrous, she hadn’t seriously entertained it. The thrill and novelty of sleeping in a bed with her new master, of this being the permanent plan, had been almost more than she could process. But he hadn’t moved to touch her, and she’d drifted into a troubled sleep, worried she’d said or done something wrong, that he was somehow displeased with her. Those fears had translated into other, more awful things in sleep. Even though he swore he’d never return her to Lucas, the fear still lingered that she might prove a large enough disappointment in the end to get taken back.

“Grace, are you all right? Your cries woke me.” In the darkness she couldn’t see his face to gauge if he was angry or irritated with her for waking him.

“This . . . I . . . I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry.” Having just come out of the nightmare, she was still on the defensive. She held her hands up protectively, though she knew it was a weak and pointless attempt.

He gathered her in his arms. “Shhhh. You can’t help what you do in your sleep.” Then he chuckled. “Though if you make it a habit to hit me at night while pretending you were dreaming, we’ll have an issue.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “I . . . I hit you?”

“You’ve got quite a right hook.”

She flinched and tried to pull away.

“Stop struggling, kitten.” His voice was low, the tone she was starting to think of as his
master voice
, the tone that meant business and instantly brought her compliance. She went slack in his arms, listening to her heart still pounding too fast in her chest, as if
it
were claustrophobic right now, too.

His hand went to her hair, petting her as if she actually were a kitten. “Was the nightmare about Lucas?”

“Yes, Master.”

He cursed.

“Please don’t make me tell you. It was bad enough dreaming it.”

He’d pulled her down next to him, pressing his warm body against hers, spooning her. His erection pressed against her back.

A terrifying thought stole into her mind. Surely if he were decent, if he were the good master she’d invented in her head, he wouldn’t have a hard-on right now. Even if he’d woken with one, seeing her in so much pain and distress should have made him go limp. Shouldn’t it? She shuddered against him, and then she asked the question out loud, afraid to hear the answer, and equally afraid she’d be punished for asking it, but unable to stop herself.

“Does my fear turn you on?”

His mouth was next to her ear, his voice a low growl. “It does. That scares you more, doesn’t it?”

The only answer she could manage was a whimper.

“Don’t worry. That’s not the only thing about you that turns me on. Your delicate features and long golden hair turn me on. Feeling your naked body pressed against mine turns me on. Your vulnerability. Your desperation to please me. Your quick obedience. Your gratitude for the things I give you. You don’t have to worry your fear is my only trigger. It isn’t.”

But it
is
a trigger
, she thought, trying not to hyperventilate in his embrace.

Her question seemed to have only aroused him more. She tensed for a moment when his mouth found the pulse in her throat and he started to suck and nibble on the tender flesh there.