His Only Hope: The Maison Chronicles, Book 2 (6 page)

Smack
! Fire streaked from her right breast and her eyes shot open. Gabe was scowling at her.

“No drifting off into la-la land. We’re going to talk.”

She gulped and nodded.

“Good girl,” he said and laid another strike against her breast.

God, the pain was so good. She could feel anxiety’s claws loosen from her chest.

“Now, Hope, why did you leave without telling me about your mother?”

Tears gathered behind her eyes but she forced them away. “She was dying, Gabe. Brain cancer. There was nothing anyone could have done for her.” With a crack, he landed the crop on her left breast, just barely missing her nipple. She writhed against the cuffs until the pain disseminated.

So
good
. The bite of the crop made her focus on the moment, let her lose herself in something other than the stress of her daily life.

Gabe used the crop to tilt her chin up to him. Little good it did—she was past the point of being able to focus on anything. “That was not my question.”

She wasn’t ready to answer, didn’t want their time to end. She purposely replied with a noncommittal “Mmm” and got another swat for her efforts.

The silence stretched on.

Fire exploded against her flesh, the
rat-a-tat-tat
of the crop loosening her lips, sending heat searing to her pussy. “I didn’t want to burden you,” she said, drunk on the sensation.

“That’s what I was looking for.” A soft thud on the carpet and then Gabe freed her wrists. A second later, he cradled her in his lap, running a soothing hand across her breasts. “A trip out of town isn’t a burden,” he said. “At the very least, I could have been with you at the beginning.”

“That’s not the burden I meant.”

He scratched his nails down her back and her sides and her front, escalating the assault until she was buried under the stings, each one pulling down a chunk of her wall.

“Me, Gabe. I didn’t want to burden you with me!”

The room went silent and still. Her eyes, heavy from the pain, crept open and found Gabe’s.

“Hope, I knew you were keeping things from me.” He glanced away and clenched his jaw before meeting her eyes again. “But you were never a burden.”

She shrugged, eyes burning with unshed tears. It was too little, too late. “Are we finished?” She wanted to find a reason to stay and soak up his warmth before reality set in. Work had to come first, she knew, but a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, would it?

She needed to build something herself, rely on herself. First her father, then Master Joseph, then Gabe… With her mother’s death, she realized she needed something all her own and her company was it.

Besides, even if this was her only play this weekend, she figured it would be enough to tide her over for a few more months of work-related stress.

His face hardened. “Not quite yet.”

She shivered and her hormones cried their glee.

He trailed a hand down her stomach and across her pants, and for a moment she thought maybe he wanted her. She’d say yes in an instant.

But when his hand came to rest against her inner thigh, she knew he still sought answers.

She tensed. “No, Gabe.”

“Yes.”

She steeled herself, using every trick she’d picked up in the past couple years. “Absolutely not.”

His fingers circled the clothing-covered scar on her thigh like little sharks. “See, when I first saw this,” he ran his fingers across softened but still-jagged edges, “I never could figure out how old the scar was.”

Why couldn’t he just let this one go? It was in the past and she didn’t need him bringing it up. She’d shared about her mother—wasn’t that enough to satisfy his curiosity? “Let it go, Gabe.”

“Not happening.”

She scrambled off his lap and stood by the bed. “What the hell do you know? You don’t know me or what I need.” Her hand shook as she pointed at him. She yanked it back but knew he’d already seen it.

“But I wanted to.” His voice was soft, lethal. “You wouldn’t let me in. And I think this,” he traced the scar again, “was—is—part of your problem. Did you even mention this part of your life to your psychologist?”

Bending to grab her bra and shirt from the ground, she said, “You wanted answers. Closure. Well I gave them to you. We’re done.”

He had the nerve to laugh. She growled.

“Oh, we’re far from done, darlin’. Who is Master Joseph?”

She froze, bra dangling from her fingers as dread overtook her anger. “How… Where did you hear that name?” she rasped, stumbling back away from him.

Gabe sprawled on the luxurious bed, body at ease. But his eyes burned holes right through her. “You talk in your sleep, Hope. Well, ‘cry’ is probably a better description. There were more than a few nights where I woke to you begging this Master Joseph to stop. You were yelling ‘blue, blue’ as you curled up in a little ball.”

Nausea plunged through her stomach. “No…” She couldn’t breathe, needed to get the hell away from him, couldn’t stand seeing the revulsion in his eyes if he found out how stupid she’d been.

He nodded. “It left me with a ton of questions.” His mouth tightened. “Secrets have no place in a D/s relationship.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.”

He opened his mouth to speak then clamped it shut. She could see the tension in his arms, the tightened muscles distorting his tattoos.

“I have made my share of mistakes,” he said carefully.

“Mistakes, is that what you call it?” No answer, just those brown eyes boring into hers. “You disregarded one of my limits!” She hated that her voice cracked, her throat too swollen for her words to sound normal.

He sat up in anger, body vibrating with frustration. Another thing she’d been used to seeing. “I know. And I apologize. I’ve regretted my poor judgment, pushing you, since you left.” He groaned and shook his head. “But the issue isn’t me pushing your boundaries—it’s why they existed in the first place.”

“Typical hypocrite, shifting the topic. I think it
is
about that night. How you tied me up and dragged me into subspace. I was floating, loving it, until you decided that fucking face-to-face sounded like a good idea. I. Don’t. Do. That.” Her hands trembled so badly she dropped her shirt.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “I know I fucked things up.” He stood, guilt and pain etched on his face. “And I know I don’t deserve an explanation.”

His fingers burned her skin. She pulled away to slip into her bra then looked around for her shirt.

The shirt that Gabe was holding it out like a peace offering.

“Thanks.” She held it against her chest, feeling ridiculous, wanting to cover up in front of a man who’d seen her naked countless times.

Never in her life had she spent so much time without clothes on as the six weeks she’d spent with Gabe.

“The ‘whys’ of it haven’t stopped bothering me. I don’t like not knowing.”

He closed the distance between them and Hope broke his hold, scrambling backward and feeling more trapped than a caged bird.

“So, you think having all those answers now will make you happy.” Her hands fumbled to get her shirt on as she edged to the door.

“I think they’ll let me move on.”

The words hit her like a stab to the heart. Distance, distance was the key, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave yet. The masochist that she was, any time with Gabe was better than no time.

Once her back hit the wall, he asked, “Did Master Joseph give you that scar?”

She didn’t remember all of that final night with that cruel man, which almost scared her more than what she did recall.
She was bound, arms above her head. “My Liege, I can’t feel my wrists,” she pleaded, and he smacked her until her ears rang.

“Quiet, slave. I knew you’d be more trouble than you were worth.”

Gabe’s sock-covered feet filled her vision. Thank God. “Hope?”

She shook her head, afraid to speak, afraid she’d tell him everything about that time in her life, afraid she’d start crying and never stop. She’d been so stupidly naïve.

“Hope, sweetheart, talk to me.” He took one of her shaking hands in his own.

He’d broken down through her walls, and now he’d take down the rest with tenderness, damn him. She fisted her hands, letting her nails press into her palms. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

Why couldn’t she hate him for his breach of trust?

He kissed away the tears she hadn’t realized were on her cheeks. “It’s been years since I’ve used one, but I know what a bullwhip scar looks like.” Gabe stepped closer, determination in every movement.

The trembling got worse until she had to rely on the wall to keep her upright. She closed her eyes against Gabe and found a monster instead.

Master Joseph grabbed the whip, the wicked-looking one with a leather barbed cracker on the end. “Slave, why are you being punished?”

She trembled but Master knew best, he knew what she needed to be a good girl. “I overstepped my bounds, My Liege.”

Gabe pinned her against the wall. His weight was warm and comforting and she desperately wanted to tell him everything, but she couldn’t stand to put disgust on his face.

“Shh, you’re safe, Hope,” he breathed into her ear.

No, she wasn’t. The past needed to stay firmly in place. “Blue,” she whispered.

He froze and pulled back, hurt in his eyes. Yeah, she recognized it. She’d put it there often enough.

And she knew it was low, using her safe word like that, but she needed Gabe to keep his mind out of hers.

Hope stood there, hands crossed over her chest and her hip cocked out, trying to pretend he hadn’t gotten to her.

She watched as Gabe put on his boots with jerky movements before returning to the exit. Door halfway open, he said, “You know, Hope, some day you’re going to find a problem you can’t run from. I pray you’re ready when it happens.”

The door closed behind him with quiet finality.

Hope sank to the carpet, fingers tracing spirals in the plush Bordeaux carpet as her mind whirled and her skin burned, branded every place Gabe had touched her. Gabe, who thought he could save her, who thought bringing up the past could fix her present.

It was the same song and dance from their relationship. He couldn’t abide the idea of her having secrets, saw it as a breach of trust. Yeah, if that was a breach of trust, what was him throwing her limits to the wind? He thought he knew better than her. That, above anything else, told her she’d done the right thing leaving him that night without an explanation.

And he was harping on trust. Bastard.

Anger warmed her more than fear and Hope stoked those fires from years of practice. Bastard or not, her body still lit up for him, the only person who could get her to share at all. But it seemed as if Gabe was done with her.

Her back straightened against the wall. She hadn’t needed him the past two years, and she wouldn’t need him now.

She rose from the floor and put her now-wrinkled shirt on, taking one final look around the room, determined to focus on the real reason she came here this weekend.

The room was lavishly designed, all rich purples and reds and browns, but the furniture—bed and chairs and dressers and wooden structures for erotic torture—crowded the space, leaving definite room for improvement. Her gears started cranking out possible ideas so that when she met with Ms. Lamont, she could bring at least that much to the table.

Her evening with Gabe may have ended abysmally, but she knew that he would make good on his end of the bargain. She
would
have this contract.

Not yet ready to risk coming face-to-face with another guest, she made the bed, admiring the luxurious high thread count and soft down pillows one final time before gathering her resolve and leaving.

Voices drifted from the dining room, but it sounded as if there were far fewer guests there than before. She followed the trail of lights away from the voices and up the hall to the staircase, planning to iron all her clothes, wrinkled from her suitcase, and then see if the masseuse had any appointments open in the morning. It wouldn’t siphon away all her tension, but it would ease things for now.

Despite Gabe’s insistence that this wasn’t a spa, he could’ve fooled her, with all the luxury amenities Ms. Lamont provided.

The carpeted stairs were silent under her shoes as she made her way to the first floor. One woman, decked out for the weekend, stood alone in the lobby.

She barely wore a corset and matching hot pants, had metal bands wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and sported an eternity collar—a metal band only removable with a key—around her delicate throat.

Cold fingers of unease tendriled through her. She’d seen—worn—those bands before. Tremors worked their way up from her feet and she tried to shove them aside.
Take deep breaths. Remember what your therapist told you. Metal cannot hurt you. People cannot hurt you unless you give them the power to.

She was sure lots of Masters used eternity collars on their subs.

The woman stood by the unobtrusive front desk, head down, arms at her sides, surrounded by luggage.

Not her problem. She forcibly started for the stairs, reaching the first landing before the front door opened and cold wind rushed in. Turning, she saw Ms. Lamont enter.

“I’m so glad you made it here before the storm,” she said, holding the door open.

“Yes,” a cultured voice replied, “the roads will be impassable for at least a day. Damn shame.”

Damn shame. Disobedient slaves don’t get aftercare.

She shuddered and grabbed for the rail. The man walked through the door wearing a fedora and pinstripe suit. She knew that gait, that voice.

She wanted to throw up.

Master Joseph snapped his fingers and the woman ran over, took off his fedora, and bowed her head. “Bags.” He pointed upstairs.

Hope couldn’t hear the woman’s response, but she knew it by heart.
Yes, My Liege
. The slave, loaded down with luggage, headed for the opposite staircase and started to climb, straining every step.

Ms. Lamont continued her conversation with Master Joseph, but no real words filtered through to her.