Rude Awakening (8 page)

“Goddamn you, Margaret!”

He struggled towards the garage door, standing still for a moment to wonder how the buggery he was going to get rid of the snow in front of it. He clicked a button on his key fob and hoped the automatic door was strong enough to shift the snow for him. It was, although he got a good dusting of the white stuff in the process. Snow sneaked past his coat collar and melted on his neck. He bit back a string of curses and tromped inside the garage, never more thankful to own a vehicle that would have no issues navigating the thick snow.

Once inside, he belted up and whacked on the heater.

“Margaret, you
will
be grateful for all the trouble I’m going to this afternoon.”

He started the engine then reversed—pleased he made it out onto the street without incident. He clicked the garage key fob again, waited for the door to close, then drove down his street slowly—not good for his current mood, which demanded speed and the reckless taking of corners, tyres screeching. Instead, the tyres compacted the snow, the resulting crunch of sound oddly loud over the engine in the otherwise creepy quiet.

It felt as though the end of the world had come and he was the sole survivor.

He smiled at that.

I
am
a survivor.

Buoyed by that thought, he made the painfully slow trip into town, happy to see more cars and life once he’d left the estate where he lived. The main roads had been cleared, peach-coloured grit mixed with grey slush covering the tarmac, and banks of dirty snow sat hunched at the kerbs, uneven and unpleasant to the eye.

The multi-storey car park, virtually empty, meant Master had a wide variety of spaces to choose from. He stuck to the ground floor—easier to bring his contraption there from the shop, the stairs and elevator would prove a bind—and walked with half his mind on his forthcoming argument with the rude shop assistant and half on the treacherous, slippery pathways leading to the shopping centre.

He reached one set of three double glass doors and pushed inside, the blast of warmth welcome after the biting cold. He stamped his feet on the wide ribbed mat and noted the cleaners hadn’t been vigilant in mopping up the melted snow that had fallen from shoppers’ boots, wet streaks and footprints abundant on the white tiles.

What was the world coming to when people didn’t do the job they were paid for?

He walked through at a brisk pace, dodging other shoppers and heading for the doors right at the other end. The shop he sought was opposite the centre in a side street people rarely walked down. It appeared to be merely a small store that sold women’s lingerie, vibrators and the like, but in reality it sold much, much more for the BDSM customer.

As he approached the exit, a woman outside in a bright red jacket caught his attention. There was something about the way she moved that reminded him of Margaret when he’d first met her. She had her back to him and walked in delicious high-heeled boots towards a rubbish bin, balled up paper in one hand. Hmmm. Perhaps he would follow her, see if she was alone, and accidentally bump into her to strike up a conversation. It wouldn’t hurt to become acquainted, exchange numbers, to have another woman waiting in the wings in case Margaret didn’t come back.

The dawn of a new challenge rose inside him, and his cock twitched at the thought of seducing another woman and teaching her exactly how she should behave. That would have to wait, though. He had unfinished business with Margaret, and he couldn’t begin again until he’d settled the score, removed her collar and set her free. Of course, he’d make sure no other man at the club would want her. Make it clear she was bad news, a disobedient slut. His cock hardened a little at the idea of him telling fellow Doms all about Margaret and how she wasn’t worth the shit on his shoe, their eyes wide and lips pursed that such a female existed—a woman who shunned a decent Dom’s teachings the way she had.

He’d get her back, punish her severely, then ruin her.

At the doors, he lifted a palm to the glass ready to push one open, but was stopped short at the sight of Harry Knowles striding across the slushy path towards the bin where the woman in the red jacket stood. Master sighed, a heavy exhalation that seemed to come right from his soul. It stood to reason Knowles would bag a woman like her, and Master grimaced at the liberties the sub undoubtedly had with him. Knowles belonged to the group of club men who thought subs had the right to their own voice. Master and his friends regularly clashed with them—arguments rife during the monthly discussion times after new subs were introduced—and nothing ever got resolved, no stalemate was ever met. It was one of the reasons Master had never taken Margaret to the club. He didn’t want Knowles and the like filling her head with insane information.

He stared through the glass, waiting for Knowles and the woman to walk away. She turned to face Knowles, a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck so he couldn’t see if she wore Knowles’ collar, the wool partially covering her face, but the slope of her nose made Master’s stomach contract.

Margaret?

He cocked his head, red-hot bile surging up and heating the back of his tongue. He narrowed his eyes, forcing himself to see the woman more clearly, telling himself it had been a trick of his imagination. She faced the shopping centre, head thrown back as she laughed at something Knowles said—teeth on show, neck on show…minus a collar.

Margaret’s teeth and neck.

Oh, no. That is
not
acceptable. You ran from me to him?

He had the urge to fly out there and confront them, reclaim Margaret and frogmarch her through the shopping centre and take her home, but he held off. There was another way to ensure she came back to him. He quickly formed a plan, biting back a cry of utter astonishment that she had possibly been seeing Knowles without his knowledge. For all his teachings, she’d clearly retained her original spirit, ignoring his warnings that once she accepted his collar, she was his until he said otherwise.

Who the hell do you think you are, slut?

And as for Knowles… He’d be having serious words with him.

Master trailed them for the rest of the afternoon, keeping an eye on the time so he could still collect his contraption. He needed it more than ever now.

Knowles played the perfect gentleman, guiding her with a hand to her elbow, holding the shopping bags and allowing her to walk through open doorways before he did. Master gritted his teeth, annoyed beyond measure that all his hard work was being unravelled so quickly. It made sense now, why, for the past fortnight or so, Margaret hadn’t been doing everything she’d been told. Knowles had already got his oar in behind the scenes, making her think what Master did was wrong, and she’d rebelled, finally fleeing. Master rebuked himself for the smidgen of worry he’d felt at the thought of Margaret being outside in the cold all night. She hadn’t been in the cold at all, but snuggled in Knowles’ bed, lapping up his attention and probably telling him what she wanted and how.

It wouldn’t only be Margaret who would pay, then.

Master kept a discreet distance at all times, and once, Margaret tensed, tilted her head and whipped around as though she sensed him there. He’d darted into a shop doorway before she had a chance to settle her gaze on him, and he smiled that he was still inside her head, their connection still in place.

You know I’m here, don’t you, bitch?

She shuddered and turned to face ahead, Knowles whispering something, then linking her arm with his. The man questioned her, and she shook her head, glancing across to smile at him—a smile she hadn’t bestowed upon Master since the very early days. A pinch of jealousy twanged then, to know he hadn’t been able to elicit such a response from her for years. Yet it was her fault…again. If she hadn’t been so bloody headstrong he would never have had to be strict with her.

After trailing the slut and Knowles up and down the centre for two hours, he pursued them out of the top-end doors where he’d first spotted them. His stomach clenched when he realised where they were headed—the sex shop where his contraption sat in the storeroom waiting for him to collect it. His blood boiled as he walked up the side street, the ground as snowy as his road, pedestrians not having been bothered to come along here. Their laughter drifted back to him—Margaret’s a high peal when she slid on hidden ice, Knowles gripping her tightly so she didn’t fall. Master wanted to bark out that if she weren’t wearing ridiculous heels in this weather, she might not have had any trouble.

They disappeared inside the sex shop. Master positioned himself at the side of the window, giving himself enough space to see inside yet withdraw should either of them look out. Margaret fondled a paddle, and Master released a low grumble. She’d never liked paddles with him, claiming from the beginning that they hurt, made her want to cry because he hit her too hard. He’d shown her he hadn’t hit hard enough and smacked her about the head with it.

She’d remained silent after that when he’d used the paddle again.

Knowles selected a crop with several leather straps and ran the strands over his palm, talking to Margaret and looking into her eyes the whole time. She shook her head and he replaced the crop on a hook, leading her further into the shop to look at other toys. She reached up and took a vibrator from the top shelf, modest in size and not nearly wide enough to stretch her mouth or cunt until they hurt. A coward’s choice, one who wasn’t into feeling pain and discomfort.

She still had so much to learn. There was still so much to teach her.

At her nod, Knowles took the vibrator and paid for it at the desk, producing a credit card with a flourish.

Master wanted to burst into the shop and break the man’s neck.

Instead, he returned to the shopping centre, waiting at a window table in a café for the couple to walk past, then he went back to the sex shop. He had a satisfying argument with the sales assistant, which ended up with him getting a discount and being allowed to stack his contraption box on a trolley. After a painfully annoying time of trying to push it along the side street, he made it to his Land Rover, sure that Knowles and Margaret were long gone.

Box in his vehicle, he contemplated taking the trolley back to the shop as he’d promised but decided against it. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he entertained thoughts of Margaret and Knowles, still somewhat shocked that they were together, although he was pleased to have noted she wore no collar. Although it signified she was done with Master, it also meant Knowles hadn’t fully claimed her.

Good job, because she still belongs to me, missing collar or not.

He gunned the engine, reversed out of his spot, and drove home, the finer details of his plan slotting into place.

Chapter Six

Harry cleared away the remnants of their light supper—cheese, crackers and pickles—while Ruby relaxed in the bath. Her feet ached, she’d said, from their jaunt into the city, her not having walked so much in years. He stacked the plates in the dishwasher, a nugget of annoyance towards her Dom threatening to grow into so much more—anger, terrible anger that would consume him if he thought too hard for too long. Who the hell was the man who had treated her like that, and why wouldn’t she tell him his name? He could understand her withholding that information, but by God, it wasn’t as though he could find the fellow, storm over there and give him a good going over, was it? Harry knew the law too well for that. No, he’d just be content knowing his name so he could file it away for future use. Who knew? Ruby’s former Master might need Harry’s services one day and Harry would have much pleasure in denying him.

So much had happened today. His head reeled with memories, their kiss in the chip shop top of the list. That had been the last thing he’d expected to happen so soon after she’d escaped an abusive relationship, but the look in her eyes when she’d gazed at the couple in front of them had just about broken his heart. He’d wanted to give her what she’d always dreamed of—a kiss that curled her toes and made her feel wanted—and from the jolt of electricity that had speared through him as their lips touched, he could say with certainty he’d achieved that.

At times, more so in the afternoon, Ruby had seemed tense, admitting she felt uneasy, as though her Master were close. He’d told her she could hold his arm if it made her feel better, and she had. He’d taken much pleasure from that action, realising she was comfortable enough with him to do so. That she trusted, even if just a little bit. No one should go through what Ruby had, yet today, anyone looking at them would have naturally assumed they were a happy couple, together for quite some time.

How had that happened, the easy way they’d found with one another despite meeting less then twenty-four hours ago? Ruby telling him about herself last night had obviously brought them closer together, giving Harry an excess of information he’d have only usually gleaned after dating a woman for several weeks or months. They’d bypassed the to-and-fro dance of exchanging snippets, instead divulging most things about themselves in the space of a few hours.

He cleaned the sides with a wet cloth and swept the floor, even though it didn’t need sweeping, just to waste some time until Ruby was finished. He must remember to call his cleaner, Gwen, and tell her not to bother coming in next week. She rode a bicycle to his house, and doing so in this weather wasn’t safe. The same went for his gardener. A week off would do them both good anyway—they worked far too hard, this house and the grounds being too big for them to keep on top of. If the snow continued to fall, he wouldn’t be going into the office Monday either. That wasn’t a hardship, not with Ruby here to keep him company.