Tender Mercies (7 page)

Opening the drawers, she found actual pajamas. Pajama pants and cami tops. Not slut wear. Not slave wear. Of course, why would he dress her like a whore if that wasn’t why he’d bought her? Still, William seemed to have a uniform. Why didn’t she have a uniform? And why was he giving her the option of cooking and cleaning in pajamas to begin with? She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it.

And how did he know her sizes? She had a vague memory of Lucas measuring her soon after she’d arrived, and noting the information down on some papers. Had that information been passed to Asher when he bought her? It must have. Otherwise she couldn’t comprehend how he’d know her bra size and what size jeans to get. Though everything might be a little big. She’d lost some weight since arriving.

She picked pajamas. Though she was scared it was a trick, she couldn’t resist the comfort of simple PJs. The bathroom was as lush and wonderful as the other room. She dropped the cloak once she was inside behind the locked door.

She’d hesitated about locking it. The idea of having the power to lock someone out, instead of being the one locked in was a new and exciting concept. She was afraid that if Asher came upstairs and found the door locked, she’d be in trouble she didn’t want to think about. Her eyes drifted to the door in question.

The anxiety came over her in a wave, making her feel clammy, hot, cold. Her skin felt tight stretched across her, and she had to unlock the door. Just because she
had
a lock, didn’t mean she was allowed to use it. And God help her if she did and he found out about it. Once the door was unlocked again, the anxiety receded until she was back to the normal, general level of fear she experienced all the time.

Grace didn’t recall what it felt like not to be constantly afraid. But there was fear and there was panic. The former, when it was dull and constant, could be coped with. It could become the new normal, so you couldn’t really remember what you’d felt like before. But the latter––there wasn’t an acceptance for that level of fear.

She peeled the medical gauze and tape off her back and looked in the mirror. Everything had closed up at least, and it hurt a little less today. But those scars in between . . . She wiped the tears away when they started falling. If he only wanted a domestic servant, it wouldn’t matter, and she’d be safe. But if he decided he wanted something else, when he saw those permanent marks on her, it would be over.

***

When she got to the kitchen, she found him standing behind the center island. While she was getting ready, he’d changed clothes, too. Now he was wearing a pair of pajama pants of his own. His upper body was bare and a study in sculpted perfection.

There was a time when the only thing she would have been able to think about was someone like this fucking or spanking her or ordering her around. She would have had an almost uncontrollable erotic compulsion to kneel at his feet, breathless with the desire to obey him. She wasn’t sure what to feel right now.

He didn’t seem to be an early riser. He must have gotten up earlier in order to come get her, even bypassing breakfast for the occasion.

Asher had taken out several bowls and spoons and pans. He smiled at her and she looked away, still unsure what he wanted. How was she supposed to act? Lucas had treated her like a prisoner from moment one. Her new master seemed to be treating her like a houseguest. At least for now. It was so confusing that she felt completely out of her element and unprepared for life in this new house.

“Grab a knife and dice up the tomatoes for the omelets,” he said, pointing a spoon. He seemed to be mixing up a batch of muffins.

Her mouth watered at the sight of the fresh food, and she tried not to want it too much. He’d left a couple of smallish tomatoes and a knife beside a cutting board on the other end of the island from where he was mixing. Why was he letting her near a knife?

Briefly, a fantasy unfolded of slitting his throat and running. But it died there. The question that couldn’t be stopped was––And what then? It wasn’t as if he were the only thing that stood between her and freedom. What the fuck would she even do with freedom now?

Hesitantly, she moved toward the food. She stopped for a moment, unsure if they’d been washed off and if she was supposed to do that or just start chopping.

Batter was poured into muffin tins while she stood in indecision, afraid he’d yell at her if she did the wrong thing. He slid the pan into the oven and looked up. “You
do
understand the dicing concept, yes?”

“Yes, Master.” She made a choice and started cutting the tomatoes into cubes. When he didn’t complain, she relaxed a little. She actually missed cooking. After a moment, she was so involved in the activity that she didn’t notice when he stepped behind her. His hand brushed against her ass, and she jumped, causing the knife to slip.

Grace backed away, holding her finger, a hiss of pain escaping her mouth, trying not to scream. This was bad. Very bad. He’d tried to touch her, and she’d pulled away from him. So stupid. Her finger was starting to throb but she was hyper-alert, her body protectively huddled for fear of whatever was coming next.

She was sure if she wasn’t dreaming, the game was over and he’d fast-forward his plan to whatever the end goal was. She jumped again when he gently took her by the arm and led her to the sink.

“Hold it under the water until I get back.”

Minutes passed and he returned with an antiseptic spray and bandages. He shut off the water, towel-dried her finger, calmly sprayed the cut, and bandaged it. She watched him, staying quiet. He wasn’t yelling yet or punishing her, but that had to be next. Or soon. Maybe after he had his breakfast. She still didn’t understand why he’d dismissed William from breakfast prep if he wasn’t going to have her do it all.

He inspected the bandaging job, tossed the packaging away, and said, “You’ll live. Go sit at the table while I finish cooking.”

Then he went back to preparing the food as if nothing had happened. He took cheese and little ham cubes from the refrigerator to mix in the bowl with the eggs.

She was shaking now, waiting for that shoe to drop. The pleasant behavior wouldn’t fool her. She’d seen it before. She’d never gotten away with a mistake before. He was waiting until after breakfast. Which meant there were all these minutes where the anticipation was just going to build higher, where she’d be in the panic place instead of the normal-level fear.

He started humming when he poured the eggs into the heated pans on the stove, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please, this slave is sorry.”

He stopped and looked up. “Sorry for what?”

“Pulling away. This slave was only startled. It wasn’t on purpose. Will you punish her?”

He made a face, and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut and waited it out. But she couldn’t stand not knowing what was coming.

“You’re not in trouble, kitten. But we do have to do something about your speech.”

Was she not allowed to speak ever? Or only when spoken to? She had spoken first. So maybe that was the bad thing. Would she be punished for that instead? She couldn’t ask now because if the answer was yes, that just added more punishment. Plus, maybe she was in trouble for not helping with breakfast now that she’d cut herself.

He continued, seemingly oblivious to her inner struggle. “But you understand you are mine, and I can touch you any time I want. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good girl.”

She stopped breathing for a second. Those words she hadn’t heard in so long. He couldn’t know what they meant to her. How important they were to hear. Or maybe he did and it was all part of the plan . . . like what Lucas had done.

“Is your hand all right to set the table?”

“Yes, Master.”

He pointed to the cabinets and the drawer with silverware. “Two plates, two glasses, and two forks and butter knives. Orange juice is in the fridge. You can go ahead and pour it.”

She moved instantly to follow the orders, wondering who the other plate was for. Perhaps he had a lover? But were there free women on this island? Maybe he had a brother. Or maybe William ate breakfast with him. They seemed to have a conversational rapport. Hell, who knew how any other household on this island ran? She’d barely seen how Lucas ran his.

A part of her thought, obviously, that he was feeding her, too. She erased that thought immediately because she didn’t want to start expecting good things here. It would just make it worse later.

When he put everything on the plates, she was still standing there, not sure what to do. Starving, but not wanting to do something both stupid and embarrassing. Embarrassing she’d survive, but stupid would just get her hurt. She was his slave. Of course she wasn’t going to sit and eat at a table with him like a regular person. She couldn’t even remember how to
be
a regular person.

He stared at her for a moment, then looked back to his plate. “Sit and eat. Eggs aren’t good cold.”

Five

Asher watched her from across the table as she ate. She was like a little mouse, so afraid and uncertain, as if he would take the food away at any second and scream at her for eating like he’d told her to. She’d been in his care only a couple of hours and already he wanted to kill Lucas.

He’d known the situation was bad from the coarse way her previous master allowed the other men at the showing to talk about his slave without the merest hint of anger, as well as the way he’d handled her and the state she’d been in. Especially those bandages peeking out from under her hair. That had been a dead giveaway.

And yet, having her here in his home, even for such a short period, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the reality and impossible state of the situation. She may never recover. Could he handle owning someone so damaged for the rest of her life or his?

Now that he truly understood how serious the damage was, and he suspected he still didn’t grasp the half of it, he was even more convinced of his responsibility to her. But could either of them be happy that way?

He felt bad for the way he’d had to treat her down in Lucas’s dungeon, but to show even a moment’s weakness would have been disastrous.

Either party had forty-eight hours after the sale to change his mind. If Asher had given the impression he intended to be kind to her, the bastard would have stopped the sale. Lucas’s end game was Grace dead or so broken she couldn’t form a thought she hadn’t been given express permission to think.

Whipping her right before the showing had been done deliberately to attract the type of brutal master he wanted to give her to, someone who would see her small remaining rebellion as an interesting challenge. Lucas could have just killed her, sure. But he liked money too much. If she could end up completely destroyed while his bank account got fatter it was win-win.

It was impossible to imagine how she would survive out in the world and equally impossible to imagine how a slave this broken had a future with any of the other men on the island. Eleu was a hedonist’s paradise, and your average hedonist wasn’t known for his self-sacrifice.

One thing was certain. Asher was going to have to get her on friendly speaking terms with personal pronouns. It made him cringe to hear her speak of herself in the third person as if she were some
thing
. The entire point of owning a slave, as opposed to a piece of furniture, was that they were a human being with thoughts and feelings and wants and needs. At least to his way of thinking.

He finally put his fork down, having made it through the omelet. The muffin still sat on his plate. “Grace.” Her startled eyes rose to his. She did that every time he said her name, like she just couldn’t believe the word still existed in the English language.

He sighed. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be completely honest with me. I can tell when people are lying.” That was bullshit. He didn’t always know when someone was lying, but it was imperative that she believe it so he could get enough information to know how to proceed with her. He had a feeling some of her fear and uncertainty were partly his fault, however inadvertent that might have been.

She just watched, waiting for the question.

“I haven’t explained much to you yet or given you a lot of rules, and it occurs to me that this free-form way of dealing with you may be causing you added distress because you don’t know what to expect from me. Would it be easier if I laid things out and gave you some ground rules to work with for now?”

Grace looked down at her plate, a tear trickling from the corner of her eye. She wiped it away quickly. If he could just get inside her head, it would be so much easier. He could guess some of it. Perhaps she was asking herself if this was a trick, if she was giving him ammunition to harm her. And he knew after the hell she’d just walked out of that no amount of soothing words would put her mind at ease. It would just take time. Watching her like this broke his heart, and he’d just brought her home. How many days, weeks, months could he go on living with someone with this level of fear toward him? Some fear turned him on, but they were quickly moving past the erotic zone.

No one said atonement, however weak the gesture, would be easy.

“Kitten, answer me. Would you like some structure and rules?”

Her hand was shaking as she put her fork down. “Please, don’t make this slave answer . . .”

He got up and paced, unable to sit still. She flinched, and he hated that, but he needed to think and try to work out what was going on in her head. If he yelled and demanded, sure, she might comply, but she’d be more afraid. Maybe that was okay in the short term. Maybe she needed that firmness. Or maybe she’d lose the last little thread of her mind that was hanging on.

He turned toward her, then. “All right. Clearly this isn’t working.”

An almost manic look came over her. “Please don’t take this slave back, she’s very sorry. She . . .”

He stopped pacing and stared at her. No matter what he did or said she was obviously going to anticipate the worst possible result. Asher crossed the floor and pulled her out of the chair. He gripped her arms, careful not to hurt her, but unable to stop himself from making sure she absolutely understood his meaning.