Mark crouched down and unlocked the door, pulling it open. He helped her crawl from the cage and hoisted her to her feet. The welt across her sex was red and oozing slightly. Lifting her into his arms, Mark carried her to the bathroom.
He set her gently onto the toilet. While she was peeing, he ran a warm bath for her, adding a generous squirt of bath oil. She rose unsteadily to her feet and flushed the toilet. He moved quickly to her side and placed his arm around her shoulder. “You’ll have a nice bath and I’ll cleanse the wound,” he said.
He helped Alana step into the tub. She winced as her tender, welted skin made contact with the water. As gently as if he were washing a child, Mark carefully soaped the wounded area. The spot where the tip had made contact was the worst. He hoped it wouldn’t permanently scar her.
He thought about apologizing, but reminded himself she was to blame. If she ended up with a scar, it would be a silent reminder to exert better self-control.
He let her soak while he brushed his teeth, put on a pair of pajama bottoms and went to put on coffee. In case she got any stupid ideas, he locked the bathroom door from the outside, pleased he’d thought of everything when he’d remodeled the old farmhouse.
When he returned, he helped her from the tub and gently dried her off. The wound caused by the tip of the cane didn’t look as bad now. He applied some triple antibiotic cream and covered it with some gauze and medical tape. A day or two, and it would be good as new. He even allowed her to put on a robe—a silky thing of dark blue that perfectly matched her eyes.
Though it was still early, the smell of the brewing coffee had awakened his appetite. “Let’s eat something,” he suggested. His arm around her shoulder, he led her to the kitchen, where Alana knelt on the floor beside the table without being directed to do so.
Mark popped some toast into the toaster and got out the butter and jam for the table, along with cream and sugar. He enjoyed doing things for his slave girl, though eventually, when she was fully acclimated to their lifestyle, he would have her wait on him, and take over basic cleaning duties.
“I got fresh strawberries yesterday at the market,” he told her happily, as he washed them and brought them to the table. He selected one, cut off the leafy top and held it to her lips.
Alana took the fruit and slowly chewed. He loved to watch her sensual mouth move as she ate. He fed her another, and another, until the toast popped. As they ate their toast and sipped coffee, his heart filled, and he very nearly blurted the words he thought a dozen times, a thousand times, a day.
I love you, Alana.
But no. He couldn’t say that to her. Though she was increasingly obedient and compliant, he knew she despised him. She didn’t understand the true passion he offered, or the powerful elixir of a pure exchange of power. He had yanked her from a busy, stressful life, but also one of glamour and fame. He hoped she’d eventually come to love him and what he offered. For now, her obedience was enough.
He realized she was watching him through those long, thick lashes, her eyes directly on his face. He lifted his eyebrows in question, and she cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Sir,” she said. “May I say something?”
“Yes? What is it?” His heart had absurdly begun to pound. Had he been wrong? Had love blossomed amidst the fear and struggle? Did she understand at last the potential of what they could share?
“How long are you going to keep me here?”
Disappointment rose like a hard lump in Mark’s throat, which he tried desperately to swallow. What an idiot he’d been to let his hopes soar, even for a second. He had planned for two long years to abduct her. He had used his considerable brainpower and ingenuity to track her every move and determine the best way to steal her away from the world, but now that he had her, what had he truly expected would happen?
Somehow his dreams had included a happily-ever-after, but as he sat looking down at her, he was faced with the stark reality that would likely never happen. A rush of rage washed through him, scorching his consciousness like acid. Why couldn’t she understand that what he’d done, he’d done for them?
Alana must have seen the change in his expression as he struggled to control his anger.
“Please,” she said nervously. “Please, I’m sorry. Don’t be angry.”
He dispensed a forgiving backhand wave as he quashed both his anger and disappointment. “In answer to your question, I’ll keep you as long as I like.” He pushed back the chair and got to his feet. “Permission to speak is now over.”