“Get out!”
“Fucking crazy bitch. I don’t need this shit or your daddy’s money.”
I close my eyes and relish the tears that slide over my cheeks. Once he’s gone, I let the knife clatter to my feet. I don’t care if it cuts me. I don’t care about anything anymore.
I stumble over to the window and stare at the glass, and the glittering lights below as the sun rises on the city. A smudged handprint obstructs my view. I press my nose close to the surface. It smells like sex.
I yank off my coat and blouse, and slide down my jeans, and then I delve my fingers inside my warm, wet pussy and cry as I think about Ares. Release comes quickly, but it’s empty pleasure. It’s barely even worth the effort, and it doesn’t stop me missing him. It doesn’t distract me from the aching in my heart, in my body, and in my blood. I pull my fingers free and smear my juices against the handprint on the glass.
Then I walk around the apartment, a ghost in mourning, haunting the halls.
Broken. Empty. Desolate.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pet
For days on end, Ido nothing but drink, binge on food I’m sure the old me was never allowed to eat, and stare at the walls of my apartment. I miss my Sir so much I can barely breathe. Dimitri calls, but I don’t answer. Instead, I listen to his voicemail message about attending the ballet over and over because it’s easier this way. It’s easier than having to explain that I fell in love with my captor and now I’m broken. It’s easier being alone.
I ignore the calls from my father, chase away the maid when she comes to clean, and by day five I’m so sick of myself, of this loneliness, of the wanting, that I turn to the Internet for a fix. I don’t know if I’ve ever scoured the Internet for porn before, but I find page upon page of videos, sex sites, and adult GIFs. What I don’t find is what I’m desperately seeking—connection.
I’m just about to give up when I stumble upon the webpage of what seems to be a promising club. I shower, blow out my hair, and apply my makeup, smoking my eyes and using a kohl pencil in place of black lipstick. Then I stand naked in my closet because I have nothing to wear. After what seems like an age, I find a leather pencil skirt, and I take to it with my kitchen scissors. I settle on a sheer top with three-quarter-length sleeves and nothing underneath but my black bra. I look like a pre-teen goth, but tonight I’m okay with being someone else. Thirty minutes after my Lyft picks me up, I’m standing on a residential street, staring down at the black façade of a basement apartment. Affixed to a wall in plain sight is a small neon sign that reads “sub”.
I approach the robust security guard who stares me up and down like a piece of meat. “DD/lg night isn’t until Tuesday.”
“DD/lg?”
“Daddy Dom? Little girl?” he says impatiently, as if I should know what that means. “I think you should turn around and go home, little girl. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Behind me, the elegantclick-clackof heels on the pavement echoes through the empty street.
“She’s with me.”
I turn and find a woman, middle-aged, with dark hair, pale skin, and dark eyes that hint at an exotic lineage. There’s a half-smile on her face as she looks me over. Not with the disdain of the bodyguard, but the way a fox might look at a hole in the henhouse. She’s dressed from head to toe in black with dark velour lips and the closer she comes, the more the hairs on my body stand on end.
“You’re late.” She grabs my face with expertly manicured hands, forcing my mouth to purse the way Ares used to. A bolt of fear shoots down my spine.