Patrick (4:52 P.M.): 5121 Appleblossom Cir, East End. You should see her. Domestic trouble.
I clutch the phone hard, looking around the table at the expectant faces. They all know how important the next few days are to the company and to their jobs. They expect me to fix it like I always do. I bark out a few quick orders, assigning jobs and initiatives to my top executives as fast as I can.
Less than two minutes later, I’m grabbing my coat and rushing from the building without further explanation.
Patrick knows not to bother me unless it’s something important. He wouldn’t have texted me, especially not during the work day, if it wasn’t a matter that needed my immediate attention.
I’m parked outside her place twenty minutes later. It’s a small house just outside the city in a neighborhood full of chain link fences and “beware of dog” signs. Seeing her living in a place like this turns my stomach. My Kitten deserves way better than this. Way fucking better. I don’t even need to offer her money though to know she wouldn’t take it.
The house is covered in cheap vinyl siding painted a sky blue color. It’s peeling at the corners and is molding toward the ground. Despite the general disrepair of the house, there’s a beautiful garden in the front yard that’s protected from weeds by stone pavers. Every plant seems to be flourishing, and a pair of gardening shears still lays out on the pavers beside a pair of dirt-covered gloves. Thinking of her bending over while she gardens makes me smirk. For some reason the idea of her liking to garden endears her to me even more.
There’s a brightly colored wind-catcher planted beside the path leading to her front door and it spins when a slight breeze rustles the oaks overhead. I take back my initial assessment of her place. I’m so used to being surrounded by wealth and excess that my default is to look at how a place can be improved. The pursuit of perfection could never create a place like this. The way dappled shade falls over the house and the way the bright garden adds a kind of charm to the small building could happen only organically, by accident.
I realize to an extent that she and I are different after all. We both attack our problems with the same energy and drive, but maybe we’re seeking different ends. I don’t know why, but that thought unsettles me. It makes me wonder if I know her as well as I thought. I shouldn’t be surprised I don’t. After all, I’ve been with her a total of four times now. A few minutes at my party, a few minutes at the club, a few minutes for dinner, and then one exceptional hour at the club last weekend. All totaled, I’ve probably spent two hours with Emmaline, and yet I’m surprised that I don’t have her completely figured out.
I blow out a humorless laugh.
I step up to the front door and knock. My heart is pounding in my chest. Domestic abuse? I never even thought she might not be single, but how surprised can I really be. After all, I met her at a BDSM club. It’s not exactly the kind of place a sexually deprived woman is likely to end up. If she has some deadbeat boyfriend slapping her around, he had better hope he’s gone when I step inside. I think back to the thick makeup on her face and the implications of what it could have been hiding has my blood boiling. Fucking bruises on my Kitten. Whoever is responsible is going to regret waking up. They will regret even being born. I clench my fists, feeling all the muscles in my body tighten.
The door opens and my wandering thoughts are silenced in an instant. My eyes go immediately to the bright red mark beneath her eye. I raise a hand to touch just below the mark, narrowing my eyes at her. My insides feel like ice. There’s a darker, older bruise beneath it, right where I saw the thick makeup at the club.
“Where is he? Who fucking put his hands on you?” I ask.
She hesitates, eyes wide and searching my face. “It’s complicated. I don’t want you to hurt him.”
I grip the doorframe so tight I can feel the wood threaten to buckle. As her dom, I should chastise her for refusing to answer me, but this isn’t the time for that. She’s hurting, both physically and emotionally. She doesn’t need a dom right now. She needs the lowlife who touched her out of this plane of fucking existence.
I shake my head. “Whoever did this to you is going to pay. You can tell me who it is, or I can find out.”
The distress on her face makes my chest hurt. I can see how much the thought of me hurting whoever did this is scaring her, but I can’t let this happen. I don’t care what she thinks about our relationship outside the club, she is mine, and I need to send a very clear message about what happens to people who touch what’s mine.