She lay that way for a long time, drifting in and out of an exhausted fog. As her mind began to clear, she sat up again, hugging her knees to her chest. In spite of the tears that streaked her face, a smile stole over her lips at the image of Damon’s eyes going wide with shock and pain. She flexed her hand, marveling that she’d dare to punch the guy right in the nose.
It was probably the dumbest thing she’d ever done, but man, it had been worth it.
His words replayed her head. You’re gonna be very, very sorry.
What else could he do to her that he hadn’t already done? If he planned to leave her in the closet until she died of starvation, at least she’d be free of him. And god—it had felt so fucking good to smash her fist into his handsome face. She hoped she had broken his perfect nose.
“No,” she said aloud, her voice hoarse but determined. “Not sorry, you bastard. Not sorry at all.”
Then she heard something scrabbling in the walls, like tiny nails on crumbling concrete. She gasped, her heart constricting with panic.
She forced herself to take a deep breath. There was nothing in the closet with her. The space was empty as a tomb. And anyway, she wasn’t scared of a spider or a mouse, which was probably all it was. She tried to laugh but it came out more as a grunt.
Then she heard it again. Was that something squeaking?
“Go away!” she cried, banging the wall with her hand.
All went silent. She was alone in the darkness.
All alone.
Dropping her head into her hands, she let the tears flow.
~*~
Damon peered at himself in the bathroom mirror, turning his head from side to side as he dabbed away the blood from his swollen nose. That fucking bitch. He touched the bridge gingerly. It didn’t seem to be broken. An ice pack and some aspirin were probably all he needed.
He shook his head and snorted. That girl sure had a pair of balls. In spite of himself, he couldn’t help but admire her nerve. It was pretty fucking stupid to punch someone who had a gun. She’d looked as shocked as he’d felt afterward.
But she would have to be punished. No question about that. A day or two locked in that closet should be a sobering reminder of what happened to bad girls. Yes. He would make her good and sorry for what she had done.Damon went out for the rest of the day. He did some grocery shopping, and then went down to the beach. He swam in the ocean and relaxed on the sand. He flirted with two French girls in tiny white bikinis who barely looked legal. When they asked him about his nose, he answered with the standard, “You should see the other guy.”
If they only knew…
The girls were cute and bubbly, and clearly available. Yet he found himself almost indifferent to their charms. He declined their offer to come back with them to the hotel bar where they were staying. Messing around with two giggly girls was way too tame—not when he had his own slave girl locked up and waiting for him at home.
Instead, he went to a small restaurant in town that he liked and enjoyed a delicious meal by himself. He came home around nine and briefly considered letting Callie out of the basement closet, but ordered himself to remain firm.
She’d definitely crossed a line by striking him.
He slept alone that night. As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts were consumed with Callie. She hadn’t had either lunch or dinner, or anything to drink since breakfast. There was barely room in the small closet to lie down, unless she curled into a ball.
Well, good. She deserved it. That would teach her what happened when she raised her hand to her Master.He managed to wait all the way until the next afternoon. Finally, deciding she’d had enough, he went down the basement stairs and walked to what he’d taken to calling the punishment closet. Using the master house key from the chain around his neck, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Callie was huddled against the back wall, curled on her side in a tight ball. “Callie?” he said, stepping into the tiny space. She didn’t move or open her eyes.
Shit. What the fuck was wrong with her?
He crouched beside her, relieved to see she was breathing. Reaching for her, he lifted her into a sitting position. Her tangled hair hung limply over her eyes. As he pushed it from her face, she opened her eyes, fixing him with a blank stare. Relief rushed through him.
As he lifted her to her feet, he was struck by how light she was. She was so thin, her hip bones jutting from her pelvis, the soft roundness of her cheeks now hollowed and angular. She smelled rank, her skin clammy with sweat. She swayed where she stood, as if she could barely hold herself upright.