Tricked

Then there was the question of what Damon had seen. After the German couple left, would he come raging into the bedroom? His threat earlier in the evening ricocheted through her mind like a bullet.

“You disappoint or embarrass me in any way, and you’ll spend the next twenty-four hours in the punishment closet.”

She needed to stop crying. She didn’t want to undo all her hard work in convincing Damon she had finally accepted and even embraced her lot. It wouldn’t do to be sniveling in the closet when he finally came to let her out.

She tried to replay the last moments of the evening in her head. Had she betrayed herself to Damon in her desperate attempt to be noticed? What would her punishment be? Would he subject her to another terrifying round of Russian roulette, this time using a loaded gun?

What had Greta said in German while Callie had been strapped down to the table? It had sounded like a question, and it had come right after Callie had briefly attempted the safeword hand signal. But surely if either Wolf or Greta had seen the signal, they would have stopped what they had believed was a consensual scene?

For all she knew, she’d done it wrong. Her very limited experience with the BDSM scene had been virtual, gleaned from fiction and the websites she had visited. Maybe it was bad form for someone outside the Master/slave relationship to intervene. Even if they’d been a little suspicious at first, Damon had been so smooth and persuasive, easily dismissing their concerns with his false kindness and suave reassurance.

She stiffened as she heard the sound of the bedroom door opening. A moment later, Damon pulled open the closet door, flooding the dark space with light. Callie squinted up at him as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.

To her vast relief, he didn’t look furious, nor was there a weapon in his hand. In fact, he grinned down at her as he released her wrists and hauled her upright. Gently, he pulled away the tape from her mouth. He caught her in an embrace and lifted her off the ground, whirling her in a circle before dropping her on the bed.

“We showed those two players a thing or two, didn’t we?” he said with a laugh as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over a chair. “I don’t know why they cut the evening so short, but whatever.”

He shrugged, leaning down to pick up a tumbler that contained several inches of what looked like whiskey. He took a long drink, smacking his lips. “They like to think they’re so edgy and daring, but in the end it’s all just a game to them. Imagine if they knew you were truly my slave.”

He frowned, adding, “That little German twat had a lot of nerve, questioning me about your treatment. If I owned her, I’d soon beat that impertinence out of her.” He drank the rest of the whiskey in one long gulp.

Had Greta said something to him before leaving? Not that it mattered, Callie thought with despair. They were gone—never to return. She was on her own again—that small window of hope once again firmly closed.

Damon kicked off his loafers and removed his pants and underwear. Naked, he sat on the bed beside her. He lifted his hand and she winced involuntarily, expecting a slap in the face. Instead, to her confusion, he gently cupped her cheek.

“You did good tonight,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I mean, yeah, you made a little noise during the caning, but you didn’t try anything stupid.”

Callie felt almost sick with relief. He hadn’t seen the hand gesture. But then, apparently no one had.

“Too bad they’re leaving town tomorrow,” he continued. “I would have liked to invite them back. They’re into blood play. That would have been fucking awesome.” He shrugged again, adding more to himself than to her, “Though it’s probably a good thing. It was risky to let them see you. But hey”—he shrugged, flashing a grin—“I’m never a man who shied away from risk. And Christ, it was such a rush.”

He lay down on the bed beside Callie and stretched out. Lifting his hand again, this time he placed it on the back of his neck, wincing as he rubbed it. “That session took it out of me. I must have pulled a muscle or something.”

Oh, poor baby, Callie thought with savage sarcasm. Strained a muscle while flaying me alive.

She swallowed her rage as a crazy idea leaped full-blown into her mind. She was tempted to dismiss it at once. It was hugely risky and probably impossible to achieve. On the other hand, time was running out—she was sure of it. He’d been dropping more and more hints lately as to his intentions. She was pretty sure he was either going to kill her or sell her to a sex trafficker in the very near future.