Priceless (Ruthless Doms 1)

With her eyes cast to the floor, she walks to me until she’s standing between my legs.

“I’m a disappointment to you,” she whispers. It takes me by surprise. Why would she say such a thing?

“No,” I tell her. “Of course not.”

“I will obey you,” she whispers, wringing her hands. “They taught me that much. I will do as you command.”

It’s a start. A flicker of light in a cavern of darkness.

I keep my voice stern, commanding. It’s what she responds to.

“Good. You will do so. Come closer to me.”

She obeys slowly, her eyes still on the floor, walking toward me until she stands between my legs. I reach for her hand and take it between mine. When we touch, skin to skin, relief floods through me. I compose myself with effort, swallowing the lump in my throat as I take one of her hands in both of mine and bring it to my chest.

I have to tell her who I am. I have to see what she knows. I need to see what her reaction is when it’s just the two of us, with as much privacy as we’re allowed on this ship.

Her legs press up against mine, and I can hardly breathe. It’s Marissa.

My Marissa.

But she’s only a ghost of the woman she once was, and if I move too quickly she’ll vanish. Here one minute and gone the next.

So I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I observe every detail of her exquisite perfection. The light shines on her face, and I notice she’s got makeup on one cheek. I lean in closer. It takes me a moment to realize the makeup covers a bruise.

Without thinking, I raise my hand to touch her, and she flinches, as if she thinks I’m going to strike her.

Rage boils inside me so quickly, so viciously, I hiss out an angry breath before I can stop myself.

“What did I do wrong, master?” she whispers, cowering. She moves away as if to defend herself. I make a vow right then that whoever did this, whoever dared to raise a hand with her, will rue the day their hearts beat upon this earth. They will know pain the likes of which they’ve never known. They will suffer under the vengeance I’ll seek in retribution for the way they’ve treated her.

“Of course not,” I tell her, the effort at keeping my voice calm strangling me. “You please me very much.” I need to immediately dispel the notion that she’s displeased me if it causes her so much distress. I want her to know that she hasn’t done wrong, that my anger isn’t directed at her. “You please her very much,” I say, an understatement that kills me. She fucking makes me whole again.

When I touch her, she freezes. Gently, I tug her to me.

It’s taking all my self-control not to embrace her, to crush her to me and keep her away from anyone and anything that could hurt her. My sweet, sweet girl is within my grasp, but she’s not quite there. She’s just on the other side of the looking glass, beyond my reach.

“Marissa,” I whisper.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “That name…” her voice trails off and she doesn’t continue the thought.

“What is it?” I ask. “What do you want to say?”

“I-it reminds me of someone or, or something,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “But I can’t place it… or who.”

Does she not remember who she is? Who I am? The thought fucking kills me, but I bat it away.

If she doesn’t now, she will. Her memory’s been tampered with. She isn’t herself right now.

I place a gentle finger under her chin and raise her eyes to mine. Keeping my voice as low as possible, I instruct, “Look in my eyes.” I hold my breath, unable to even think while she slowly, so slowly, obeys, her long lashes fluttering as she raises her head.

Will she recognize me? Will she know me? But when her eyes meet mine, I see only fear, and none of the recognition I need. She quickly bows her head.

“Forgive me, master,” she says. “I can’t. It makes me too fearful.”

Fearful of what, sweet girl? Of what I will do? Or what they’ve taught you to be frightened of?

How could they have done this to her? Marissa was feisty and headstrong, full of life and laughter, not this cowering woman who flinches at every sound and move.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask softly, reaching for her hands. I run my thumbs along the tops of her hands, feeling her soft skin beneath my touch.

It’s a fucking risk asking her this, and I regret the question the moment I open my mouth.

“Of course,” she says with a soft smile, and hope flares within me for one second before she finishes her sentence.