Freeing Rowan (Masters Club 3)

Had he forgotten he’d confiscated her phone? Or was this his way of saying she had earned it back?

“Um,” she ventured. “My phone, Sir?”

“I imagine the battery’s dead,” he replied with a shrug. “You can use mine. It’s in my jacket pocket.” He yawned widely, revealing his perfect teeth. “The code is 1998.” Closing his eyes, he rolled onto his side.

She padded quietly from the room, frustrated that she hadn’t yet earned back her phone privileges.

It’s not that big a deal, she tried to tell herself.

If something doesn’t feel right…

She ignored the whispered admonition.

After all, it wasn’t like she had anyone she really needed to call. In the nearly three months she’d been living with Master John, her friends from school had pretty much fallen away. She hadn’t planned to ignore them. But she’d been so focused on her slave journey with Master John, and on her art, and it had just sort of happened.

She had no family to speak of. Her sister, Hannah, lived on the other side of the world in Australia. Nine years older than Rowan, they’d never been close. She had no memory of her father, who’d disappeared when Rowan was still in diapers. Her mother, who’d never recovered from his abandonment, had drunk herself into an early grave, passing away the summer after Rowan’s high school graduation.

Returning to the front hall, she stared with dismay at her pretty silk dress, ripped beyond repair in a small heap on the floor. Though it hadn’t been expensive, it had been one of her favorites.

Looking away, she pulled the phone from the inner pocket of his jacket. She punched in the code.

212-246-8000. Call me any time, day or night.

She pushed away the thought. She didn’t need to call anyone. She was back where she was supposed to be.

She found the Indian restaurant in Master John’s contacts and placed the order. Pulling the wheeled suitcases behind her, his jacket over her arm, she tiptoed back into the bedroom. Master John appeared to be asleep, one arm flung over his eyes, his lips parted. She set the phone into the charger on his nightstand and hung the jacket in his closet. She would unpack and wash his things tomorrow.

She went to the guest bedroom closet where her clothing was kept and selected another summer dress for when the delivery person came. As she waited, she went into her studio. Master John had recently taken six of her best pieces into the city in an effort to place one or two at one of the smaller galleries. He’d had no luck so far, but just the fact that he believed in her counted for a lot.

Her current work perched on the easel, nearly complete. The block she’d felt before going to the Masters Club had vanished. She moved toward the canvas, her fingers itching to take up the paintbrush. It was still hard to believe she had her very own studio, filled with empty canvases stretched and waiting on their wooden frames.

Fine sable brushes waited in a neat row, ready to be dipped. Her smock hung on its hook, whispering to her to put it on. The beautiful tubes of paint, from alizarin yellow, bohemian green, brown umber, burnt sienna, cadmium orange, brilliant crimson, cobalt blue, dianthus pink, iridescent gold, midnight black beckoned to her, eager to be used.

She never could have afforded any of this on her own. But Master John believed in her, and he’d made all this possible.

The chime of the doorbell roused her from her reverie. She rushed to the door. Using Master John’s credit card, she paid the young man for the food, adding a generous tip. In the kitchen, she plated the food and placed it in the oven at 200° to keep it warm.

Returning to the bedroom, she stripped out of the dress and leaned over the bed to gently tap Master John’s shoulder. “The food is here, Sir.”

“Hmm,” he said groggily, his hand falling away from his face. Opening his eyes, he fixed his gaze on her and smiled. “I’m going to take a quick shower. You may set out the food on the table, along with a bottle of cabernet and one glass. Then wait for me on your cushion.”

“Yes, Sir.”

When Master John came into the kitchen about ten minutes later, Rowan was waiting as directed, her stomach rumbling at the delicious smells that filled the air. Master John was wearing a pair of black silk pajama bottoms, his chest and feet bare. He sat down at the table beside her where she knelt, hands resting on her thighs as he’d taught her.

He took a long drink of the red wine she’d poured into his glass, and then tore a piece of the steaming naan bread and popped it into his mouth. Rowan watched hungrily as he tasted each of the various dishes, smacking his lips with satisfaction. She had to squelch the sudden, decidedly unsubmissive desire to leap up and grab his fork.