Freeing Rowan (Masters Club 3)

A gush of relief coursed through Rowan, so profound that she found herself feeling ridiculously grateful. “Thank you,” she said fervently.

He lifted his brows a bit, but said nothing to this. Instead, he walked toward the studio, and she followed.

They entered the room where she’d spent many happy hours painting during her tenure as Master John’s slave girl. When not working, she’d devoted herself fully to serving her Master in whatever way pleased him. It had been thrilling and sexy at first, before she somehow lost her way in the maze of his powerful control. The change had been so gradual she hadn’t fully understood its impact until she had descended so far down the rabbit hole that she couldn’t seem to find her way out.

As promised, her paintings were neatly stacked just inside the door, each canvas wrapped in the self-sealing plastic art bags designed to protect paintings during a move. Though it had only been a little over a week, it was like seeing her long-lost children. She rushed over to them, touching each one as she did a mental tally.

They were all there—ten completed paintings plus the one she’d been working on. Eric had graciously volunteered some space in his workshop for her to store them until she could afford a studio of her own.

The easel had been folded flat and placed against the wall alongside a large portable art tote filled with all the lovely supplies he’d bought her. She’d expected him to keep the supplies. After all, he’d purchased them. Again, she found herself almost absurdly grateful for his generosity in the face of her leaving him so abruptly.

But that reaction brought her sharply back to her senses. Wait just a fucking minute, here. She hadn’t just walked out on her boyfriend. She’d escaped from a man who’d kept her locked and bound in a cage overnight. She’d been so terrified of him that she’d bolted with nothing but the clothes on her back.

She was no longer that frightened slave girl, however. Whatever spell he’d woven was well and truly broken. She was herself again—a strong, capable woman who knew her own mind.

Feeling much calmer, she said simply, “Thanks for packing the canvases. I really appreciate that. And thank you for the art supplies. I’ll pay you back.”

He shrugged. “No need. They were a gift. Whatever else happened between us, you’re a talented artist, Rowan. I was happy to nurture that in you, along with your submissive potential. I wish only the best for you.”

This was going better than she could possibly have expected. Not knowing quite how to respond, she replied, “Well, thank you for that.”

She hoisted the tote over her shoulder and grabbed a half dozen or so of the canvases. “I’ll just take these out to the front hall and then come back for the rest.”

“I’ll help you.”

Together, they brought her things to the hall. Rowan reached for the doorknob, a sudden flashback of the last time she’d turned that handle and dashed to freedom returning with unwelcome clarity. Too many memories in this place, too many of them bad. She needed to be gone.

“Wait,” he said, as if reading her mind. He placed a light hand on her shoulder. “Please, don’t go. Not yet.” He spoke in a tone she’d never heard him use before—soft and urgent, almost pleading.

Startled, she turned to regard him. To her shock, she saw actual tears in his eyes. “Please,” he repeated softly. “I just want to talk to you. Things ended so…unfortunately.” He managed a smile, adding, “I have some of those schnecken you love from William Greenberg, and I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Or I have wine, whatever you’d like. After nearly three months together, don’t we owe each other a proper goodbye?”

Though her instinct was to refuse, she actually found herself feeling sorry for the guy. Maybe he was right. It would be good to have some closure. It would be a chance for her to speak her mind as well, something he hadn’t allowed her in the past.

“Okay,” she finally agreed. “I have a few minutes.”

She should let Eric know, though, so he didn’t worry. She pulled out her phone to shoot him a quick text. As if on cue, a text came in from him before she had a chance.

Are you okay? I think I should come inside.

I’m fine. Nearly done. I’ll be out in just a few minutes, okay?

When she looked up, John was frowning. “You’re texting that so-called trainer I saw out there, aren’t you?” he asked, snark entering his tone. “I wonder if he makes a habit of stealing subs away from other Doms. Is he the one who took you away that day?”

Rowan frowned back, a dozen angry retorts leaping to mind. She pressed her lips together. No way was she going to fall into some kind of defensive trap. After what John had done, she owed him no explanations.