Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

“I went to see Simon’s painting,” she said in a rebellious tone. “I don’t get to Paris that often, and it was right there—”

“I don’t care to hear your excuses. Who do you belong to?”

“You.” Her voice trembled on the word. Maybe I was being too scary. I felt a scary intense love for her, even though she’d disappointed me.

“You belong to me,” I agreed after a heavy silence. “And what is my rule about Simon?”

“I hate when you do this.”

“Do what? Hold you accountable for the rules you agreed to follow?” I hooked a finger through her collar’s O-ring and gave her a shake. “Do you want to take this off? Are you done with me?”

The tears that swam in her eyes welled over and fell as she shook her head. “No, Sir. Of course not. It’s just…he made that painting for me.”

She looked very sorry, and very guilty. “Sit up straight,” I said, not willing to let her cry her way out of this.

“I’m sorry I went to see it. I should have asked your permission first.”

“I would have said no. Did you enjoy seeing it?” I looked at her hard. “Was it worth getting punished over? You’re to have no contact with Simon Baldwin. None. Zero.”

“I know. It was just…the history of it.”

“What history? The history when he abused you? When he used you and pimped you out so he could get high?”

“He’s sober now.”

“I know he’s fucking sober.” Wrong thing to say, Chere. Wrong thing to do, defending your bastard ex.

“I made that rule for a reason,” I said out loud. “How long were you in a relationship with Simon?”

“Ten years.”

“How many times did you try to convince yourself you had to leave him?”

She put her head in her hands. I yanked her face back up and glared at her until she squeaked out an answer.

“Hundreds of times. More times than I can count.”

“You are not to have anything to do with him.” I drew out each word in icy emphasis. “Nothing to do with him ever. No thoughts, no memories, no fucking contact whatsoever. Is that or is that not the rule?”

“It’s the rule, Sir.”

“I made that rule for you, Chere. For your well-being. Your sanity. Now I’m pissed off for three fucking reasons, and I’m going to tell you what they are before I bend you over and punish your ass. One: You disobeyed me. That’s the first thing, that you allowed it to happen in the first place. Two: I had to drag it out of you, when you should have admitted what you did right away, as soon as we were alone together. Three…”

I paused, honing my own fearsome pain. She held my gaze, and I let her have it. “Three, Chere: You cried for him. You cried for that motherfucking asshole who brought you nothing but misery. You cried for him.”

“I cried for the painting,” she burst out, interrupting me, challenging my authority. “I cried because I remembered when he painted it, and who I was then.”

“You cried for what you had with him,” I accused. “You should be happy he’s out of your life.”

“I am!”

“I did that, damn you. I helped you get away from him. If I hadn’t, you’d probably still be in that loft, going out to turn tricks so he could shoot your dirty money through his veins or snort it up his nose.”

“Dirty money?” she sobbed. “Some of that was your money. A lot of it!”

“Don’t fucking remind me.”

I walked away from her, preserving an adequate distance between us. I wasn’t going to punish her in anger. Hurt, yes. Anger, no. I looked out the window, collecting my thoughts. Remembering why, as she sat very still on the bed. It’s because I love you. Because I only ever wanted to protect you.

“I make these rules for a reason,” I said, when I felt calmer. “Simon is out of your life for a reason.”

“I know, Sir.” She’d calmed too. Her voice sounded steadier. “I knew you’d be angry. I did it anyway. I don’t have any excuse except that I wanted to do it.”

“You have to listen to me,” I said, turning back to her. “You have to obey my rules or none of this works.”

“Yes, Sir. I know.”

“You’re going to be punished for what you did.”

“Yes, Sir,” she repeated, clenching her hands in her lap. “I know.”

Chapter Five: Regrets

I prayed for the belt. I could deal with his belt, but belts were so loud and this was a hotel room. Instead he went to his luggage and took out a whip, a long, thin, braided implement that whistled when it moved through the air, but was nearly silent on impact.

I already hurt. Oh shit, that whip was torture, and he was in a really bad mood. This is your fault, Chere. You knew he would punish you. Yes, I knew, but now it was happening and I was fucking terrified.