Page 43 of Brave
Looking at herself in the mirror once more, Puppy steeled herself for things to go badly. Sliding the pocket door open, she let him see that, while her insides might be knotted into writhing snake ball, but at least she wasn’t having another panic attack. “No, Sir. I’m just thinking.”
“About anything in particular?” he asked, propping his shoulder against the doorway.
Cradling her pack, she held her breath for only half a second before, half anxious and half curious, she hesitantly offered, “I-I can’t remember how we got to ten.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “May I ask why not?”
“I remember talking, but what we said… it’s all blurry.” She tensed, hands tightening into fists as she waited for him to react.
Nodding, he pushed off the doorjamb. “Fair enough. When it comes time to take care of the issue, I’ll remind you of each infraction, but I’m going to expect you to count them and to strive as hard as you are able not to repeat them. Agreed?”
He didn’t hit her. He didn’t even look upset.
“Yes, Sir.” She stared up at him, spirally floods of relief and disbelief both washing through her.
“Finish up,” he told her, turning away. “Leftover fried chicken and potato salad for dinner. You’re setting the table.”
She could do that. The kitchen and laundry were her primary chores in the Menagerie too.
Initially a happy thought, while he reheated the chicken, she made it through the entire setting of the table before old ghosts reared up to bite her. She was standing at the head of the table, admiring the precision with which she’d lain out his plate and utensils, a water glass, a tea glass, a simple salt and pepper shaker within his easy reach but doing double time as a centerpiece since he had no flowers. He had paper napkins, not cloth, but she did her best to fold it into the neat triangle Ethen liked best and it was as she was double checking that she had everything evenly spaced with one another that it occurred to her what she was doing.
Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Carlson was still preoccupied with the chicken in the microwave, she quickly poked his fork, nudging it out of alignment. An electrified quiver ran straight up her back as she stared at the now crooked fork.
Would he even notice?
Did he even care? It wasn’t as if he’d ever specified how he wanted her to set the table.
He wasn’t Ethen. She didn’t have to do things for him the way she’d done them for her previous master.
Hand shaking, she quickly moved the glasses to the wrong side of his plate.
No, no. This was too much. He was sure to notice this, and just because he wasn’t Ethen, what kind of submissive was she not to want to make everything perfect for—
Puppy jumped when an arm hooked her waist, pulling her back against the solid heat of Carlson’s body.
“Very nice,” he said, his low voice rumbling just behind her ear and sending a whole new wave of electrified awareness sparking up and down her spine. “Pour the tea for us, please.”
He swatted her bottom before turning back to the stove, and she jumped, but not out of fear. The gentle pat felt more like a compliment than a correction. Her skin tingled everywhere his hand had touched, as if branding his ownership into her in a way that she could feel buzzing in every nerve ending all the way to the fridge and back.
She poured the tea and, making sure he wasn’t watching, switched the glasses back. That was just too much and too sloppy. Now she couldn’t stop staring at the fork.
“Hot plate,” Carlson warned, coming up behind her to drop a hot pad between their settings. He placed the chicken within both their easy reach and, try though she did to bite it back, she couldn’t help confessing.
“The fork’s crooked.” She covered her mouth with her hand, worrying as he looked at the fork. Even more softly, regretting that she’d ever done it, she admitted, “I did it on purpose.”
Glancing pointedly from the fork to her, he asked, “Am I reacting the way you thought I would?”
She shook her head.
“Do you suppose that might be because I never asked for perfect place settings on the table?” Arching his eyebrows, he said, “That’s not one of my rules. That’s the rule of…” His voice trailed off into a deliberately hanging question.
“Someone who doesn’t matter,” she supplied, tension melting away again.
“I hope you like cheese and crispy bacon on your potato salad, because I’ve added plenty of both.”
He went back to the fridge to get it, leaving her standing at the table, flush with soft feelings and that subtle warmth that just a touch from him could so easily spark into full-blown throbs of wanting. He was a good man. More than anything, she would have loved to curl into his arms and just spend the rest of her life feeling safe, secure, and cared for. Maybe someday even loved. It was really too bad that he didn’t want her the same way.
Burying that deep inside so she wouldn’t have to dwell on the thin prick of sadness it sparked, she sat down to wait until he returned.
