Page 44 of Brave
He served them, asking her what part of the chicken she liked the best—she panicked; she had no idea, but she quickly pointed to a wing since it was the smallest piece; at least, he would get enough to eat—he gave her two along with a generous helping of potato. “I hope you have an appetite, because I want to see you eat at least half of this.”
Leftover chicken had never tasted so good. Neither had bacon. The salty crunch that she discovered in each bite of salad had her closing her eyes. She savored each piece like the luxury food it was. She’d only had it twice since the day she’d come to belong to Ethen, and because of Carlson both times. Unfortunately, she’d been so rattled the first time, that all she remembered about that burger at Old Ebbitt was the ashen-flavor of trying to choke down six forbidden bites.
Ash was the farthest thing from her taste buds tonight. The flavors danced rich and bright on her tongue, and although she didn’t clear her plate, only part of one wing remained by the time she reached her limit.
“Good girl.” Chuckling as he got up, Carlson bent and although she tipped her face to his, and although she could have sworn he hesitated, his gaze dipping to her lips, when he kissed her, it was a gentle brush to her forehead. The heated press of his mouth lingered only long enough to make her heart catch and then fall.
Stroking her hair before letting her go, he gathered both their dishes. “I’ve got some games and such in the office. Why don’t you go pick one out while I clean up?”
She’d much rather have caught his shirt before he walked away, pulled him back down to her level and showed him just how hungry her mouth had newly become. But already he was heading for the kitchen sink, leaving her sitting alone at the table.
Obediently, she followed his command.
It was imposing, walking into his office without him. Like the rest of the house, it was very masculine in its décor. A shelf ran the wall behind his leather-backed throne of an office chair. Pictures of his military life lined it and here and there, as she stole a guilty minute just to look at them, she picked out his smiling face. A soldier standing amongst other soldiers; a soldier standing amongst friends. Everyone had their ghosts, she supposed. She certainly wasn’t special in that regard, but the more she studied this two-dimension lineup of his life, the more clearly she could see the joy diminishing in the eyes of the soldier stubbornly maintaining his smile.
“They’re in the closet,” Carlson called across the house, his voice accompanied by the soft clatter of dishes and the sound of running water. “Find them?”
Ducking her head, she went to the only closet. “Yes,” she called back, opening the door. The games were hard to miss. He had six, all ranging from Cards Against Humanity, which wasn’t a good game for only two players, all the way up to Risk, which she wasn’t good at. She picked Pandemic. She had no idea how it was played, but she figured it had to be less strategic and more interesting than Chess, which was the only other game she did know.
Backing out of the doorway, she stopped when her eyes settled on his playbag. Directly behind it, bound tightly together with two elastic hair ties, was a bundle of canes and crops. He had almost a dozen, all of different colors, thicknesses, and materials. From experience, she knew the bamboo was most likely to break under the whuck of severe use, while the black Delran canes were the thinnest and the most whippy. The thickest and worst, in her estimation, was a length of crimson acrylic. Offering less flexibility than the rest, it promised to be every bit as painful as the color suggested.
Laying the game aside, she drew it from his neat bundle.
“That, honey,” Carlson said softly from the doorway, “is not a game, and I promise I’m not going to make it feel like one.”
Her nerve endings sparked again. Funny, how closely lust and dread could sometimes feel.
“I know.” She looked at the crimson cane in her hand. The acrylic thickness shining under the glint of the overhead light; the wrapped handle firm and comfortable in her grip. “Is it okay if I ask a question?”
“Always,” he assured.
She hesitated, not at all sure she really wanted to know. “What will happen when I bring this to you?”
“I’ve already told you. I’m going to use it.”
Very simple. Very serious. Very to the point.
The dread inside her built, overwhelming the lust.
“No, I know. I mean, wh-what if…”
“You can’t take it?” Carlson guessed, when she trailed away.
That was a scary thought.
“I can take a lot.” But he was bigger than Ethen. Broader in the shoulder, more muscular where the other was leaner and slender. It was only ten strokes. The only time Ethen ever delivered so few was if he used the whip. With that implement, it didn’t matter how many he gave her. She always bled.
Her back prickled. Leaving the game where it was, she brought him the cane anyway.
Shoulder propped against the jamb, arms folded, he watched her come. He was frowning, which didn’t help her shaky courage, but she still offered him the cane.
“What are you doing?” he asked evenly.
“I can take it,” she said again. When he didn’t take it right away, she held it higher. “I want to show you I can take it. I-I… I want to make you proud.”
He didn’t take it. Arms still folded, one finger tapped lightly against his own bicep as he waited. She had no idea what for.
Lowering the cane, she clutched it in both hands, twisting slightly as she worried what she was doing wrong. Why was he just standing there, a tic of muscle along his jaw his only movement?
