Page 19 of Objection
“All of this over a job?!” I exclaimed. I just didn’t understand men like that. The fact that someone put Ms. Adams in that position… That I could not abide.
“Yes. He’s… he… I don’t know. He didn’t want me working alone with a man. Especially one like you and —”
“One like me? What does that mean?”
“You know exactly what that means, Mr. Wellington.” She may have tried to hide it with her punchy remark, but the rosy blush rose on her peach skin in embarrassment. I nodded and let her have her moment. “He finally agreed when he realized that by taking this job our financial situation would be even better and he could probably move in. He could have moved in long before, but I’m glad he didn’t.”
“As am I,” I quickly agreed.
“I just, I don’t know…” her voice cut off as she lost her fight with composure. “He came at me and his hands and…” her words broke into cries as she folded in on herself, protecting herself from a force that was not in this room but in her mind.
He had laid his hands on her. It was obvious without her saying a word. That was all I needed to hear.
“Take me there.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand; albeit a soft and kind one.
“Where?” she sniffed, wiping at the tear tracks on her cheeks.
“Your home.”
“No.” Her eyes lifted to mine with alarm.
“It was not a request,” I reiterated. I picked up my suit jacket from the back of the chair and swung it around my body.
“With all due respect, Mr. Wellington, over my dead body.” She had fire, even in this moment, and that very fact made her all the more alluring to me.
“Now.” I hadn’t meant to switch into my Dom voice, but there it was. What I had expected even less than my sudden switch was her reaction. Her back straightened and she looked at me with resignation. With a small nod, her hands still wrapped around her torso in a protective gesture, she agreed.
I grabbed her purse from the nearby chair and led her to the garage. For a split second she looked as though she would argue, but with one arched eyebrow, I squashed that thought. She listened to nonverbal cues like the most seasoned submissive I had ever met.
Quickly, I shook the thought from my head. Ms. Adams was not a submissive. She was my employee, and she was in danger. That was my focus, my only focus, at this moment.
I helped her into the car and asked her to plug her address into the GPS system and I sped off, waiting only long enough for the garage door to close behind us. She didn’t live far from me, only a twenty-minute commute with evening traffic.
The ride was quiet. I wanted to reach for her hand, to stop her from wringing them together with worry. Aside from a few comments on the commute, and checking in with her regarding the temperature when she shivered, the ride was almost intolerably quiet. I used the time to quell the anger I felt that some person had put hands on Ms. Adams and harmed her. It wasn’t acceptable.
We pulled into a modest home. It was quaint and looked tidy and put together, though very small. When I helped her from the car, I could feel her tension, her fear.
“Ms. Adams, you have nothing to be afraid of. You are not alone. And it doesn’t look like anyone is here,” I softly reassured. She unlocked the door and pulled back, letting me enter first.
What I saw when I entered was worse than I had even imagined.
I’m not sure what I had imagined, but not this. Perhaps a few knocked over things, and her clothes scattered over the floor. I think I truly felt that she was exaggerating, and I found no fault in it. Having your items scattered about, especially in a fit of rage was shocking. I couldn’t fault that. But that’s not what I saw.
What I saw was complete destruction. There were wall hangings smashed onto the floor. A mirror cracked; the glass pieces strewn over the floor.
She followed me into the home, and I took her hand, leading her carefully over the broken bits of glass. I would have much preferred if she had stayed in the car entirely, but I knew that would feel like a violation in and of itself, to have a stranger in her home after such an ordeal, boss or not.
Room by room in the modest home, I led her, taking stock of all the chaos. Broken dishes. Torn books. Knocked over furniture. In her room, her clothing was strewn about what was likely a nicely decorated room. The clothing was literally destroyed. Torn. Ripped. Cut.
Everything in this moment was a pure violation. It was traumatic. It was invasive. It was as physical as a non-physical assault could be. Assault was absolutely the right word for it.
Without a second thought, I led her, carefully, through the home and out of the front door. I took the keys from their position, clutched tightly in her hand, and locked the door. Without a word, I urged her back to the car, opened the door and helped her inside. I grabbed the seatbelt and fastened it across her body. There was little to no reaction from her. She was in shock, and I couldn’t fucking blame her. I was in my own version of shock. Granted, mine was prone to a more violent outburst directed solely at one man. Since he was nowhere in sight and I could not assuage that desire, I focused on what I could do.
I could protect her.
I sped off back towards my home.
When we pulled into the garage, she finally reacted.
