Page 54 of Dangerous Command
The bathroom attendant at the side of the room finished pretending to rearrange her bottles of perfume and found a makeup towel, avoiding eye contact as she handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, then handed her a couple of bucks from the small clutch I had forgotten I was carrying. I dabbed at the dirt, but it was a strange sensation. It didn’t feel like it was me doing it. It was as if my reflection was a video, and I was watching someone else going through the motions of cleaning up. A servant making herself presentable again. Whatever that meant.
And yet I felt perfect like this. Because he had done this to me.
An image of my mother flashed in my mind. Her long dark hair in a ponytail cascading down her back like a waterfall, sitting to the side of my stepdad’s chair. He never ashed in her mouth like Derek had done to me, but he had done other things. Scarred her back. Her pussy lips too.
My stepdad had humiliated my mother, degraded her, made her less than human, while she had simultaneously cowered and took each depraved thing as if he were gifting her diamonds. And Derek did the same to me; he made me lower than dirt.
So why was it different with Derek?
The attendant handed me a bottle of rosewater body spray and a peppermint. I popped the mint in my mouth, then stopped. I spit out the mint into the sink, and I skipped the spray. The leathery scent of his shoes was still on my skin. I wanted to hold onto it as long as possible.
It was disgusting, yes, but I also didn’t want to let go of the taste of his ash.
Maybe it was how he looked at me. Like he hated me just as much as he wanted me. The ability to destroy and rebuild, the way we fought each other for power.
I had the power to make Derek feel things he couldn’t deny, and yet Derek? He controlled me in every possible way.
The door opened and three servants came in, ones I recognized from the dressing room. Servants were categorized into levels of permission: these ones were able to talk. They had come together with their masters as friends.
But not all of the servants were that lucky.
“Do you get a lot out of that?” the first one asked. “The foot worship thing.”
“If they pay me enough,” the second said.
The first one dipped her shoulder, looking back at her. “With dick, or with green?”
“Or green dick,” the third said.
“Hey,” one of them said, turning to me. “You’re with Derek Adler, aren’t you?”
I stiffened. They knew his name already? “What of it?”
“How often are you his ashtray?”
It was disturbing that the question seemed so commonplace but even worse that being put on the spot like this, I had to face it: I enjoyed being his ashtray. I turned beet red. Being degraded made me feel things, because it was him. Looking down on me with power soaking his eyes, like he could crush me with a single step.
My stepdad had humiliated me in similar ways, and yet it never felt like this. I couldn’t explain it. Why was it different with Derek?
Was it that I respected him? Looked up to him? Maybe even loved him?
No… I couldn’t love him. I had to figure out how to keep Mack safe. Derek too. Derek could handle himself, but Mack couldn’t. I needed to focus. I needed to escape my stepdad.
I rubbed my cheek, skimming over the scar and trying to find the imprint of his boot. His teeth on my lips. Tiny flakes of ash still peppered my tongue.
Maybe escaping my stepdad didn’t matter. If Derek could protect us.
But I couldn’t rely on him like that. I could only rely on myself.
“Hey there, dreamer girl,” the servant asked again. “Are you always his ashtray?”
I shook myself out of my thoughts. “First time,” I admitted. What did I have to lose by telling her the truth?
“No way,” one of them said.
“You didn’t even choke!”
