Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3) (17 page)

*

“Baby?”

I blink my eyes open. Were they closed? So hard to say. My head is spinning and I’m dizzy, though I haven’t tried to stand. I tighten, curl in on myself, and yelp in pain. The clamps. I forgot the damn clamps. Hunter’s hands are warm on my shoulders.

“Stay still, I’ll get you. Hold on.” My bondage starts to fall away. I’ve been in subspace before, many times. Hunter takes pride in being able to get me there as often as he does, but this is different. Usually I’d liken it to my head floating tethered above my body like a balloon tied around a child’s wrist at a carnival, but this was far more intense. Like my brain was swinging from the chandelier and rubbernecking at what was happening to my flesh, maybe chowing down on some concession-stand popcorn. And being called back to inhabit said body… It’s as if my head’s fallen from a great height and splattered like a watermelon, useless.

I’m yanked back, willing or no, by the removal of one of the clamps, my breath rushing through my teeth. Hunter’s hand cupping my breast and his tongue laving my freed nipple are some comfort, but shit does that hurt. There’s pained whimpering, and I feel sorry for the creature making the pathetic noise. Until Hunter releases the other clamp and it turns into a desperate mewl. Mine.

When he’s finished suckling the sharp pain from that nipple, he hushes me, telling me how pleased he is, what a good girl I’ve been. My mouth curls up at the corners, my heart glowing as he praises me. He uncurls my fingers from around the balls, releases the last of my bonds, and has to prop me up to keep me from slumping to the floor.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re going to be all right.” I close my eyes, and he hoists me into his arms. His footfalls are absorbed by the rugs that usually cushion my hands and knees as he carries me upstairs to his room. My skin hits the cool clean sheets of his bed, and a blanket is pulled over me, soft and warm.

“Open up,” he urges, and then he lays a few dark chocolate chips on my tongue. I close my mouth around the sweet morsels, letting them melt where they are, the creamy sweetness coating my tongue while Hunter strokes my hair. I’m still out of it, but present enough to enjoy the affectionate gestures.

He feeds me more and presses a glass of water to my lips, keeping me snug and safe against him the whole time. I’ll get to sleep in his bed for the first time in weeks. Tonight it’s not so much a privilege I’ve earned as it is a precaution, dropped as I am, but I’ll take it. He likes me best this way: living, breathing proof of his mastery of his surroundings, a person turned to jelly by his manipulations. Though he’s done this ostensibly to punish me, he’s also done it to silence my chaotic mind, given me something to focus on other than tomorrow.

“Hunter?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you, sir.”

I’m answered by a brief press of a kiss to my forehead. “You’re welcome.”

‡

Year Four

O
w!
Son of
a—

My mother’s tugging at the waist of my bridesmaid’s dress and grazes a couple of fresh welts from the scene I had with Hunter this morning. I knew I’d feel them in the church, smarting against the hard wooden pews—my own version of a hair shirt—but this is a level of hell I hadn’t anticipated.

“Why is this riding up like this? I told you not to gain any weight after your last fitting. Christ, Indie, with a dress this color, you can’t spill out the top. You look like a burst sausage. Does anyone have an extra pair of spanx?”

I haven’t gained weight. The dress fits fine. I don’t spill out the top any more than I’m supposed to. For whatever reason, my sister’s wedding theme seems to be cream and cleavage. Except for my dress. Pink. A godawful shade of raw pork. The only comment of my mother’s I give any credence to. She yanks at the fabric again, and I inhale sharply. Mother
fuck
that hurts like a—

“And that charlatan of a makeup artist did a terrible job. You look like a street-walker and she didn’t manage to hide your nose at all.”

I roll my eyes on the inside. Yes, my horrible, hideous nose. The way my mother talks about it, you’d think I were Pinocchio or Cyrano de Bergerac. I’m not. I have the slightest bump near the bridge no one else has ever seen fit to comment on, not even Hunter and he’s got something to say about every centimeter of me. From the day I turned thirteen, she’s paraded me in front of plastic surgeons, all of whom have been professional enough to send us packing, much to her dismay.

I stand in front of the mirror and tune her out—the insults, the ravings about other people’s incompetence. With each graze of her manicured claws or wrench of the fabric, I’m reminded of this morning, just as Hunter intended. Seven more hours. I have seven more hours to suffer before I go home to him. He’ll be in a foul mood when I get there, but I don’t care. I’ll make him forget, just as he’ll erase this evening from my memory. Seven more hours.

“Mom!” Ivy shrieks from across the room.

My mother attempts to smooth my dress down, sending pain through my hips and thighs while muttering something that sounds an awful lot like
lipo
.

“You’d best suck it in for the ceremony, Indie. Don’t you dare ruin your sister’s pictures.”

With that parting shot, she’s gone.

*

The wedding goes
flawlessly, as it ought to with the amount of money my mother must have thrown at this party. Wedding planners, ateliers, anyone and everyone you could possibly hire for a wedding, my mother has. Samantha Burke’s daughter’s wedding is going to be the event of the season.

I sit at the head table, watching other people dance in their formal best. I don’t dance. I can affect poise and grace in spades while sitting or standing, but put me on a dance floor and my elegance evaporates. Probably why my mother hasn’t forced me out there. I look like a naked mole rat on ecstasy.

Ivy’s dancing with her new husband, Tucker. They really are a beautiful couple. Ivy is tall and lean, her long blonde hair piled high atop her head, her cream gown showing her willowy body off to its best advantage. Tuck’s taller by a few inches, his sepia skin glowing next to hers, set off by the black and white of his tux. They look overjoyed to be swaying in each other’s arms, Tuck periodically dipping his mouth to her ear to say something to make Ivy laugh or pressing his lips to hers for a kiss. So public. So sweet. I’m envy incarnate, the green-eyed goddess herself.

Ninety-eight percent of the time I’m satisfied with my arrangement with Hunter. We don’t have a relationship outside of the kink community and the four walls of his gracious home and that’s okay. But every once in a while, I ache for more. What I wouldn’t give to have him here, sitting beside me. He’d make caustic comments about everyone in the room, pinch and swat at me when no one was looking, and look so goddamn handsome and superior in his tux I’d let him take me on this over-set table if he demanded it.

I love Hunter, and I have no doubt he loves me. He’s impossibly attentive, he takes care of me, and he’s helped shape me into a person I like so much better than the person I was when I met him. Perhaps most importantly, he understands me.

I can’t imagine any of the earnest-to-a-fault vanilla men who’ve approached me this evening would be able to set me on fire the way Hunter does. They’d be horrified by how he treats me—the control freakery, the beatings, the crawling, the collar—but I’ve never felt so at peace. I may not enjoy everything Hunter demands, but mostly I do. And for the fraction I don’t? It’s a trade-off I’m willing to make, a part of myself I’m willing to sell to the devil if it means the tightly coiled wire in my core can loosen for days, weeks at a time. No one’s ever done that for me before.

All I have to give up is a dance—a hand warm through the fabric of my dress resting at the small of my back; a lapelled chest to lay my perfectly coiffed head against; strong arms to take some of the weight off my feet, sore from my beautiful shoes; a whispered
I love you
when the music fades. That’s all. Is that such a steep price to pay? The song ends, Tuck tips Ivy’s head up with a hand cupped at her jaw and presses a lingering kiss to her lips as my eyes water.

*

“How you doing,
Rani?”

My dad’s hands are warm on my shoulders.

“Fine.” I’m biding my time until I can get out of here. I haven’t spent this much time in direct contact with my family for years, and I’m out of practice with blunting the agony. Concentrating on the marks Hunter’s branded me with this morning by shifting in my seat is only doing so much good. They’ve dulled into a bearable ache, perversely making this more painful.

My father drops into the seat next to mine, and I can smell the gin from here. He usually sticks to vodka so as not to attract attention, but we’re at a party and he’s the father of the bride. Of course he should be allowed a few (dozen?) cocktails. At least he holds his liquor well and didn’t make an ass out of himself during the toast.

“You know that’ll be you someday.” A slight slur blurs his speech. I huff and shake my head. I don’t think so. I’ve watched my parents’ marriage. I don’t want a piece of that, thank you. And if I stay with Hunter—and I don’t know why I wouldn’t, we’ve been so happy, so satisfied with each other for four years—a wedding is not in the cards and I won’t be inviting my family to a collaring.

“It will.” He slips out of his tuxedo jacket and lays it, still warm with the heat from his body, over my shoulders, and I draw it around me. I was cold.

“Whatever.”

“I know you don’t hear this often enough and that’s my fault, but you are meant to be loved. Someday, you’re going to find someone who’s worthy of you and you’ll be happy in a way you never thought possible. Someone’s going to make your dreams come true.”

The channels in my flawed nose burn and constrict, tears threaten at the corner of my eyes. My dad doesn’t often talk to me, never has. My whole life he’s been gone a lot, doing who knows what. When he was home, he’d try to make up for it by spoiling us with treats, new toys, trips to the zoo. Ivy wasn’t so keen on it, acting too cool, but I loved spending time with him. He actually seemed to like me. If he stayed too long, he’d wear out his welcome. I’d hear my parents fighting, my mother railing against him for making us soft, turning us into puppets for affection.