Page 21 of Bottoms Up (Mythic Beast #4)

Silver

The first two months were absolutely worse for Julian than me, but I’m pretty sure they were hell for both of us.

I didn’t get a single good night’s sleep those first eight weeks.

Even when Julian was locked in his compartment, I’d lie awake going over the day in my head, looking for signs I’d miscalculated — that I’d pushed too hard or not hard enough.

That I was turning into the kind of Master I swore I’d never be.

But every morning he rose, met my gaze, got into position for discipline when he saw the implement I’d chosen, and when I finished the strokes and gave him leave to move out of position, he knelt and thanked me for caring enough to see to his training — and I’d never told him to do that.

He did it of his own accord. Every time.

I had to find the strength to see this through because there was no other option.

We were both depending on me. If I went too soft and he fucked up without the discipline he needed, I’d never forgive myself, so I stood firm.

Even when I wanted to throw the whip down and soothe him.

On his second day belonging to me, we’d set up joint checking and savings accounts for him, so we were both signatories. I could log in and see all transactions, though he could not, at first. I showed him the status after every deposit Marco made into his account, but he didn’t have direct access.

On his second month anniversary, I gave him full access to his accounts, including the debit card that went with the checking account.

I also supervised while he set up accounts in his name at the two biggest online retailers, and I told him he could spend a combined two hundred dollars per calendar month without needing to ask permission. If he wanted to spend more, he’d need authorization from me.

After a long discussion with Marco about my options, I let Julian know he was back on the regular flock rotation.

What I didn’t tell him was that Marco had brought the flock members in he specifically wanted to rotate Julian through — people our slaveboy would be tempted to break the rules with.

This was about teaching him to make good decisions, even when doing so is hard.

I didn’t want to set him up to fail, but I also wanted to make sure he was appropriately challenged.

And so, all flock members on his schedule for the next six weeks were those who had specific rules they had and hadn’t agreed to. It would be up to Julian to read their files and follow their directives.

I debated about whether it was time to drop morning discipline.

On the one hand, his days were mostly normal now, other than the cock cage and being naked, but the routine was that of someone with a job, rather than that of a slave.

He’d probably earned the right to lose it, but because his days were so normal, it felt important he still have a daily reminder of his status.

Also, now that he was back to getting sixteen to twenty-four ounces of blood per day, the damage was fully healed every evening when he rose — a blank canvas for me to decorate all over again.

Marco had suggested I allow others to handle his morning discipline, suggesting Adelaide would be happy to help, but no way in Hell was I letting her anywhere near my Julian with a whip. No fucking way.

I understood Marco’s point. Owners can loan their slaves out, but I wasn’t interested in doing that. Fuck , I’d taken on the damned role in the first place to keep someone else from pushing him too hard and breaking him. Why would I loan him out?

In the end, I decided the rising discipline should stay — a daily reminder of what was at stake, of why it’s important to make good decisions.

At three months, he took and passed his driver’s license test. Mostly, he needed it for ID purposes, but we sent him with security, who waited outside while he went inside and dealt with the DMV all by himself.

It was his first time navigating bureaucracy without a handler, and I told him how pleased I was with his progress.

I stopped his rising discipline at four months, changing it to weekly discipline, every Tuesday morning. Our weekly conversations about how he handled the previous week, and identifying challenges in the coming week, happened on Saturdays, and it felt right to put some distance between the two.

As we neared five months, he was allowed four hundred dollars per month on his debit card without permission. So far, he’d handled his finances appropriately, and he’d exactly toed the line with the flock — even the ones Marco felt might test his discipline.

Dr. Woods felt we needed to send him out on his own more. The catch, however, was that he can’t go out without security. He’s too valuable to Marco, and since he wasn’t powerful on his own, he needed guards to keep him safe.

Six months earlier, I’d commissioned a custom guitar from a luthier in Vegas, and the timing lined up perfectly: the guitar was ready, and Julian needed a challenge. I decided to send him to pick it up — and to have some fun while he was there.

As instructed, he sent me a proposed itinerary: three shows he wanted to attend, and a trip to one of the legal brothels. He’d stay in a vampire-safe room at the hotel run by the Master Vampire of Vegas.

I added up everything he wanted to do, including the price for Heather to fly him out and back, the cost of the room, and payment to feed from the Master Vampire of Vegas’ flock.

He’d also have to purchase tickets for his security to get into the shows with him, though Marco would reimburse him.

I asked Marco how that would work at the brothel, and he said it would be fine for them to wait outside.

Most of Julian’s money was moved straight to savings, so I put three thousand more than I figured he’d need into his checking account, and emailed him approval for everything he’d requested, with instructions not to go over the amount available.

He was responsible for making all arrangements, including security.

Marco pays for protection, since Julian only needs it because of his job, but he’d still have to make the arrangements.

* * * *

Julian

Silver was giving me too many new abilities, or responsibilities, or whatever . More decisions to make, more chances to fuck up. My opinions mattered now, which sounded good on paper, but less so when I had to choose flooring samples.

I had to redecorate my suite from scratch.

Furniture, wall color, rugs, artwork. I walked through showrooms surrounded by endless options.

How could I possibly choose? It was like trying to build a personality out of catalog pages.

My surroundings had never been my choice before.

I’d never developed a style. Never considered the possibility of doing so.

When I saw a sample room I liked, with sturdy furniture big enough for my frame, I chose it. All of it. Rugs, tables, sofa, chairs, pictures for the walls. I only needed to choose a wall color similar to what the furniture store had used, and hardwood flooring I thought would work.

The trip to Vegas was worse. Stressful as hell. Technically, I wasn’t alone — security was with me — but they followed my lead instead of giving it. I made the schedule, and if I wanted to change something, I just… could. No one stopped me. It was terrifying.

And then picking up the guitar — fuck . Silver had said it wasn’t so much the cost, but the fact he’d had to wait so long for it to be ready.

I’d looked this guy up online, though, and discovered the cost was pretty astronomical.

I carried it like it was a newborn child, terrified I’d drop it or do something wrong.

All the crushing micromanagement that had been so soul-encompassing back in the beginning was gone.

No more cock cage, no more daily whippings, no more collar, no more waiting for permission to leave my hidey-hole.

If I’m honest, I’d say I miss being told what to do — the safety of knowing what’s expected, but I understand that free people have to make decisions about pretty much everything.

They have to figure their own lives out.

Silver is still my Master, but also adviser, confidante, and as much my friend as possible, under the circumstances.

Not lover, though. She orders me to pleasure her orally, but she doesn’t allow me to fuck her.

I never have permission to come when I service her, but I’m allowed to ask for permission to masturbate when my work isn’t behind, and she most often lets me.

She makes me do it in front of her, but she allows it.

We aren’t lovers right now, but I know we will be again, so it’s okay. I still get to spend time with her nearly every day — except when she sends me off on assignments.

What I didn’t expect, two weeks shy of the nine months this was supposed to take, was that when Marco took me to Memphis for a routine session of the Senatus, he’d have strangers plunk me into a silver-laced jail cell, and my final testing would begin.

Not to mention, I’d fed when rising the previous day, and there hadn’t been time to stop and feed on this day, so I was hungry to start with.

The test I’d taken while Silver was gone, before the new contract had changed everything, had proven I could be around humans.

There were situations designed to trick me into showing myself, so I had to allow myself to be hurt rather than run faster-than-human, or defend myself against thugs only as much as a human my size could, careful not to do something impossible .

There was a test to make sure I had control and wouldn’t drink humans down if we were stuck in an elevator, and some social situations to navigate so I didn’t give myself away.

Three days and part of a fourth, and it was hard, but I’d managed it, and Marco had someone sit with me for two days to help me prepare for it.

But this one, they just shoved me into a room with no explanation. I wasn’t given time to mentally prepare, or to talk to anyone about how best to survive the ordeal.

Silver flecks laced the floor, the ceiling, every wall — burning every cell in my body. No escape.

I have no idea how long I was there before a terrified man was tossed in, his scent lighting up every inch of my hunger. Fucking Fae, of course. Sweet and decadent. A drug I couldn’t have.

Aos Sí, the most populous race in Faerie, are like crack cocaine to vampires — high-octane and magic-laced, bright as the sun on the back of your tongue. It took every ounce of my being to keep my fangs from dropping.

I gritted my teeth and told him, “I need you to get against the wall, please. I have to stay in the center of the room, and I need to be as far from you as possible. Please, please , I’m begging you, stay behind me and as far away as possible.”

They didn’t stop with him.

One by one, shifters were sent in, giving me a chance to fully experience each one’s special flavor, their terror, their racing pulse.

Before it was over, three men and two women, all either half-fae or full-shifter, were crammed into the tiny cell with me.

I couldn’t avoid touching them. Their body heat pressed against me constantly, their pulses throbbed like bass lines under their skin.

I stopped breathing to try to keep from smelling them, but it barely helped.

Their scents coated my sinuses, soaked into the walls.

I could taste them just by opening my mouth.

The shifters were sent in with their hands bound behind their backs, except the last, who was in a severe hog-tie when someone opened the door and settled him just inside.

He was a werewolf, and fuck , did he smell good. Earthy and hot and wild. Blood thick with power and dominance. Even bound, he looked at me with an arrogance that made me want to tear him open and drink straight from the source.

I believe those five were sent in over a twenty-four-hour period. They all pissed themselves at some point, and I assume they were given enemas beforehand, to keep them from shitting in the small cell, since none did.

They came in staggered across that night, and then the next evening and night. The first three were taken out when the sun took me, but sent back in when I rose the next day, with another being shoved in about an hour later, and the final one an hour or so later.

When they were finally all taken out, I thought my ordeal was over. But then the sun took me.

And when I rose, I was alone. No voices, no movement. Just silver-lined silence. The sun took me again. And again.

Three full days, alone in that box, starving. My skin barely hung on my bones. The silver poisoned my very essence. My gums bled on the second day.

The third day, I could feel my heart misfiring — skipping, fluttering, lagging. Marco had blocked me from drawing from him, so I couldn’t pull from him to stay alive.

And then, just after I rose on the fourth day, an absolutely terrified bear shifter was pushed in, and the door locked behind him.

He hit the floor hard and stayed there, breathing fast through his nose. Terrified. His arms were bound behind his back, ankles shackled together with only a few inches of chain, and he wore a bracelet to keep him from changing .

And fuck me , my second favorite shifter to drink from is pretty much any kind of bear. I most love jaguars and cheetahs, but bears are right up there.

Someone had sliced him open in several places, and his blood was thick on the air, like spiced honey. It coated my throat from scent alone. I could already taste him, already feel how it would power me up.

And I was down to skin and bones, close to death. I could feel my heart skipping. The silver poisoning was in every cell, burning me from the inside out, and I was a dried-up husk, without fluids to hydrate me or blood to power me.

But I knew Marco wouldn’t let me die, and I knew if I drank from the bear, it’d probably be another three to five hundred years before I had a chance to try for my freedom again.

So I kept my eye on the motherfucking bear because I didn’t trust him at my back, but I wasn’t going to feed from him.

The silver hurt him, too, but I still made him sit off to the side while I took the center.

I had to go into his mind and plant a memory of me kicking him in the nuts to get him to move closer to the silver, but it worked.

And right when I was about to pass out and lose consciousness, the door opened and someone in a head-to-toe protective suit stepped in.