Page 47 of Cruel Master

I avert my gaze to the wall, focusing on a splodge of oatmeal. “They’re cigarette burns. A session got out of hand, and…”

The hand holding my chin shakes. It’s subtle, but I feel it in my bones. I swear his voice drops another octave as he grinds out, “Who?”

I freeze. The question hangs in the air. Why does he want to know? Why does the crazy man with the resources to build an insanely realistic, custom-made prison want to know who hurt me? I can think of only one reason, but it feels ridiculous. Surely he’s not planning on taking revenge? Why would he care?

His fingers tighten on my chin. “The name, doll. Who was it?”

Is he going to hurt Trent?

And if he is, then why should I give a single fuck about it? If he hurt me, how many more women has he done it to?

A shiver tracks down my spine as a single crystal-clear image burns itself into my brain. I’ve always been able to picture things with amazing clarity when a scene comes into my head. Right now, that scene is Saldar with one booted foot pressed on Trent’s scrawny neck as Trent screams for mercy.

I’m Saldar’s captive, but having a demon on my side might work in my favor just this once.

“Trent Bartley. He lives at 15 Paul Henry Taylor Parade. Or at least he used to.”

I’ll never forget that address.

“That’s good, doll. Good.” He drops his hand to my thigh and rubs his thumb over the burn scars. This time, I don’t mind. He didn’t ask how the hell it happened or berate me for not taking precautions. He jumped straight to the right conclusion, and warmth spreads through me as he traces the circular marks.

It’s gentle, and I don’t want it to end.

When he stands, my heart sinks. He’s leaving me alone again. Too soon. Maybe I should ask him to stay.

Are you fucking crazy?

Right. Captor. Of course.

“Be good, doll. I’ll see you soon.”

My skin still tingles as he sweeps from the room. Maybe Trent is going to get a visitor.

Good.

Chapter Nineteen

Hadrian

Ithurtstoleaveher alone after what she just told me, but Doctor Richard was correct. The exertion from my “strenuous activity” left me drained, and collapsing on Juliet’s floor wouldn’t exactly play into the image I’m trying to create. By the time I shower and change, my hands are shaking.

I grab a Dr Pepper and a protein bar from the fridge and sit on the small sofa to eat them.

Trent Bartley.

She described it as a session that got out of control, but the way she flinched when I touched the burns told me everything I needed to know. He did that without her consent. Of course he fucking did. Even Juliet wouldn’t want to be permanently burned.

I picture it, some faceless asshole laughing as he presses a cigarette onto Juliet’s soft skin. Her screaming and begging him to stop. The rage that sears my body has me shaky all over again, despite the food and drink renewing my energy.

How dare he. How fucking dare he do that to her!

And what you’re doing is so much better?

I don’t shrink from the question, hard as it is not to. Am I just as bad as Trent Bartley? Am I worse? He scarred her. I’ve taken her freedom.

And if you hadn’t, she’d probably have ended up getting murdered.

I don’t know enough about what happened with Trent yet to know if she put herself in a bad position. But it doesn’t matter if she did. There are predators everywhere. I can give her all the fear and punishment she craves but will never damage her. She’s mine to protect as well as torment.