Page 69 of Vengeance of Childhood Proportions (Till Death Do Us Part #7)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Mal

What’s the saying? Go big or go home? Well, they went big.

The field agents I had assigned to Atelihai Valley, as well as myself, were brought back to Juneau.

My entire murder board was taken down and the conference room was now for ‘case agents’ only.

The new asshole I was given a few days ago got a brother when my incompetence was listed as the sole reason the Atelihai Killer had not been apprehended yet, but I was not the sort to just bend over and take it.

I was now suspended for three weeks without pay pending an investigation. Carr swore he’d try to get me back sooner, but only I wasn’t sure I cared.

Holly Marteen was alive and not a single person believed me. Even Mira told me that my witness was unreliable and the picture I had of Holly in 2013 was not enough proof just because the brunette was reading a book.

Well, fuck them. I didn’t need a badge or a team to find Holly Marteen. I was going to find her myself. I just had no idea what I was going to do once I did.

My little owl arrived at my house just before dinner was delivered. I was in the middle of fucking her up against the wall by my front door when our food arrived, and was still inside her when I opened the door to receive the bag from the stunned driver.

Despite that the first time I’d ever fucked her had been from behind, I hadn’t taken her that way again.

Things were so different with my little owl.

Even without the bondage or impact play, I wanted to know about her.

I wanted to be with her constantly. I let her sleep in my bed and I fucking loved kissing her.

Hell, we were talking about going on a vacation!

There was no way around it: I was fucking whipped. Me! Master David wasn’t the only one who could hardly believe I’d put a collar on a submissive.

The fact that I’d taken her as soon as she’d walked through the door, without foreplay, without staging a scene, without making her kneel , was all the evidence I needed that I was falling for my little owl.

And when she cried, “Master!” at the top of her lungs as we both came? I just about came a second time.

Both sweaty and panting with her back still to the wall of my foyer and my deflating cock inside her, we stared at one another.

I moved strands of her blonde wig out of her face.

The words I’d never said before to a woman were right on the tip of my tongue.

I didn’t know what stopped me. I wasn’t the sort to hesitate.

I said what I meant and meant what I said.

I wrapped a lock of the blonde wig around my finger.

Maybe that was what was stopping me. What did I really know about my little owl?

So much had happened that it seemed like such a long time, but it was really only a week ago that she’d removed her mask for me for the first time.

Less than that that I had known her real name.

I had never seen her eyes without contacts, never seen her head without a wig.

She worked as an artist, but I didn’t know what she made or what medium she used. How bad of an investigator was I that I’d never bothered to ask?

Was I more in love with her submission than I was with her as a person?

Who was Phoebe Snetsinger?

From the beginning, I had been obsessed with her.

I’d tracked her down at the club, fed my fixation for her body.

And once I had her in the palm of my hand, I gripped tight and hadn’t let go.

It was like I needed her more than I needed to get to know her.

I knew things , little tidbits I’d picked up on, as well as that one fact she was required to tell me about herself each day.

Bending, I kissed her sweaty forehead. “Join me for a shower, then we’ll pile pillows and blankets in the living room and eat in front of the fire.”

Her smile widened. “Why, Master, that sounds utterly romantic.”

I nipped her bottom lip. “It comes at a cost, pet.” I pulled her wig. “This comes off.”

Her cheeks paled and her eyes widened. “Wh-what?” she stuttered. She shimmied a little, like she wanted to get down, but I held on tight. She knew the words to say if she needed to truly escape.

“Pet, stop and look at me.” It took her a moment to calm. When she finally lifted her eyes, her breathing was ragged. “Why do you wear it?”

She shook her head, looking away. “You said you were fine with me?—”

“Eyes on me,” I snapped.

Her contacts looked up at me. They were a light brown, almost bronze, today. I had no doubt that her pupils were wider than they looked under the fake irises. “Master, I…” She swallowed but did not shield her gaze.

“Why?” I demanded. “Give me a reason and I’ll let it be. Why do you wear the wigs? Were you sick? You have natural hair elsewhere. Did something happen to your head hair? Why, pet? Just give me a reason.”

Tears formed but did not fall. She gasped out. “I can’t look at you, Sir. Please don’t make me look at you.”

My chest hurt at the request, but I honored her need. Carefully, I extracted myself from inside her and lowered her feet to the ground. As I stepped back, I took hold of the used condom so it didn’t fall.

My little owl righted her clothing. She even put her shoes back on. However, I did not. I tied off the condom and tossed it onto my discarded shirt and pants on the floor. I’d take care of it later. Our food was still in the delivery bag in front of the door, where I’d dropped it unceremoniously.

She looked like she was getting ready to run. Antsy and jumpy, she was so different than the woman who’d leapt into my arms upon me opening the door.

“Little Owl—” But she held her hand up to stop me. I would have reprimanded her for that, but her hand was shaking so badly, it looked like it was attached to a motor.

“I have to go.” She turned to leave.

“No.” The word was not a panicked, desperate plea made out of fear, but a sharp, stern demand.

She froze, half turned towards the door. “Excuse me?”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s one, pet. Want to try that again?”

She swallowed hard. “Sir, I wish to leave. May I?”

“No.”

She turned towards me, her eyes narrowed in a glare.

“That’s two, pet.” I crossed my arms over my bare chest. “Are you going to make it three?”

Her nostrils flared, and for a moment, I actually thought she was going to.

Then she sank to her knees before me, her elbow hitting the bag that held our dinner.

She was not in a formal position, too slumped over for that.

But it looked like she had her arms wrapped around her stomach, as if needing to hold herself together.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she sniffled. “I panicked. I’m sorry.”

I held my ground, despite that all I wanted to do was to take her into my arms. But she didn’t need soft and comforting right now. She needed strength and guidance. “Tell me why you wanted to run, pet.”

“I don’t want to tell you, Sir. I don’t want you to…” She curled into herself. “I don’t want you to pity me.”

Shit. I’d suspected, since the day she told me that bondage and being taken from behind were hard limits for her. Add in the fact that she naturally compartmentalized pain? Yeah, I knew what she was going to say.

One in four. Fuck, those were horrible odds.

Did I pity her? No. I was angry on her behalf, wanted to murder her assaulter, but I didn’t pity her.

She was too strong for that. Look at what she’d overcome.

We’d been having sex for weeks. And the way she submitted?

The way she succumbed to the lust between us?

It was utterly breathtaking. She was far too beautiful, too spirited, to cower.

“Stand.”

She jumped. Startled, her eyes wide, she looked up at me. “What?”

“That’s three,” I held up my fingers. “Stand or I double it.”

My little owl leapt to her feet. Her movements were not as graceful as they normally were and she was still shaking slightly. Though her head was tipped downward, her eyes landed on me.

I nodded my approval. “Good girl. Let’s hope you don’t make it to four before this conversation is done.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she kept her mouth shut.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see power. I see passion . I see the same woman who held her chin up as she dared to drink a sip of a Dirty Shirley, even though she doesn’t like alcohol. I feel a lot of things when I look at you, Phoebe Snetsinger, but none of them are pity .”

She winced, and her eyes left mine. “I don’t like it when you call me that, Sir.”

I stepped forward, placing my fingers under her chin to tip her face up towards mine.

“I know. And to be honest, I have gotten so used to calling you ‘my little owl’ that your name felt weird on my tongue, too. But it doesn’t change my original order, pet.

You know what to do to make me stop. Until then, I am in charge.

You gave me that authority when I put that collar around your throat.

Now, you have three choices: one, take off your wig; two, give me a reason why you can’t; or three, use your safe word. The choice is yours, pet.

“What will it be?”