Page 12 of Break Me
I realize I must have said the words out loud as the man at my side grabs my chin softly. “What’s that?”
Lifting my gaze, I stare into a pair of stark blue eyes that watch me like I’m something beyond the barren emptiness I feel. Something worth noticing.
My eyes feel dead as I give voice to the words. “Dax zero, zero, one.”
Dax sinks to his haunches beside the tub. “That’s right. You’re mine.” His eyes fill with warmth—a warmth that doesn’t go with the coldness of the words and the emptiness lodged inside me.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something.” Lifting my arm, I watch the numbers intently and shake my head. “I’m nothing. You’ve reduced me to nothing.”
“You’re not nothing.” He takes my chin and looks deep into my eyes.“You’re gonna be a very precious submissive who will please a lucky master very much.”
“Submissive.What does that even mean?” I know the common meaning, and I even know it in a sexual sense—a person who gives up control and lets her partner spank her and tie her up. But when Dax says the word, it seems to hold so much more.
“A submissive is someone who enjoys giving up control. No,needsto give up control. She might not realize it at first—like you—until someone or something sparks it in her. But she won’t be truly happy until she finds it and embraces it. When she does, she’ll find peace in letting go—giving up control and being led by a firm hand. But true submission can’t be forced. It requires trust and a dominant strong enough to carry the responsibility of her surrender.”
“I’m never going to trust you.” It’s not an accusation; it’s just a fact.
“Trust comes in many different shapes and forms.” He grabs a sponge and dips it into the water, squeezing it a few times to soak it through.
I shake my head. “No matter how you spin it, there’s no way I’ll ever trust a man who keeps me captive and—” I swallow hard to force back the grief that threatens to send tears to my eyes. “I can’t ever trust a man who marks me as property. A man who runs a place like this.”
Placing a hand on my shoulder, he starts gliding the sponge over my chest and stomach, washing me with gentle motions. “You can’t trust me to treat you like an equal and let you set your own boundaries. But you can learn to trust that I won’t hurt you and—”
“You’ve already done that,” I interject.
Pausing the sponge at my waist, he silences me with a finger on my lips. “You can learn to trust that I won’t hurt you physically. At least not irrevocably. And you can learn to trust that I’ll keep you safe where it counts.” He wrings the wet sponge in the water and takes up washing me again. “What you’re feeling right now won’t last. It will fade as I build you up and give you a new purpose.”
Hopelessness has tears spilling from my eyes as I shake my head. “How can you say that? You don’t even know me. You can’t just mold a person into anything you like.”
“I know enough to know your potential, and I know that submission is a powerful thing.AndI’ve trained enough women to know they all eventually cave in. The how and when only depend on their potential and the method.” He runs the sponge deeper into the water, leaning over the side as he drags it over my legs, chasing away the numbness and loosening my stiff muscles with the soft motions.
But the emptiness remains stuck inside me as I say, “You might break me, but you can’t make me submit.”
“You don’t have to believe it right now.” He sets the sponge aside and wraps a gentle hand around the back of my neck, pressing lightly forward. “Hold your breath.”
Closing my eyes, I draw in a breath and pinch my nose. Dax guides me into the water and rubs his fingers through my hair to wet it thoroughly. The firm motions are soothing, and so is the warm water enveloping me, yet I can’t hold back more protests as he lets me come back up.
“You can’t just—” I start, but he stops me.
“Uh, uh. No more questions.”
Clenching my jaw, I stare into the water. But it’s hard to hold on to my resistance as he lathers shampoo into my hair, massages my scalp, and rubs my nape as he goes. My tight muscles and frazzled mind beckon me to give in and take the offered comfort. I’m starved for it, and as he moves behind me, out of my sight, to grab the handheld shower and rinse my hair, I forget who is rubbing my scalp and smoothing the hair out of my face. So I sink deeper into the water and allow myself this brief moment of calmness, knowing it might be the only one I’ll get for a long while.
8
EMMA
Feet thud and scrape against the gravelly ground, and chains rattle as the line of people marches forward at a staggered pace. The air reeks of smoke and sweat, and my nostrils burn from the upheaval of dust. Tall fences with spirals of barbed wire rise to my left, and long gray barracks form endless lines of despair to my right.
The black-and-white striped pajamas of the marching people create a monochrome vision beneath the scorching sun, and the bald heads and gaunt faces pale the picture with haunting despair.
I draw back as the woman beside me turns her head and stares at me with empty, protruding eyes, but the chains around my feet lock me into place, forcing me to trudge on beside her. Averting my gaze instead, I look down at myself and find my body covered in black and white stripes too. With horror speeding up my pulse, I glide my hands over my head, feeling only the scratchy texture of shaved hair.
Panicked, I scrape my hands along my bald head as I watch the small hut in the distance. The scent of smoke sharpens with each approaching step, and I watch as uniformed men herd the line of people inside.