Page 8 of Break Me
Between the restless nights and my daytime sleeping, I lose track of time. I think five days have passed when someone finally comes to take me out of the windowless cell for something that’s not a hose-down, but it might as well be three or seven.
The guard takes me to the medical room, where Dax awaits. Unlike the first time, he doesn’t seem bored, and instead of looking through me with an indifferent expression, his eyes are sharp and assertive as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks me over. Even his posture seems a bit taller today.
I want to draw back and cower under the weight of his attention, but somehow, I remain in place, though with my head lowered and hands clutching each other.
“She looks thin,” he says to the guard who brought me here. “Have you fed her?”
“Three times a day, but she won’t eat, and Mikhail told us not to beat her.”
“And you couldn’t come up with other ways?” Dax says with an irritated edge and adds under his breath, “Goddamn incompetence.”
Dax’s military boots thud against the smooth stone floor as he closes the distance and stops in front of me. Like he did the last time, he presses the back of his hand to my chest.
“Goddammit!” he erupts, removing his hand. “Didn’t Mikhail tell you to take care of her? She’s freezing.”
“We—” The guard is about to say something, but Dax cuts him off.
“Get out!” he barks, pointing at the door. “I don’t want to see you any-fucking-where near her again.”
The guard hurries out, and I can’t hold on to my bravery anymore. I retreat a step, my shoulders drawing in even as Trevor’s irritated voice runs through my mind, berating me for cowering. But I just can’t remain upright in the face of all that anger. Squeezing my eyes shut, I draw back further, expecting some kind of violence.
I jump when he touches my arm. But there’s no brutality. He simply wraps his hand around my biceps in a gentle grip. “Come.”
He leads me toward the desk and gestures to a flat pillow on the floor. “Kneel on this.”
He keeps me steady with his hand around my arm as he helps me to my knees. Then he pulls the rolling chair over and perches on it in front of me. Taking my chin between his calloused fingers, he guides my attention up to him.
“Have you ever submitted to a man before?”
I shake my head.
“Good. I like to work with a clean slate.” He studies me for a moment before adding, “I’m gonna teach you how to be a good submissive. If I succeed, we’ll find a good master for you, who will uphold my training.” His mouth twists. “I’m not gonna let my hard work go to waste by selling you off to the highest bidder at auction.”
I want to ask what happens if he doesn’t succeed, but I can’t find the courage.
Turning to the desk, he picks up a black item made of leather. “I have made something to help the training along.”
It’s a collar, I realize, as he holds the thickly padded leather before me. A wide leather band with thick padding on the inside and four metal rings on the outside.
“Hold up your hair and bow your head,” he instructs.
Gingerly, I gather my hair and lower my head. The leather is soft and smooth as it touches my skin, but the feeling is oppressive as he wraps it all the way around my neck. There’s no buckle, only two ends that he clicks into each other. It doesn’t press on my windpipe, but the fit is snug—a constant reminder of my lowly position. A collared animal. Property.
“Release your hair and lift your head.” Dax grabs my chin again and turns my head from side to side, leaning back to take in the full vision. “Perfect fit,” he says with a smile before releasing me. Turning to take something from a drawer, he continues, “I can’t wait to put it to its full use, but we’ll wait a bit with that.” He snaps a chain to the front ring with a small padlock, then attaches the other end to a metal ring screwed into the floor, allowing me just enough room to stay in position, but not enough to move back.
Watching me like I’m a piece of handiwork he has just finished, he picks up his phone and calls someone.
“Bring me some beef stew—in one of the new bowls,” he says, then hangs up. Getting up, he points a finger at me. “Stay.”
He goes about retrieving different things from drawers and cupboards, placing them on the rolling table close to the exam table. Paper rips and plastic crackles as he goes, and then there’s some clicking and buzzing.
I don’t lift my head to see what he’s doing, afraid he’ll get mad and afraid to see what horror awaits me. So I keep my head down, frozen in place as I suppress the pounding need to fight or flee that rages inside me. I barely move a muscle when someone enters the room and sets something on the desk.
Dax retakes his seat on the chair before me, and my eyes widen, my pulse thrumming hard, as he sets a dog bowl full of beef stew between his feet.
“We’re not going anywhere until you’ve finished the whole bowl.”
Clenching my jaw, I glance up with a protest hovering at the tip of my tongue. But the sight of his crossed arms, bulging muscles, and piercing eyes has me swallowing the words and staring back down at the food.