Page 9 of Break Me

There’s no way I’m eating that. He’ll have to shove my head into it or beat me.

God, I hope he won’t do that.

Dax shows no signs of violence as we wait. Nor even impatience. He simply sits there with his arms crossed, feet wide apart and planted firmly on the ground as he watches me. I don’t glance up again, but I feel the weight of his gaze like an invisible force, prickling at my skin and weighing down on my shoulders.

I have no idea how many minutes pass—ten, maybe twenty. When he finally breaks the harrowing silence, my legs are twitching and my feet are going numb.

“Look at me.”

I peer up but shoot my eyes straight back down, shaking my head. I can’t face him. His eyes are too sharp. Too demanding.

He leans down to unlock the chain from the floor ring. Gripping it close to the collar, he pulls my head up and deepens his voice. “Look at me.”

His rumbling tone prompts my instant obedience.

“Don’t you dare lower your eyes,” he says, narrowing his eyes in a hard expression that sends a rush of ice through my veins. I want to crumble beneath him, but it’s not in a fearful way that makes me close in on myself. I just want to crumble—give in to his powerful presence. But I can’t even do that. The sheer demand in his face has me locked in place. I blink my eyes repeatedly, but it offers no relief. His eyes keep boring into me, deeper and deeper, and my mind feels like it’s about to cave in under the pressure. I can’t think. I can’t move. All I can do is keep watching until I’m trembling beneath the intensity, my breaths coming in heavy drags.

“Are you ready to eat?” he finally asks.

Pressing my lips together, I nod. I barely know what I’m agreeing to; all I know is that he wants me to.

“Good. Then bow your head and obey.”

With a staggered exhale, I bend forward, leaning my elbows on each side of the bowl—between his boots. Sticking out my tongue, I lap up the first small mouthful, then pause.

“Keep going,” Dax urges several times as I repeatedly pause. After the fifth mouthful, he says, “I’m not gonna tell you to eat again.”

There’s no threat in his voice, but I know nothing good will happen if I pause again, so I eat at a continuous pace, lapping up the sauce and the smaller vegetables. When I get to the larger pieces of meat, I struggle to get them into my mouth without making a big mess. I’m about to lift my hand and wipe my cheek when the meat slips and smears sauce across the side of my mouth, but Dax stops me.

“Uh-uh,” he reprimands, moving his boots onto my hands. “No touching your face.”

I release a staggered whimper as I keep going, curling my fingers against the cold floor as I struggle with the rest of the portion, getting sauce on my cheeks, nose, and chin.

“That’s it,” Dax praises, leaning down to pet me behind my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut in shame, but as he keeps scratching the back of my ear and rubbing my head, I sink into a strange place—not quite accepting but not quite rejecting. I hover somewhere in between, wanting to stop the humiliation but also wanting to keep going to receive his affection.

When the bowl is finally empty, half my face is smeared with sauce.

“Sit up straight,” Dax demands.

I do as he says, though keeping my head down.

“Straight,” he corrects with a warning.

Clenching my hands in my lap, I close my eyes and lift my head.

“Such a mess you’ve made,” he tuts. But there’s no harsh disapproval. It’s more like he’s simply shaking his head at a dog that can’t help itself. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He goes to soak a cloth in the sink across the room. I expect cold water as he returns and presses the terry cloth to my mouth, but it’s nice and warm as he gently wipes it across my face, cleaning the mess I’ve made. I feel oddly cared for, and my head is in a weird daze that clouds the fear.

Once my face is clean, he removes the collar and says, “This is only for training purposes. I will give you something else to remind you of your place.”

He turns his gaze toward the exam table with the stirrups and all the straps, and a foreboding sense rumbles in my stomach.

6

DAX

“Get in the chair,” I tell her after having washed her face and removed the collar. Her movements are still nervous as she stands, but her fearful eyes have softened somewhat. I’m not convinced yet—she could simply be overwhelmed and confused—but I think it might be submission.