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From where we knelt, Chloe apparently oblivious, though as time went on (supposedly; it might have been stuck), I saw her tremble slightly. It was faint. But it was there.
At twenty minutes, or whatever he judged sufficient, Claude rose and came to us. He put a hand out to me first, and having no clue, I took it, my head down, my gaze at my own feet. If I looked at his, I'd think of stomping on them in my Doc’s. He helped me to my feet, then helped up his wife.
I didn't know what to do with myself once I was standing. I didn't dare look at him. The desire to stomp on his sock-clad feet had morphed into a desire hit him in the face. He'd seemed a decent if insane man at the dinner parties but now I hated him. My knees, already traumatized by age twenty-four because of TaeKwon-Do and running, felt like twin cages of fire and nails. My arms shook. I was cold.
"I've had you before, haven't I?" Claude wondered and then my eyes really did flick to meet his. Was he crazy? What a thing to ask! He'd fucked me with his wife lying in the same bed after one of the worst experiences of my life.
At the time St. Martin wasn't letting me into his bed. He still rarely did. It seemed that was too intimate a thing for him, too close to emotion.
Sleeping between Claude and Chloe had been comforting when I was hurt and scared. Now he acted like he didn't know he'd slept with me?
It was acting. It was an act. Whatever it was meant to do, it just made me angry. "Yes, sir," I said, and swallowed down the pain. Because it was Cole St. Martin's fault. Every bit of this.
Not yours? Asked the impossibly helpful voice in my mind. Not yours and your addictions and your inability to tell your father or your fiancé that you had slipped and fallen? Your inability to ask for help?
My attention snapped back to Claude because he stepped up close to me, sniffing at my hair. That was disturbing. I held still, like he was a rabid dog who might bite, and he laughed to himself under his breath, then reached out and cupped my breast in one hand, his thumb flicking over the nipple.
Abruptly he pulled away. "Go dress for dinner," he told us, and Chloe took my hand and led me to her room.
The instant we were inside, she shut the door so gingerly and carefully I knew she wasn't supposed to close it at all. It sneacked into place nearly silently and she whirled on me.
"You have got to get yourself under control!"
"I'm angry!" I said, frustrated, and at that instant felt completely naked and furious about it. The blush seemed to spread full body. "What can I wear?"
She looked like that was the least important thing we needed to consider, then gestured to the closet. "Whatever you like. He just wants us not naked. I mean, not jeans. But..." She waved her hand again.
I looked at her. "You're kidding, right? I'm bigger than you!" Not one of those things that I should have to point out. Like, I've got a head full of dark curls and Chloe has long beautiful blonde hair. Not that I don't like my curls, but everything about Chloe always looked put together. And I liked being taller and stronger and having muscle but if I tried to fit into her clothes...
"Relax," she said, and she was the Chloe from the morning. "Cole sent over stuff. Your size. Even some in your taste for when Claude's not home."
Just like that I had a glimpse of the woman who had managed to raise two children while living a BDSM relationship with her husband. Maybe. Or maybe they started once the children were grown.
"Can I ask you something?" I was poking through the closet, looking for something that that would politely scream Keep your fucking hands off me. Sir.
Chloe didn't play any word games or hedge. "Sure."
Back on PD, I worked with guys. Guy-type guys. Cops are very alpha. And when I was undercover, I worked with bikers and bad guys and dicks and the occasional confused male who nonetheless was being a dick in his actions. I had no problem being indiscreet. I was straightforward and I'd learned, at least with the guys, not to let too many things rattle me. Probably because at PD nobody was apt to strip me naked and stick me in a stress pose.
What they would do was respond to some real or imagined slight by saying something completely unallowed like, Geez, what's your problem, Knox? Your time of the month? When I was in high school and the little bit of college I had, that made me cringe. Once I started working with PD, I just responded, "No. Is it yours?"
But talking to Chloe, I felt my way. Cautiously. Thoughtfully. Maybe because I cared about her or maybe because it was personal.
Whatever.
"Did you really raise your family while... " I gestured and when she didn't hear the end of the sentence, Chloe turned to see what I was talking about.
And laughed.
"Did I raise my sons while living as a slave to Claude? Yes." She smiled. "Their mother had been a dancer so the idea of her sitting on the floor a lot didn't seem strange to them. Everyone took off their shoes in the house, not just the mother their father wanted to control. So that wasn't strange. If occasionally mom winced when she had to sit on a wooden chair, well, to be honest? They were boys. By the time we were really established, they were teenage boys. I was the mother of teenage boys."
I shook my head. So?
Chloe laughed. "I couldn't have gotten any less cool or less interesting if I actually tried. Believe me, the slave thing flew under their radar."
I almost asked, but then I didn't. The question didn't need Chloe to answer. The same way she'd been normal for her boys, she'd be normal – a judgmental word, but after a year of living with sadists, normal was attractive and normal was not what these people were – when we were alone together. Add Claude into the mix, and we were – what? Rivals? Or just not friends. Two slaves who had to act accordingly.
That was fine. This was her world. My issue was with St. Martin. With, if necessary, giving him the time that Chloe seemed to think he needed, and then getting back to him because for now, Cole was home and I felt in need of home.
