Page 14 of Winter’s Fire

Her attention boomeranged back to the photo, a subject far more worthy of inspection. The shot was of five young men, head to waist, all dressed in grubby, rumpled camouflage gear. Second from the right was unmistakably Logan, looking young and relaxed… and free of whatever demons now plagued him. He wasn’t so different from her brothers—or hadn’t been, when this was taken. What would it have been like to have met him back then, before whatever had introduced that daunting darkness into his life?

Lucy returned to the kitchen and offered Logan the envelope. He took it from her, tore it in half and half again, and without missing a beat, dropped the pieces into the bin. Open-mouthed, she stared at him, unable to articulate her total bewilderment at what had just happened.

“So, how do you feel?”

“Excuse me?” What did that have to do with anything? “What do you mean? You sent me for an envelope. I presume it’s empty, since you tore it up without opening it. If that’s what you’re talking about, how am I supposed to feel?”

“That was your first lesson in submission.”

Okay, the man was deranged. “But…”

“I told you it’s not all about sex.”

“Service.” She’d read something to that effect on a website, although the details now escaped her. “Is that what that was?”

“I’ll admit it was a fairly rudimentary example. Service exists on both sides of the slash. Go and sit down—I’ll bring your tea and we can talk about it.”

“Thanks. I think.” Lucy headed for the sofa. She needed time out to unscramble what was left of her brain. What had just happened? From her understanding of D/s, which she was beginning to suspect was on a par with her comprehensive knowledge of both brain surgery and rocket science, surely making the drinks was her job, not Logan’s?

“Shouldn’t I be doing that, though?” she called out.

No answer. He mustn’t have heard her. Lucy returned to the kitchen, where Logan was spooning coffee into a mug. A teapot sat to one side. “Isn’t that my job?”

Logan half-turned in her direction. “What did I tell you to do?”

Mystified, Lucy shrugged. “Fetch the envelope for you, and not to forget to close the door behind me afterwards. Then you told me to sit down.”

“And what did you do?”

She’d brought the envelope, closed the door, given him the envelope, and taken a seat. Until she hadn’t had an answer to her question. “I wanted to know if I should make the drinks, but I don’t think you heard me, so I came to ask you.”

“I understand why you did that, but it’s not what a submissive would do. She—or he—would obey the instruction.”

“Even if they thought they should make the drink for their Dom?”

“Even then. Service on both sides of the slash, remember? Serving their Dominant fulfils a submissive, but it doesn’t mean acting as a servant. A sub can serve her Dom by allowing him to take care of her.”

Lucy huffed an exasperated sigh. “I don’t think I will ever get the hang of this.”

“There is no ‘this’ to get the hang of. No ‘one true way’. People make it work whatever way suits them best, and that will be our salvation on the island. For now, we’ll keep it simple. Go back to the sofa and sit down. Now, princess.”

So help her, if he called her that one more time, she’d hit him. The man seemed to have an unholy knack for inciting her to violence.

“Stop grinding your teeth at me. The only reason you haven’t had a good spanking already is because we haven’t agreed on terms yet.”

“What?”

“And don’t shriek, either. You needn’t look so scandalised. Did you think I’d give you some books to read and make you sit an exam at the end? Think again. This course is hands-on all the way, and we don’t have the luxury of failure.”

A few minutes later, Lucy was cradling a mug of tea between her hands. Her palms tingled as she sipped the steaming beverage. This time, her sigh was almost contented. She had to admit Logan could brew a good one. It didn’t change the fact, though, that she suspected she might have made a monumental mistake.

“So what are you thinking now?”

Logan was sitting opposite her. He too held a mug, one that looked large enough to hold a pint. The scent of coffee wafted from it—it might be instant, but it was good-quality instant. She shot him a pointed look, then stared into her drink. “Nothing.”

“You’re rackin’ ’em up, princess.”

There it was again, that annoying nickname. “Excuse me?”