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Daniel hesitantly allowed himself to smile back. “I think they’d notice, Master.”

“Hmm,” Carl grunted again. He patted the bed beside him once more, and Daniel sat down on the edge, fiercely aware of the press of his master’s hip against his own. “Hungry?” Carl asked.

“No, sir. Uh, Master.” Daniel was far too stressed to eat. Too stressed even to remember the proper honorific, it seemed.

Carl shrugged. “Suit yourself. And help yourself, too, if you change your mind later. Don’t mind the weirdness; I’m allergic to gluten, or in other words, anything with flavor or texture. I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer along with me.”

“That’s . . . that’s okay, Master,” Daniel said, because if the worst of his suffering here ended up being gluten-free waffles, he might actually start believing in God again. And also because he had no idea how else to respond. Things were starting to feel a bit surreal. Why all the dancing around? Why wasn’t Carl just taking what he’d paid for? Getting it over with and letting him sleep?

As if reading his thoughts, Carl said, “You must be tired.”

He was. He hadn’t slept well all week, and it was almost midnight now, and the car would be here in ten hours to pick him up. “Well, then.” Carl shifted over to the other side of the bed and pulled Daniel into the space he’d just vacated. He kicked his pants off, but left on his boxers and undershirt, much to Daniel’s confusion, and crawled under the covers. “Good night, Daniel,” he said. “Jane will wake us in the morning.”

Good night? Jane?

Really?

Carl snapped the light off, rolled away from Daniel, and promptly began to snore.

Oh, how Daniel envied him.

Daniel slept poorly. Many long minutes passed before he could even bring himself to lie down beside Carl, and many more still before the tension in his body began to uncoil, before he was able to convince himself nothing would happen tonight and he should really get some sleep lest he space out again at work. Which led, inevitably, to thoughts of the waiting discipline, which made sleep even more elusive. They’d have gotten it over with last night if not for this new arrangement, which he was starting to feel awfully bitter about again; if not for Carl, he wouldn’t be lying here sleepless with nerves, wouldn’t have to worry about making it through the broadcast tomorrow. Ten hours wasn’t much time to get his shit together if they really hurt him. And they’d damn well expect him to smile for the camera when eight o’clock rolled around.

His stomach rumbled in the darkness, and he contemplated the freedom Carl had given him to help himself to food. But he didn’t know how deep a sleeper the man was, and was frankly terrified of waking him. Better, he decided, to go hungry.

Finally, he closed his eyes and drifted into a fitful sleep.

He awoke in the morning in a minor panic, lying in an unfamiliar bed and staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. He couldn’t remember where he was, which by itself was no big deal; he traveled often enough and on little enough sleep to be accustomed to waking disoriented. No, it was the arm draped over his naked waist and the large erection pressed up against his hip that was freaking him out. Instinct told him to bolt, but long, painful years of training told him to lie the fuck still and maybe, if he was lucky, successfully pretend he was still sleeping.

But then the hand tightened around his waist and the erection dug hard into his hip, and a deep voice rumbled, “Good morning,” by his ear on a little puff of moist warmth.

Carl. New master.

Daniel stiffened, then forced himself to unstiffen lest Carl feel it. It wasn’t good to show fear. People used fear against you.

“I know you’re awake,” Carl—no, Master; don’t forget again—said, sleepy but in seemingly good humor.

“Yes, Master.” Daniel opened his eyes, but didn’t twitch a single muscle. He was afraid to find out what the master would do if he tried to sit up, pull away, what the master would do if he accidentally pressed back against that cock still digging into his hip.

But the master just flopped onto his back, scratched at his belly, and yawned. “Well,” he said, tossing off the covers and lumbering to his feet. “I gotta piss. Breakfast’s in . . .” He squinted at the clock until Daniel, still half-paralyzed with nerves and confusion but trained well enough to function beyond them, handed the man his glasses.

“Thank you,” the master said, popping them on and yawning again. “In eighteen minutes. Go find Jane; she’ll show you where your bathroom is. But I’m gonna shower, so don’t run the hot water yet.”

The master disappeared into the en suite before Daniel could reply or ask questions, like Who’s Jane? or What am I doing here?

But he needed no answers to do as he’d been told, so with a pang of regret, he hauled himself out of bed. The mattress was much more luxurious than his own—some sort of memory foam, with a down comforter and what had to be at least thousand-count sheets. And he was so damn tired, not at all looking forward to his day. He was also buck naked, and didn’t see any way to remedy that. Perhaps the master wanted him that way. He had no illusions about his body, or the way it made others react. Neither did NewWorld, who oversaw his diet and fitness regimen as strictly as they did his work schedule.

He heard the shower turn on, and, figuring he’d have at least a few minutes alone, permitted himself a moment of study. The bedroom was done up in shades of navy and beige, the furniture modern and sleek. His master had a scattering of photographs on the dresser, some framed football cards on the wall, an autographed ball on his desk. The room was so clean it practically sparkled, but Daniel was fairly certain that wasn’t the master’s doing. He obviously owned at least one more slave. Jane, presumably.

Great. How many people would see his pasty white ass this morning? Or maybe not so white—he was blushing full force when he stepped into the hall, where the smell of breakfast cooking hit him square in the nose. His stomach rumbled, but he was used to being hungry—had spent much of his childhood that way—and gave it no more thought.

When he came into the kitchen, he saw a pretty little white woman about his age, wearing jeans and a blouse and an apron covered in footballs, busy at the stove with what looked like eggs and (presumably gluten-free) pancakes. Lovely bracelets of spun gold sparkled on both her wrists.

“Jane?”

She turned and smiled at him, went back to the food for half a second, then whipped her head around again, her smile widening. “My my.” She eyed him downright lewdly, but with a glimmer of amusement that smoothed Daniel’s hackles. “This is more of you than I usually see on the evening news.”

Daniel chuckled nervously and put the kitchen table between him and her. “Yeah, I uh, I don’t know what happened to my clothes.”