Saving Sara (Masters of the Castle) Page 3

  Not until now.

  Jackson stared across the bathroom at the pitiful heap that was Sara, her shoulders shaking as she cried. Sitting in piss and the phony, fancy rags of a bygone era, every bit as beautiful as he remembered her being. Back within his reach for the first time in over three years and yet no closer to being his than she had been back then.

  God, he wanted her.

  What was that old saying? Want in one hand; spit in the other—see which fills up faster.

  Yeah, that was the story of Sara in his life.

  A brisk knock on the bathroom door shook Jackson back into working mode. He unlocked it and opened only far enough to take the washcloth and towel Ethan offered. The dungeon monitor held up three Grecian slave-girl outfits—little more than white tunics designed to cover as little as humanly possible.

  “I brought small, medium and large. I wasn’t sure about her size.”

  Jackson took the medium. He thought she might be small—compared to him, she was downright tiny—but he knew for a fact she wasn’t large. He knew by experience that picking the wrong size could only aggravate the situation. Too big would leave her swimming in excess cloth (first this and now you think I’m fat?). Worse would be trying to squeeze her into something too small (first this and now I’m fat!) before taking that long walk of shame up to Master Marshall’s office. One crisis at a time; that was his motto, and he always did his best never to aggravate a bad situation.

  He took a quick look around the room. The dungeon monitors had done their jobs admirably. Almost everyone was refocused back into play-time mode. One scene had concluded—a sub with badly-smeared makeup was being let out of the stocks by her master. Several new scenes had begun—the violet wand was being warmed up while a nervous sub looked on, wringing her hands and nodding as she listened to whatever her master was telling her. He was taking the time to soothe her, comfort her fears, tell her what was going to happen—Jackson liked that. Good man.

  Dead ahead of him, the agitated dominant had calmed for the most part. He wasn’t pacing anymore, but stood with his back propped against a stripper pole, watching the people around him. A lick of flames ignited on a well-soaked fire-play wand, catching Jackson’s eye. He stared, everything coming into sharp clarity as he watched experimental patterns being drawn—first in alcohol and then in fire—on the back of a very relaxed submissive. She barely moved, only a slight feline enjoyment as she arched ever so minutely up into his caressing hand when he smoothed the fire back out again.

  Jackson was moving before he realized he intended to, and it wasn’t to go back into the bathroom.

  “No one goes in,” he told Ethan, never once taking his eyes off his target. He crossed the floor in only a handful of brisk steps and when he stopped, it was to stand in front of the agitated dominant. This time, he made no effort to diminish how imposing he was. The dominant stiffened in surprise and bumped into the security guard waiting beside him, his eyes growing huge as he stared up into Jackson’s accusing glare.

  “Did you come with her or were you matched here?” he asked, sheer habit helping to keep his voice soft, calm, helping to keep his arm at his side when what he really wanted was to grab the—at best insensitive jerk and at worst total dickwad—by the scruff of his scrawny neck.

  The man said nothing, but a slow flush of guilt began to creep up into his face.

  “Tell me you didn’t know how she would react,” Jackson growled, his hands fisting in the Grecian costume Ethan had given him.

  That guilty flush grew even more pronounced. The man looked away and—don’t lose your temper, don’t do it—Jackson lunged a single step forward, closing all the excess distance between them and bringing the man’s gaze sharply back to Jackson’s face.

  “Tell me,” Jackson seethed, “that you didn’t deliberately bring her down here knowing, knowing, what she’s been through.”

  Neither one of them was calm now. The man held his gaze for a long time, a veritable eternity filled with meaningful silence. Then he looked away.

  Don’t hit him. It was all Jackson could do not to. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tempted to punch a guest. That was what Sara did to him. One look at her and he lost all perspective.

  “Take him to the Master’s office,” Jackson said, addressing his security officer, still standing just a little behind the flushed dominant. “And you,” he growled, never taking his eyes off the man. “You’d better take really good care not to let me see you again.”

  Jackson backed up first. He had to. It took all the self-restraint he had left, and for a long time he just stood there afterward, surrounded by guests, Castle security and the pulsing thump of rock music, watching as the man was led back up the stairs and out of sight.

  Jackson waited, taking breath after calming breath, until he could make his fists relax. Only one of his security guards remained on the scene alongside a handful of dungeon monitors, all of whom stood watching as he silently decompressed.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, Jackson watched the couple deep in the pleasure of their fire play. The master was whispering in his submissive’s ear. She was smiling, nodding, utterly relaxed as he switched from the wand and starting setting up the cups. His hands were never far from her body, stroking and soothing her, and for just a moment, Jackson remembered what it had been like back in California, the first time he’d seen Sara lying on a table just like that, smiling, relaxing, enjoying the sensation.

  On the heels of that, of course, came the resurrected memory of her lying in the hospital, in so much pain that the slightest touch of the sheets and bandages that had covered her made her weep. Like knives, those memories cut at him. Back then, he’d have done anything to take the pain from her.

  He’d do anything, he realized, to take the pain from her now, too. In spite of all that had happened.

  Turning from the scene, Jackson went back to the bathroom. He took a second at the door to compose himself—Sara Abrams, back within his reach, but still not his—and then he went inside.

  * * * * *

  Sara heard the door open, but she didn’t look up. Her tears were exhausted, and so was she. All she wanted right now was to go home, but first she was going to have to walk all the way back to her room in a ruined ball gown that smelled like cowardice and pee, and people were going to look at her.

  For such a big man, Jackson moved with surprising softness. He closed and locked the door behind him, securing their privacy. She felt him looking at her, but in the end, he made no effort to approach her. She couldn’t really blame him. Not after what she’d done.

  “Can you stand?” he asked, and headed for the sink.

  Sara nodded, but his back was to her. She had to use the urinals, but she managed to get her feet under her and leveraged herself back up off the floor. Her skin felt too tight. Her scars pulled all the way down her left side; probably no worse than normal, it was just now her senses were heightened—an effect of the adrenaline—and now she was more aware of it.

  She must really look pathetic. He couldn’t even look at her. He just turned on the water, keeping his head bowed and his back to her as he checked the temperature with his fingertips.

  Sara tested her weight carefully, and when she was sure her watery legs would support her, she started toward him. But she hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he abruptly stopped her again with a curtly ordered, “Strip. Everything. Take it all off.”

  Startled, Sara stared at him. “What?”

  “You heard me.” He still didn’t turn around, though he did steal a peek at her in the mirror. Separating a stark white washcloth from the matching towel, he soaked it under the warm running water. “Strip.”

  A slow flush of warmth unfurled in the pit of her stomach. They’d been friends once, though right now it felt like a lifetime ago. The longer he spent soaking that washcloth so he could avoid looking at her, the further in their past that friendship began to feel.

  “Are you a
ngry with me, Jackson?” Her voice quavered. She swallowed hard, as if that could steady it, but he still didn’t look at her. “Jackson?”

  “No.” He shut off the water, wrung out the cloth and finally turned around. Now he looked at her, but there was no more friendship on his face than in his tone. “I mean it. Take it off.” He cocked his head and took a single step toward her. “Or would you rather I remove your clothes for you?”

  No, that was definitely not what she would rather, but to get naked right now, in front of him…Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have thought twice about such a command. If she were to strip right now, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen her naked. They’d played together once. Just once. And it had been so…so perfect, and so devastating. She had almost fallen in love with him. Three years wasn’t long enough to make her forget how frightening it had felt not to know who she was losing her heart to: Jackson, the man who was her friend, or Jackson the Dom, who saw her as simply another sub to play with.

  Oh, the illusion of a well-played game in a BDSM dungeon. They had clicked on so many levels, but Sara had seen what happened to girls who lost their hearts to the illusion. She didn’t want to ever be one of those crying in a corner on the day Jackson decided to play with someone else, doing to her all the things that had felt so right when they’d played together, bringing someone else to writhing orgasm beneath fingers that had made her burn so hot and hard. No. No, at the time she had decided it was better to just stay friends than to play together and risk making a fool of herself that way.

  Then the accident had happened. Of all the people who had come to see her in the hospital, Jackson was the only one who had come every single day. He’d slept for three days in the chair by her bed. His face was the first she’d seen when she finally came up out of the anesthesia to find her world transformed into a hellish, burning nightmare. He’d been the one to hold her hand when she found out her hair was all burned away, and the next day he’d shaved his head to match. And when it came time for her to be discharged, he’d offered to take her home with him so she wouldn’t have to recover alone.

  She had known then, with all the same certainty that she knew it now, if she had dared to go with him, she’d have fallen in love with him. She’d have lost herself. She’d have been that girl, crying in the corner because—bald, weak, scarred, as pathetic as she had been, barely able to walk, unable even to get up off the toilet by herself—there was no way someone like Jackson could have wanted anything more from her than just to be kind to her. That kind of niceness was an illusion she couldn’t bear.

  The night before she was scheduled to be discharged into Jackson’s care, she had bullied the doctors into letting her go early. For all anyone at the Shadowbrook Den had known, Sara had simply disappeared. In actuality, she’d taken the first Greyhound to Nebraska, where her sister had picked her up and taken her home. And for weeks afterward, she’d cried, but at least then she could lie and say it was because of the pain. She had tried for three years to forget about Jackson. Funny how easily just the sight of him could stir up all those feelings all over again.

  Laying the washcloth down on the sink, Jackson came toward her.

  “Don’t.” But her protest was just a whisper and not very convincing, not even to herself.

  He pulled the shawl from her shoulders, baring the first of all her many scars.

  “Jackson…” She thought she was all cried out, but a new wave of tears stung her eyes and turned him into a watery blur.

  He unfastened the ties of her corset anyway, his hands moving slowly down the front of her dress, loosening it by degrees while each breath grew harder and harder for her to take.

  “You could have at least said goodbye.” It was the only censure he offered, but it released her first tidal wave of tears and sent them spilling down past her lashes and dripping down her face.

  “I knew it. You are angry.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Just confused. I thought we were friends.”

  They were. That was the problem.

  “Please don’t.” Another whisper, followed by a hiccupy gasp as her dress seemed to just fall away. He helped it down her body, working it loose to her waist and from her waist, over her hips and to the floor. He followed it, gathering the soiled cloth in both hands.

  “Step.”

  She did, holding his shoulder for balance, and he tossed the gown away.

  Her slip of a chemise, so thin as to be transparent, went next, leaving her in stockings and garters. She had no idea what had happened to her shoes. They were probably lying wherever she’d kicked them off in her mad-dash scramble to evade the flames in the dungeon outside. Regardless, nothing she wore now protected her from Jackson’s sight.

  He stood up slowly, his eyes missing nothing—the mottle of ugly scars that twisted her left side, thigh, hip, stomach, breast. She tried to cover herself with her arms, but there was too much to hide. Not that he let her. Taking her wrists, he pulled them away, looked down at her for a long time before raising his eyes back to hers.

  “I’ve missed you,” was all he said, and then he let go of her wrists to cup her chin, capturing her face in his palm, and kissed her. It was as if the twisted ugliness of her skin didn’t even matter. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe this was all another part of the illusion.

  His lips were so gentle, his arm, sliding around her waist and pulling her into his chest, so warm.

  Sara trembled, another sobbing breath shivering her against the solid breadth of him. A big part of her wished she’d never come here. Another part almost wished she could burrow into Jackson’s arms and stay in the illusion forever. He felt strong when she was anything but. He felt safe, and she hadn’t known that feeling in a very long time.

  His cellphone beeped, soft but insistent, and it changed everything. The kiss ended. He caught his breath against her lips, holding himself so tense and still. Briefly, his forehead came to rest against hers. His eyes were closed. His thumbs stroked her face as if he were savoring this. The power of the illusion. He couldn’t possibly be. He was perfect; she was hideous, both mentally and physically. He could have anyone he wanted. She probably wouldn’t even have Robert after this.

  “Come on.” He pulled away from her. “Let’s get you dressed.”

  Leading her to the sink, he once more picked up the washcloth.

  “I can do it.” She tried to take it from him, but he simply wet it under the faucet to warm it again and then began to bathe her. Starting with her face, he washed away her tears and worked his way down. Every time he touched her scars, she flinched, looked away, tried to turn away even, but he only backed her up against the sink and relentlessly kept at it, rinsing the cloth over and over again, past the point that she was clean, until it started to feel gratuitous and his cellphone beeped again.

  He threw the washcloth in the sink, his mouth a hard flat line. She took advantage of the moment to try and take the tunic—at the very least, she could dress herself—but he didn’t allow her dignity even that much and when she tried to force the issue, the flat of his hand caught her fully across her damp and naked bottom.

  “I still haven’t decided whether to put you over my knee or not,” he warned. “Don’t push your luck.”

  He took the tunic from her and she, her bottom stinging and tingling in a way she hadn’t felt in far too long, offered no more resistance.

  The new dress barely covered her. It was backless, a Roman-style slave tunic that was little more than a bib of white over her loins and buttocks and a low cut ‘v’ of cloth that concealed her nipples if she was careful, but which did little to hide the globes of her breasts.

  “I can’t go out there like this,” she said, looking at herself and seeing only the ugliness.

  “Yes, you can, and you will,” Jackson replied. “You don’t have much of a choice at this point. He’s waiting for you, and he’s not exactly patient when it comes to things like this.”

  “Who?” Sara asked, lis
tlessly. Not that it mattered. It was going to be a long walk, no matter where he took her. She’d never be able to hide her scars from all the people who would see her between here and that unknown there.

  “Marshall, Sara,” Jackson said simply. “The Master of the Castle. He wants to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What’s his name again?” Jackson asked.

  They were sitting on a hard wooden bench just outside the Castle Master’s office. Robert was still inside. She could hear their voices, talking now. Robert sounded quite calm now, actually.

  “Robert,” she told him, rubbing her arms. She was sitting a little sideways, trying to hide her left side every time someone walked past. This was a very public part of the second floor balcony, not far from the stairs at all and right across from two conference-style rooms where an informative lecture on knot-tying had just concluded. At the moment, there were a lot of people walking by.

  Jackson didn’t seem to notice them. “Robert,” he echoed for the second time. He rubbed his hands together. “Right. I won’t forget again.”

  He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. Robert might not be angry any more, but Jackson was something else entirely. Every time the low murmur of Robert’s voice passed through the closed door, a tick of muscle leapt along Jackson’s jaw. Sometimes he looked at the door. More often than not, he stared straight ahead at the opposite wall.

  “How long have the two of you been dating?” he finally asked.

  “Not long.” Sara turned toward Jackson just a little bit more, painfully aware of the couple walking past them. They were looking at her, and as soon as they were past, the woman pressed toward her companion and began whispering. It wasn’t hard to figure out what they were whispering about.