A silence befell the room.
Gracie stared at her expectantly. “You don’t talk much, do you?” she asked. She didn’t pause before answering her own question. “No, you’re shy. I can tell. I’m a people person. An extrovert. I have a habit of talking too much and too fast, so I end up wearing a gag most of the time in the dungeon. Otherwise, the Masters will fill my mouth with their cocks. That works as well as a gag, and they seem to enjoy it more. Apparently, even in sub-space I can be quite chatty. Although I never shut up, I’m a surprisingly great secret-keeper. You could tickle torture me, and I still wouldn’t give up a secret. You’re obviously an introvert. I bet you like to read.” She snatched a banana from the fruit bowl, peeled it, and took a bite. “What do you like to read?”
Danielle remained silent, unsure of whether Gracie actually wanted an answer. She did love to read, having spent most of her adolescence with her nose in a book and later, with her e-reader. Her novels took her away from the reality of being a painfully awkward, overweight child to the ballrooms of regency England, where the wallflowers married the handsome dukes, and to modern-day America, where tormented vampires fell in love with plain mortal women.
Sure enough, Gracie pursed her lips, then answered her own question. “Romance, right?” At Danielle’s nod in confirmation, she continued. “I like the kinky books myself, especially the ménage ones. You know what I say: The more, the merrier.” She giggled. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Reality?” She grabbed Danielle’s hand and squeezed as if they were best friends. “So much better than fiction.”
To hide her shock, Danielle bit into her apple and took her time chewing as Gracie led her up a staircase at the back of the kitchen. Then again, who was she to judge? Hadn’t she just allowed Adrian between her legs as Cole held her? Maybe it hadn’t been a true ménage, but it certainly fell into what most people would consider kinky.
Besides, unlike the snobby girls she’d grown up with in Arizona, Gracie was refreshingly honest. She liked that about her. Regardless of Gracie’s declaration about secret keeping, Danielle still couldn’t completely trust her, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to—if Gracie would ever give her the chance.
The winding stairs took them to the second floor of the home, where mirrors of various shapes and sizes lined the walls of the carpeted hallway. “This is where we live,” Gracie said as they passed several closed doors. “You can only access the living quarters through the kitchen. The other staircases lead to the club areas. Master has his private residence on the attic level of the house, but none of the slaves have ever seen it.” Halfway down the hall, Gracie opened one of the doors and stepped inside a room.
Gracie crossed to the other side of the room and pulled back the drapes to bring sunlight in through the wall-sized window, showing off a four-poster walnut bed covered with a virginal white goose-down blanket and a matching walnut dresser, desk, and nightstand. For a moment, Danielle forgot where she was, captivated by the comfort of the room.
The sun’s rays ricocheted off the beautiful pale pink crystal chandelier, which hung in the center of the room, creating slivers of dancing lights on the walls and frames behind the bed. The lights turned on, and her sight focused on the framed images.
Three Degas paintings.
Her Degas paintings.
Not the prints hanging on her walls now, but the originals, which had graced her walls before the government had confiscated almost everything in her home. The dainty dancers whom she’d envied as a child, knowing she’d never have the lithe body required for ballet. Despite that, she’d loved those paintings. To see them here, under Cole DeMarco’s roof in the very room he’d assigned to her, reminded her of everything she’d lost.
Everything he’d taken from her.
When Gracie took a breath, Danielle cleared her throat and took the opportunity to prove she knew how to use her vocal cords. “How long have you been a trainee?”
“Oh, I’m not a trainee. I belong to Master Cole.”
Danielle rubbed her chest where a raw ache had settled. “You’re his . . . ?”
“Slave. Yes. For two years.”
“I thought he only trained.” Of course he had slaves. He probably had a submissive or two at his beck and call at all times.
“He did. Until me. Now there’s two of us who remain here permanently. Myself and Adrian.”
Danielle smoothed her hand over the comforter. “Oh. Do you, um—”
“Fuck him? No.” Gracie sighed. “Not that we haven’t tried. He doesn’t have sex with the slaves or trainees, although he has no problem getting us off through other ways. You’ll understand after a few days. Somehow, Master knows us better than we know ourselves.” She settled on the front edge of the bed and patted the spot next to her. “The man swears he’s not a sadist, but he loves to watch his slaves squirm with desperation. I’d take a paddling over an orgasm denial any day. Right?”