Bloom: A Dark Romance (The Order, 1) Page 10

  “We?” I asked.

  He nodded as he turned towards the door, already leaving. “The master and I.”

  I didn’t have a response.

  “It must have been a lot on you,” he continued. “The plane ride and then…” He trailed off, indicating that he indeed knew what had happened. “Well,” he said as if to stop imagining what my Owner had done to me. “You’re feeling better now.” Another small smile as his hand rested on the door. “Would you like to see the greenhouse?” He seemed as eager to change the subject as me.

  I had picked up the clothes from the bed, but I hadn’t realized until now that I was tightly clutching them. I hated myself for how uncomfortable I was allowing myself to become, but I hated myself more for showing it. “Greenhouse?” I asked, nothing better to say.

  Mr. B smiled. “I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s especially beautiful this time of day. I can escort you there, if you’d like.”

  His tone was friendly, but I knew what he meant. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without supervision. This man was trying to put me at ease—that much I could tell. I decided to give him something in return for his efforts. “And if I don’t want to go with you?” My voice was as close to normal as it had been since arriving at the estate.

  He quirked a small grin, showing a few more lines around his mouth and cheeks that didn’t look altogether bad. “You may stay here in your room and I can bring you dinner if you wish to decline dining with the master.” There was something unspoken in his answer: I could only come out if I met with my master—I was sure he was in the greenhouse too. Otherwise I’d be stuck in a room just the same as I would be at the Compound.

  I was aware of the clothing still in my hands. I was usually keen in spotting when someone was staring at my body, imagining what they could do to it. I had felt those eyes on me many times, staring out of a different face. However, Mr. B hadn’t once looked anywhere except at my eyes; he hadn’t been anything but a gentleman, and polite. Perhaps my new Owner had something to do with that, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “I’ll have to change,” I finally said, eliciting a smile from the butler of Lyon Estate.

  “Very well, Miss Fawn,” he said, opening the door. “I’ll return these to the kitchen and then wait for you in the hall.” He left the room, closing me back in without so much as a glance in my direction. My room. It was still hard to believe I wouldn’t be staying in my new Owner’s room with him. Yet it shouldn’t have been. You wouldn’t sleep in the same room as a stray dog you barely know.

  I didn’t want to allow a certain thought to push its way to the forefront of my mind. I wouldn’t be sleeping in the same room as my master, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use me in all the ways he wanted before he sent me here alone or left to go to his own quarters.

  I focused on getting dressed. The clothing was simple: jeans that were definitely a size too big, but once I wasn’t being starved anymore, they would probably fit just fine. Same with the plain cream blouse, whose long sleeves kept slipping down my bony shoulders. There were no undergarments to speak of, but again, there was no surprise there. When I could stall no longer, I went back to the door, the knob turning without resistance. It wasn’t locked, but I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking it was for any other reason besides the fact that there was a man waiting for me outside.

  Mr. B was in the hall, just as promised, but he was standing a respectable distance away. The wall behind him, on the opposite side of the staircase, was made of the same stone I had seen outside. He looked like he belonged against the backdrop.

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  I adjusted the fabric around my shoulders and nodded, letting him lead me downstairs, never allowing more than a few steps ahead of me and glancing back to make sure I was following. I was slightly dizzy as we made our way down, my legs stinging against the denim that covered them. I had to hold onto the railing so I wouldn’t fall.

  “Just down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out,” Mr. B said as if making conversation.

  My bare feet were cold on the marble, his polished shoes tapping in contrast. By the time we were almost at the bottom of the staircase, I was confident enough to let go of the railing and balance while looking somewhere other than my feet. We walked through the foyer and he led me to the door to its left, which opened up to a kitchen that was done in shining white and copper, more plants hanging in the windows. The trees were just as massive and unending through the windows above the sink, but the sun was slowly setting and I couldn’t look away. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped moving until I felt him brush my arm.

  I looked at Mr. B, who had come closer. “It’s right this way, Miss Fawn,” he said with a smile. There was another door on the far end of the kitchen, tucked between a fridge and cabinets. He took out a key and opened it, and as soon as he did I had to shield my eyes.

  The early evening sun glowed through the entire space and it was hard to adjust at first, but once I did, I couldn’t turn away. The first thing I saw was an endless room of windows. The walls—all except the one made of stone which indicated where the house ended and the greenhouse began—were almost completely made of them, thin beams separating each pane of glass in a beehive pattern. The entire ceiling was much of the same, only dome shaped. Beams of wood ran high above, from wall to wall with industrial lights hanging down. I could barely take it all in before something else caught my eye: plants. Hundreds of plants as far as I could see. Small trees and shrubs, flowers of every color, and things I didn’t know how to name. The space seemed to go on forever; the greenery within and without combined with the endless windows made it hard to differentiate where the captive plants ended and the wild ones began.

  “This way,” Mr. B said, pulling me away from the scene and back into my body. I wasn’t in some secret oasis; I had to remember where I was.

  I followed him through more trees, my feet surprisingly warm on the stone tiles. I expected there was some sort of heat source for the mass of plants; they wouldn’t survive the cold weather or the cold of the main house. The more we moved through the room, the more I could hear the sound of music. It was instrumental—piano, violin, and cello, but I had never heard the arrangement before. It was a slow, somber song. The notes echoed off the glass surrounding us and it was hard to concentrate on anything else, try as I might to focus on the different leaves and flowers as I passed. Soon, we came to a large, circular space at the end of a narrow walkway. It was here that the music was most concentrated, and in the middle of the area was a large fountain, its trickling water adding to the sounds. Just beyond it was a large tree with cherry blossoms, pink and full of life. I had never seen a tree so enormous in real life before—much less indoors. It looked as if it had stood for years and the odd glass hive had been built around it. There was a bench just to the side of the trunk where a few dead petals had gathered and there were even more on the ground, sticking to the terracotta tiles. There was movement in the forest of flowers beyond.

  “Sir?” Mr. B called.

  My new Owner emerged, a slight sheen to his skin from sweating. He wore the same dark slacks as before, but in place of his shirt was a plain white undershirt with no sleeves. I could see his left arm fully now—the blackness of the tattoo starting just above his elbow and ending at his shoulder, where the solid color dispersed into silhouettes of trees and other plant life. I supposed, now that I’d seen this place, the meaning behind the markings was obvious.

  “Good evening, Doe,” he said as he removed a pair of gardening gloves that should have looked out of place on him but they oddly weren’t. His tone was somewhat casual considering what he had just done to me, but I couldn’t really expect remorse. Our world was very small and simple. If you didn’t follow the rules of the game of another, you paid the price in the form of whatever they saw fit.

  Hi eyes shifted to Mr. B standing beside me. “S'il vous plaît, apportez-moi le kit dans le hangar de stockage, Marius.” Please bring me the
kit in the storage shed, Marius.

  Mr. B gave a small bow before turning in the direction we had come from. I supposed Marius was his first name. I found it odd that Mr. B had told me not to refer to him out of title around Master Lyon, yet he called him by his first name. Then again, we were lower than him. The rules that applied to people like us never were the same for people like him.

  Now it was just me and my new Owner. I didn’t know what to say—if I should say anything at all. The only thing I could concentrate on was the blackness over his muscled arm. How despite the rich color, I could still see the indents of his prominent veins sticking through.

  “Are you just going to stare at me, Doe?” A slight smile graced the corner of his lip.

  I swallowed hard, instinctually concentrating on the tile beneath my bare feet. “I’m sorry, sir,” I mumbled, my voice raspy. Usually, after I was beaten, the person who had done it treated me the same way they had during the beating: like a scolded animal that refused to be trained. This was something I was unaccustomed to. He was acting as though it hadn’t even happened. As if I had merely woken up from a restful sleep after our long plane ride.

  It wasn’t so easy for me to forget.

  I heard him take in a breath, about to say something, but Mr. B’s returning footsteps stopped him.

  “Anything else, Master Lyon?” he asked, handing him a small plastic case.

  He took it and said, “No, that will be all, Marius.”

  Mr. B gave the same small bow as before. “Dinner will be served at seven as always, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Their conversation was professional, but I could tell by the tones of their voices that they had known each other for a long time. There was an unmistakable familiarity between them; they had done this many times before.

  Mr. B left, giving me the same small bow. My new Owner moved towards the bench, brushing off the fallen petals before sitting. He looked at me expectantly, but I wasn’t taking any chances of stepping over the confusing boundaries he had laid out; I was still learning all the new rules to his particular games.

  “Viens t'asseoir à côté de moi, Biche,” Come sit beside me, Doe. I could tell he was trying hard to appear annoyed as he tapped the bench with his fingers.

  I forced my feet to move, suddenly cold in the humid room. I sat on the hard bench, the fabric of my jeans shifting and rubbing painfully against my sore skin.

  I must have winced involuntarily. That, or he could sense my discomfort. He stood and walked behind the tree, bringing back the shirt he had discarded. I expected him to put it back on, cover the arm I couldn’t stop looking at whenever he glanced away. Instead, he sat next to me, the shirt in his lap. “Enlève tes pantalons.” Take off your pants.

  Heat instantly flooded my cheeks as my body remained cold, nearly trembling.

  Master Lyon sighed before my imagination could get the better of me. “Cover yourself with this and take them off.” He shoved the shirt in my direction to emphasize what he meant.

  So he didn’t want to see me naked?

  As if he had heard my thoughts, he said, “The marks,” impatient now, “they need to be treated unless you would like more scars.” The last part of the sentence sounded as though he had intended it to be playful, but I failed to see the humor.

  I wanted to do as he asked, to avoid another reason for punishment, but my hands froze on the buttons of my jeans.

  He sighed again, taking the shirt himself and spreading it over my lap, on top of my paralyzed hands. “We must work on your reaction time.” He tucked the fabric around me where my back met the bench. “Would you like me to do it for you?” The way he asked wasn’t threatening. It was the same way he had asked Ready? before hitting me. He genuinely wanted to know if I needed help doing something so simple.

  Not waiting for my answer, he moved closer. Fortunately, my brain started working again and I hurried to undo the buttons underneath his shirt. He stopped trying to assist me and I did it on my own, carefully slipping the stiff denim down my legs, trying and failing not to touch the sensitive raised skin. He took them from around my ankles, depositing them on the bench next to him, out of my reach.

  Without another word, he moved his shirt away from the areas where he needed to gain access—nothing more. Still, with his hands on my bare skin, so gentle in comparison to how he’d hurt me, his gaze unwavering and searching for any reaction, made goose bumps form on my skin, which made the welts all the more painful.

  He opened the plastic case and took out a small white tube, which he uncapped before squeezing out a small amount of a thick white ointment onto his fingers. Of course he noticed my raised flesh before he even touched me.

  “As-tu froid, Biche?” Are you cold, Doe? he asked in an amused tone that told me he knew the answer.

  I knew that I should look him in the eye when I talked, but his hand was moving towards my thigh. “No, sir,” I rushed out before it made contact, afraid that once it had I wouldn’t be able to say anything.

  “You’re scared of me then.” His hand finally touched one of the smaller, not as severe marks. I flinched without meaning to; the smirk on his face indicated he saw. Slowly, with more gentleness than I could have imagined, he smoothed the soothing cream upwards, squeezing in certain areas to release the tension that would not ease.

  “You’ll find that there is no reason to fear me if you listen,” he said. “If you obey.” He spread the ointment further up my thigh, further towards places the shirt was covering. It was hard not to react to the sting, the pressure. I let out a soft whimper. “If you obey me, I can be quite reasonable.” He moved on to the other leg. “There are very few rules here, you’ll find,” he said. “Much less than where you came from.”

  I fought the urge to pull away from him and his soothing yet threatening hands. The same hands that had beaten me unconscious hours before. The same hands that no doubt had done many unspeakable things.

  I felt that I should say something but the only thing that came out was, “I’m sorry I bit you, sir.” I willed myself to look up at him as he continued to rub the cream into my tender flesh, concentrating on the task in front of him.

  “No, you aren’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re sorry you were punished—that you had to be corrected.” A grin pulled at his lips. “I think you quite enjoyed biting me, drawing my blood.”

  My own mouth twitched with a smile that would never reach the surface. He was right. It was so rare that I had the chance to retaliate against my tormentors; when the opportunity arose, I took it. Selfish and stupid.

  I could tell he was done treating my welts, his fingers now trailing the circular scars beneath in the areas where there weren’t as many fresh marks. “Whoever took care of these did an appalling job,” he said more to himself. I blinked a few times and when I looked up from his hands, not wanting to entertain thoughts of all they had done—all they could do—he was staring directly at my face. “No one has ever hit you here, have they, Biche?”

  I had been beaten so many times that it was hard to keep track, but it was more difficult to think of a time I had ever been hurt there since the “accident” as they liked to call it. It hadn’t been an accident at all. I’d planned it for days.

  I shook my head.

  “Utilise tes mots,” he said. “Regarde moi.” Use your words. Look at me.

  I stared up at him as his eyes flicked from mine to my scars and back. “No, sir.”

  This seemed to please him for some unknown reason. “Good.”

  Despite biting my tongue to keep it from forming words, I couldn’t hold in a response. “Good?”

  If he was shocked by my subtle outburst, he made no comment, blinking slowly and unfazed. He leaned in closer, his fingers pressing into my exposed skin. I could smell earth on him, and underneath, something like fire. “Oui, Biche,” he breathed and I had to shut my eyes. “Whatever they tried to enforce in you has failed. I will not waste my time repeating their m
istakes.” He moved away fractionally, his grip loosening before I could open my eyes and breathe normally again. “Put your pants back on,” he ordered, replacing the cap on the ointment, placing it back into the case, and standing.

  I didn’t even wait for him to hand them to me. I leaned over and took them from his side of the bench, slipping them on faster than I could have ever taken them off.

  Once I was done, I removed his shirt from around me and gave it back to him as if I was offering something more. He took it, shoving his arms through the sleeves but not bothering with the buttons. “Come,” he commanded, and I could only guess he wanted me to stand and follow him.

  But follow him where? Had I already done or said something to anger him again? How long could I go before he had to beat me once more? I must have hesitated too long because he was back in front of me, too close and yanking me up by the wrists. All the air left my lungs and my knees wouldn’t lock, causing me to lean into his chest so I wouldn’t fall. As soon as I realized this, I tried to move away, but his arms were already caging me in. I couldn’t move. For the second time that day, one of his hands snaked into my hair, coiling it around his wrist so my head moved in his preferred direction.

  “C'est fini,” he whispered into my ear, his grip decidedly less rough and frightening than it had been the first time he’d done this. It’s over. “You misbehaved and you were reprimanded. It’s time to move on.” I could hear my pulse beating in my ears as he let me go to stand on my own. “Do you understand?”

  I started to nod but stopped myself, looking him head on. “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes searched mine as if making sure I was telling the truth. Then he turned, repeating the same order he had issued before: “Come.”

  Master Lyon was already walking away, so I hurried to keep up. We moved in the opposite direction of where I had come from, more into areas that were overgrown. We stepped in front of one of the flowering plants—rose bushes in white and red, peonies and poppies along with many I could not name.