The doorbell sounded, and Declan met the deliveryman at the door. He signed the card slip, thanked the man, and took the bag into the kitchen. He poured the steaming hot soup, Charlotte’s favorite Swiss Cheese Cauliflower, into a bowl, and placed the slices of pumpernickel toast to the side. He put the soup, toast, and drink on a tray and carried it into the living room, placing it on the table in front of her. Declan hated to wake her, but she needed to eat, and he needed to figure out if she needed medical attention.

“Charlotte,” he said in a hushed voice. “Charlotte, wake up, my dear, I brought you something to eat.”

Charlotte stirred, muttered a sleepy protest, and turned her head to the other side, her eyelids fluttering. “Charlotte. Wake up. You need to eat something. Please.”

She opened her eyes, and her sleepy stare encountered his. To Declan’s surprise, fear registered on her face, along with worry perhaps. What the hell was going on?

Charlotte yawned and sat up. She pulled the covers around her as though she were trying to protect herself. Declan fought the urge to demand answers right then. She seemed so fragile, like the night she’d seen that jackass, Griffin. He couldn’t possibly be a threat now though. He couldn’t possibly be quite that stupid, could he?

“There’s my sleepy girl,” Declan spoke in a gentle tone. “I ordered you some soup. Your favorite. I noticed you didn’t eat your lunch.”

Charlotte grimaced. “I was freezing. I couldn’t get warm. I just wanted to burrow under the blankets.”

“Are you feeling okay? It’s not like you to let takeout from Ciatti’s go to waste.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Seriously. As soon as I crawled under the blankets, I was so sleepy that I could barely keep my eyes open. But, I’m fine. I promise.”

Declan didn’t quite buy her story, but he wasn’t sure why. There was something off. Maybe he was overreacting. “Are you hungry?” he prompted.

Charlotte glanced over at the tray on the coffee table, nodding. “Absolutely. I’m starving.”

Declan held out his hand to help her as she started to get up and move forward. Charlotte laced her fingers through his, pulling herself to a sitting position on the edge. He watched her as she ate. The unquenchable urge to protect her from whatever had caused her distress grew with each passing minute.

Charlotte pushed off her cocoon of blankets when she finished eating. To Declan’s delight, she curled up tightly next to him, wrapping herself around him. Declan buried his nose in her hair, content to have her so close and safe.

“Thank you for the soup,” she said. “Will you hold me for a bit? It’s truly all I need to feel better.”

“Want to stay here or do you want to go to bed?” He stroked Charlotte’s hair as he spoke.

“Bed, I think.” Charlie burrowed her forehead against his neck. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Master. I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent with you since I agreed to be your submissive.”

She spoke so quietly, Declan almost didn’t hear her, and when he realized what she said joy gripped him in such a way that he couldn’t find the words to express it. Her statement seemed odd. Almost as if she were preparing to leave. Declan shook the thought from his head. He wouldn’t entertain that possibility. He’d eliminate any obstacle that would keep them apart.

“I’m glad I’m here too, my Charlotte.”

Chapter Eighteen

Charlotte pulled a coat on over her blouse and skirt as she prepared to leave for the office. The driver Declan hired would be there at any moment. Declan had left hours earlier, needing to be in the office for a breakfast meeting. She couldn’t fall back to sleep after he’d left. She spent most of yesterday in a stupor, shocked and afraid. Her state of panic hadn’t allowed her to think up a solution to her problems. And time was running out. It was time to meet with Katherine, who expected a publishing offer by the end of the week.

In the snowy hours of early Tuesday morning, Charlie weighed all her options, but the only one available was to convince Declan to publish the manuscript. She didn’t know if Katherine’s story had any literary merit or if it was marketable in any possible way. She also didn’t care because it wasn’t about that. Charlie needed to sell it to Declan to save them both. Still¸ she couldn’t go into the office blindly without at least reading some of Katherine’s writing. She flipped to a few pages in. It seemed to be a journal style of narrative.

Tonight I saw an incredible display of dominance, mastery, and control. And the man doing all of this was silent. He used hand signals and a baton, and he directed/conducted a stage full of brilliant musicians to perform stunning and complicated musical compositions.

He brought them to crescendo and denouement. He urged them forward then called them off as needed. He pulsed with passion and guided them as one complete organism in the most beautiful perfection of sound. I felt the notes scurry up my spine and warm my belly. I felt my soul soar and crash. I was breathless with desire.

My only wish …

That I had been talented enough to be on the other side of him.

Wow.

Now that … is beautiful dominance.

Charlie sat in shock. Katherine wrote this? The piece showed promise. She skimmed a few pages forward and kept reading.

Maestro banged the edge of his silver tipped black cane against the floor. Reverberation shimmied up my legs and clung to the tender insides of my thighs. I steeled myself against the echo in my heart.

I lifted my chin and placed my hand on the barre. Sharp little ticks sounded behind me as the other girls entered. The smell of lavender powder wafted gently around us in the glowing candlelight. Shiny black stilettos gleamed back from the mirror. We all stood on pointe in shoes clearly not designed for classical performance. Somehow, Maestro had managed to take the impossibly uncomfortable and turn it into elegant, liquid lust.

I remembered my audition well, how I’d stumbled like a newborn colt on shoes that frightened me. I laughed the first time someone told me about the Maestro’s ballet. And yet, there I was, standing in his studio office attempting to perform little steps like strings of pearls.

“It is not what you expected.”

His clipped speech stated a fact. There were no questions.

“You may speak.”

His quiet voice threw me off guard. I was out of my element. I feared him. I loved him. I adored his consistent cruelness. It wrapped around me and held me to the standard of perfection that I would never attain, except in my dreams.

“I am a classically trained ballerina.”

I wanted the words to come out harsh. The confidence I felt inside slid to the pit of my stomach and I could not look in his eyes.

“It is ok, to look, ma chere.”

I stood tall over him, the stilettos raising me up high on my toes. A smile tugged at his otherwise serious composure.

He nodded slightly and turned me gently toward the mirror. I placed my feet carefully and still felt clumsy as a teenager. Silently, he fingered the black silk ribbon at my throat. Wisps of honey hair framed my face and fell erratically from my top knot.

I saw a picture of someone else. His fingers danced lightly against the plunging neckline and his lips brushed the tip of my ear without words. The latex skirt flared beautifully ending at mid-thigh and the shoes gleamed in the semi-darkness. Black silk ribbons adorned my ankles as if these were legitimate dancing shoes. My mouth softened, and the edges blurred. My pulse quickened and suddenly discomfort disappeared. I became bound and held inside the second skin, wrapped in the ribbons that tethered me to shoes. He cradled me and lured me as his hands slid over my hips.