Fallen Petal Read online

  “What do people call you outside of this house?”

  Chapter 9

  J

  “Jayson.”

  Her eyes widen when she hears my answer, but it’s not in realization or recognition of any kind. She’s simply surprised.

  As am I.

  She asked for my name, and I told her. I told her, just like that. As if it was nothing, no big deal at all. The most natural thing to do. And of course, it is—under normal circumstances. In the outside world, where normal people live and love, unburdened by the obstacles that have been put in our way.

  “Jayson.”

  The way she breathes my name is so heavy with devotion that it spurs my desire for her, feeding it with hope and lust that I cannot place.

  I pull her closer, reveling in the way her eyelashes flicker as I stretch her tight channel. I just came inside her mere minutes ago, but I’m rock-hard, as if it never happened.

  She’s doing that to me. In a way, she always has, but I never allowed myself to act on it. I knew it would be this way once I could have her. I know there’s no way back now that I’ve been inside her, now that I’ve seen the way her face grimaces when I push her, playing and testing how much she really needs this, how much she’s capable of enduring.

  My little Petal keeps surprising me. So calm, collected and innocent—but her nature turned carnal once I gave her something she didn’t know she craved. I’ve never heard a girl scream like her. I’ve never seen a girl cry like her.

  I’ve never seen a girl beg like her—beg for more, and not for me to stop.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my adoration for her is laced with concern.

  She’s always been so self-aware, so smart and reflective. Just like me, she knew about the darkness within herself, and we both knew she needed to shed a shell that was built around her, so this darkness could be accessed.

  And now I gave her my name, thus playing havoc with the deal we so carefully laid out between us.

  How could I? How could I be so fucking stupid?

  You’re in love, the root of all stupidity.

  “Jayson.” She keeps repeating my name like a mantra, contemplating, tasting every syllable while she moves her hips in a way that drives me insane.

  The expression on her face is somewhat apathetic, not quite there, not quite in the moment. She looks at me, but it seems as if she’s looking right through me, while my name keeps rolling off her tongue and she clenches around my length. She’s fucking me in a meditative rhythm, breathing my name as her voice grows weaker and her gaze glassy.

  What is she doing? Is she trying to remember? Is she trying to see whether any of this seems familiar? My cock inside her, my name attached to the action.

  Fuck, why on Earth did I tell her? Do I want her to remember? Do I want for her to realize why she’s here and how she got here? Do I want her to know?

  I’m certain that a part of me does. It’s undeniable, and incidentally, it’s the only explanation for my idiotic slip. What else could it be? My scientific curiosity? I know there are certain triggers that could guide her toward the truth. The white rose was one of them. Her favorite flower, a blossom that symbolizes strong emotions and devotion. She once told me that they’re her favorite, because they don’t rely on passion alone, but long-lasting and sustaining love. They always had plenty at her family’s store, providing solace for Petal when nothing else did. I knew that it would trigger something within her when I placed it in that vase on the table, but I couldn’t know what memory I would awake. All I knew is that it would be hazy and too vague for her to make any sense of it. It was interesting and disheartening at the same time when she shared her vision with me.

  A picture of men, surrounding her—and she picked me to be the evil one.

  That hurt, my dear Petal. That really hurt.

  “Jayson,” she utters again. Then she tilts her head to the side, fixating me with attentive eyes.

  “That’s a nice name, very classy,” she assesses, leaving me in the dark about any memories or connections she might have found upon hearing my revelation.

  I groan when she tilts her hips, her tight muscles tensing around me as if she was trying to milk me. That minx. I know what she’s trying to do. I know her well enough to realize that she’s trying to take over, claiming control that I’m not willing to relinquish.

  “You know you don’t get to call me that,” I remind her. “I’m your master.”

  Her gaze latches on to mine, the hint of a smile scurrying across her face.

  “Then why did you tell?” she wants to know. “Why did you tell me your name if you don’t want me to use it?”

  Dangerous intimacy flares between us, and she leans forward until her lips find mine. It’s the first time she’s the one initiating the kiss, and she’s not shy about it. She takes from me just as I took from her, breathing heavily while we intertwine in a luscious embrace. She moves closer, forbidding me to speak as her mesmerizing kiss silences me.

  And I let her. I close my eyes and give in to the woman who has haunted my dreams for as long as I can remember. There’s no fighting it. I neither can nor do I want to.

  But I know I should.

  Chapter 10

  Petal

  Jayson.

  His name has rolled over my lips before. Many times. There’s a strong sense of familiarity every time I give voice to it, every time I hear it, speak it, taste it.

  He left after our bath. He left after I found another high on his lap, climaxing on his length for a second time while his fingers dug into my skin as he peaked with me. Out of breath, with our chests heaving and our bodies still burning with lust, we stared at each other as if neither of us could believe what just happened.

  And then he left. His face was tense when I stepped out of the tub, leaving me behind with so many questions. Again.

  He always leaves when I least want him to. There’s yearning in my gaze every time I watch him walk out of the room.

  I hate it. Why does it have to be this way? Why does he do these things to me, just to put an end to everything when I’m feeling more elevated than I thought possible just a few days ago?

  I washed myself off and got out of the bath shortly after, putting on the only item of clothing at my disposal—another white gown, new and freshly washed, but with a design very similar to the one he tore off of my body before he punished me with the cane.

  The marks on my behind have darkened, painting a clear pattern of red stripes across my body. It looks as painful as it was, but I find myself smiling as I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. The sight of the marks evokes an emotion that surprises me: pride. I’m proud of them. He left them on me, to punish me, to mark what he believes to be his property.

  And I like it.

  It’s wrong, it’s twisted. It shouldn’t be this way. But I can’t fight the truth as I smile at the girl in the mirror. She still feels like a stranger, but the beam on her face is honest.

  I let the gown fall down over my bruised skin, relishing the slight burn that is nothing more than a tickle as the thin fabric dances across my wounds while I walk over to the bedroom. I meander the room aimlessly, unsure what to do with myself. There’s little to occupy my busy mind in here. If I could, I would journey back into the dungeon room next door, but the locked door is hindering me to do so. There’s only this room, comfortable and pleasant, but so plain that it could drive a person mad. The windows have been my greatest distraction so far, but I don’t feel like climbing up there again, searching for a salty breeze or a kiss of light that could give me an indication about the time of day.

  I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. All I ever wanted was access to this tiny piece of information, and now that I have it, I no longer crave the confirmation.

  A sigh echoes through the room as I plunk myself down on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, sitting cross legged with my hands resting in my lap while my eyes latch onto the only other living thing in this room.

  The white rose.

  It looks a little tired by now, with its head hanging low and its petals changing color at the edges. I shared some of my water with the flower, feeling solace in this odd companionship. The rose is just another piece in a puzzle that I can’t quite put together yet. It evoked a hazy vision that I’m sure was a depiction of a memory that’s been taken from me. He denied my presumption about him being the evil man in the middle, the tall one towering above everyone else. And I believe him. It would’ve been too easy if my guess was true, and the suspicion felt wrong from the beginning.

  But who was that man if not him?

  It was the rose that woke those dreary images inside my head. Does that mean it has something to do with that man? And why did the memory frighten me? Why did that vision make me feel so different than the rose itself does?

  It’s just another piece of the puzzle.

  Just like the stew the girl made for me. But there was nothing daunting about the familiar taste of that dish. It was just warmth, trust, solace—and it must be intimately connected to her. A friendship, possibly grown over a lifetime.

  Just another piece.

  And then there was his name, evoking both negative and position emotions as my lips move to say it out loud.

  “Jayson.”

  Intimacy. Connection. Fear. Ominous danger. Allure.

  I feel everything at once, and I don’t know how to make sense of it. His name tastes bittersweet to me, and the more I ponder on it, the more it confuses me.

  “Jayson.”

  I close my eyes, shielding myself from the outside world so I can follow a path that scares me as much as it entices me. I’m walking back to that wall, approaching the mystery that lies behind, but this time I have
his name in tow. I carry it with me like a guiding light, breathing the syllables again and again, as if I was blowing life into a fire.

  And after a while, that’s just what it feels like—a fire being lit inside me. I’m faced with that dreaded wall, standing before me tall and strong, and while the repeated whispering of his name didn’t bring light to this darkness, it did bring something else. Heat. Excitement. A pulse similar to the one I experienced just a few minutes ago, when he was still here. When I was sitting on him, his hardness stretching me while I took my second climax from him. Yes, I took that one. It wasn’t given to me like the others. I took that one, and felt all the better for it.

  My eyes remain closed, not minding the blindness while I revel in the soft throbbing that spreads throughout my core. It’s lust, carnal and real, yearning for more of him.

  But it’s not today’s memory that does this to me. At first, I thought it was, because it would only make sense. But when heat is finally joined by light, there’s a different image revealing itself. It’s me, on top of him. I’m burning, feeling droplets of sweat run down my spine as I try to get closer.

  Have we done this before? Before I woke up in this house, before I became his ignorant prisoner?

  Is that why I chose to be here? Because I wanted to be with him? Because I wanted to be as intimate with him as two people can be?

  “Jayson. Jayson. Jayson.”

  I repeat his name in a rhythm faster than my own breath, turning it into a breathless chant with a voice so distorted that it resembles the hissing of a snake more than a human voice. And with every breath, the image clears, teasing me with its vagueness while letting me feel the exact same way I must have felt then. I can only see shadows, bodies moving close to each other, but the way it feels...

  I wake with a start, almost falling off the bench when an abrupt sound tears me back to reality. My eyes fly open as I turn to the door, still breathing heavily when my gaze meets hers. The black-haired girl is standing about five feet away from me, carrying a tray and staring at me through wide eyes.

  Shame paints a deep red color on my cheeks and out of sheer awkwardness, I hurry to fix my gown, straightening the fabric across my legs as if I was trying to wipe away what just happened. She can’t have been here for long, but she entered the room without me noticing, giving her at least a short glance at what I was doing.

  Fantasizing. Lusting. I can still feel the desire between my legs, and even though I know she can’t see it, I feel as if the truth of it is written right across my forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, only worsening my predicament. Because she feels there’s something for her to apologize for.

  I try to ignore my embarrassment and focus on something else: the fact that she spoke.

  “Can we talk?” I ask, watching as she walks over to the table, placing the tray next to the white rose, as she always does.

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “But you—”

  “You need to eat,” she cuts me off, fixating me through narrow eyes. Her tense expression is sending a silent warning for me to shut up.

  He’s listening. That’s why.

  “Can he hear us?” I ask in a whisper. “Can he see us right now?”

  She doesn’t give me a verbal response this time, but the way her eyes scurry to the door and back to me is enough of an answer.

  He’s watching.

  Chapter 11

  J

  Life has settled into a new rhythm ever since that day I finally had her, all of her. My Petal turned into a wild creature when I gave her what only I knew she needed. Her cries and pleas still echo in my ears, and by now they have been joined by so many more. I know I can’t do these things to her every single day, because it would destroy her, like it would destroy any other person. I can’t always cane and fuck her like I did that day.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something else to her. When I came back to her room the next day, I found her kneeling so perfectly still and obedient that it made my chest burst with pride. Pride and hunger for her. I stepped forward, pulling her up on her feet with one brute pull, to which she answered with a pained mewl that was music in my ears. I dragged her across the room, not stopping until I reached the door to the dungeon, noticing how her breath hiked when I fiddled with the damn key. Her eyes trailed over to the cross right away, but that’s not where I took her that time. I pushed her down onto the floor with her hands in cuffs, tied to her ankles, ass up, face down. She was trembling in a blend of fear and lust, desire dripping from her center.

  I didn’t want to beat her that day, not that soon after her first time and with the stripes still deep and red on her perky ass. But she begged me to do it. She begged me to use the cane on her.

  And I refused. Because it wouldn’t be right.

  She had to live with a few spankings that day, groaning and begging for more each time my hand landed on her ass while I fucked her so viciously that I could be sure she wouldn’t complain about a lack of pain afterward.

  It was perfect.

  She is fucking perfect.

  She’s looking at me differently these days, and I’m not sure what to think of it. Her obedience didn’t suffer from her newfound desire to be hurt by me. On the contrary. She’s kneeling like the perfect slave, obeying every command I direct at her. I thought I’d be happy to see her like that, but I’m not.

  I’m worried.

  She’s too obedient, too eager to please, and too hungry for pain. While I knew that these are the things she’s always wanted but never dared to pursue, I’m astonished at the severity she craves. Her body is adorned with bruises and red weals, yet she keeps asking for more. She’s in the right hands for what she desires, but she’s playing with fire when she keeps pushing me like this. I may be versed in the art of containment, but I can feel the metaphorical shackles loosening each time I’m with her.

  And the fact that she keeps calling me by my name doesn’t make it any better. On the contrary. It’s the only disobedience she’s shown lately, and one that granted her more than one severe punishment. She speaks my name like a pledge, sweet with devotion, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d call it nostalgia. Of course, that can’t be, because she doesn’t have any memory of us, no matter what she may believe.

  “I’m worried about her.”

  Malia’s voice probes into my thoughts, forcing me back to the triteness of the present. I’m in the kitchen, skimming through e-mails to see whether there’s anything that needs an immediate response in means of keeping appearances at my job. I didn’t take on any new clients this month, but there could always be follow-up issues with the ones I finished before taking Petal here. Nothing today, though.

  “Why is that?” I ask, casting Malia a quick glance as she walks past me, holding a rolled-up newspaper in her hand as she makes her way to the sofa in the connected living room. This girl must be the only person I know who still reads the paper version of the local newspaper. It appears to be one of those habits that help her to stay sane in a situation that’s straining, to say the least.

  She plunks down into the heavy cushions, glaring at me while she smooths the overly large paper in her lap. “She looks exhausted. More so than usual.”

  Reproach is a loyal companion every time Malia faces me, and I don’t blame her for that. But I have no intention of finding excuses for myself.

  Petal felt the whip this morning. She was drenched in sweat and tears when I left the room.

  But she was smiling. There was a goddamn smile on her face when she thanked me—and it sent a cold shiver down my spine. I left her sooner than I intended, seeking distraction in my business inbox.

  “She’s getting what she wants,” I simply say, avoiding Malia’s piercing look from across the room.

  A few moments of strained silence stretch between us, and I can sense that Malia has more to say than that. There’s something on her mind, something she has yet to give voice to. And when she finally does, I turn into a pillar of salt, crippled by my own failure.

  “You told her your name,” she says. “She just mentioned it.”