The dream, she was in it again. Dear God, no. Get out. Wake up!
The shadowy Masters in the dream paid no attention to her silent plea, just as they hadn’t in her memory. The wet cloth covered her face, heavy and stifling. Panicked, she sucked in a breath. No, wrong, stupid, because her mouth filled with water, not air. There was no air, none. Not in her lungs, not in her nose. Only water, never-ending water in her face and all around.
Her whole body bucked with the effort to breathe, but all she earned was a brief respite, just the flash of distraction as the bonds cut into her wrists and ankles and neck. Then she was drowning. This time they had gone too far. No air – she gulped. She sucked the water into her lungs, knowing it was over. Hope faded, everything dimmed.
The rush of air shocked her before the bright lights could register. She drank in the air, free from the torture chamber of simple damp cloth.
Her face was wet, leftover water, but also with her tears, with snot, with drool. And lower too, she had wet herself, but she couldn’t bring herself to embarrassment just yet. She couldn’t control them, not a single one of her reactions, as her body spasmed and shook and grunted out primal sounds of relief and fear.
The master crossed his arms, angry, but his eyes were amused. “Don’t have anything to say now, do you?”
Her body jerked in its restraints, though she couldn’t have said why. Actually, she couldn’t say anything. Her throat was frozen. Her mind pulled it to a halt like some large, clumsy piece of machinery now rutted into the dry ground. Good. She couldn’t remember what she had said, but she thought she must have talked back. She must have mouthed off, and her masters didn’t tolerate that.
“Answer me,” he said.
What was the question? No, she had nothing to say him, not ever again if it meant she did not have to endure that again. Her body jerked and secreted fear in the form of bodily excretions, but it would eventually find equilibrium. But her mind—God. Her mind was numb, waiting, like that moment after seeing your thumb hit with a hammer but before the pain sets in. She would never be the same again. She would never be warm, never be safe again.
He flicked her, right on her forehead. “Cat got your tongue?”
She closed her eyes, opened them. Licked her lips and tried to speak, but nothing came out.
His eyebrow raised. “The correct answer is ‘Yes, Master.’”
When nothing came out, he turned purple, splotchy. “You would disobey me now? That wasn’t enough for you? Answer me, slave. Say it.”
Fear shuddered through her. Her throat worked, fruitless. She formed the words with her mouth, desperate. Yes, Master, Yes, Master, Yesssssmaster.
Her lips kept moving, even as the wet cloth clamped down on them. The water slapped her face, fell into her mouth, and blocked her nose. Only one lungful of air left. She opened her mouth to scream. Use it all up to scream, but it turned into a gargle. She gasped and gasped, breathing in water. Drowning, sinking, falling too deep to ever make her way back up in time.
*
She woke gasping for air, shivering. That nightmare again. God.
At least she couldn’t remember it. That was a small comfort, but the effects on her body were chilling enough. It took her a minute to realize where she was again. Not her cell. She had a new master, one who kept a beautiful cell for her. One who fed her fresh bread and clean water.
It took her a moment to hear it: something between a groan and a whimper. She glanced at the window first, fearful of wild animals. The house was practically in the middle of a jungle. The sound came again, this time more clearly through the wall—from inside the house. When it was accompanied by a muted thump, she thought she knew what it was. Who it was.
Her feet hit the cold, gnarled wood, and she padded into the hallway silently. His door was open. She saw a shadowed figure flail on the bed, but far from scary, the sight was endearing. He had nightmares—like her.
She crept inside. How exactly would she wake him up without speech? Perhaps she could shake him, though the thought of touching him without permission… but she had to try. She knew the pain of being trapped inside a dream, again and again.
When she reached the side of the bed, he stilled. This room was darker than hers, without a window. The sheets drew gray relief against the black night. Perhaps his dream had ended.
In a flash of shadows and whip of wind, she was wrenched onto the bed. With a silent cry, she fell—caught by softness and blanketed with male musk. Uncertainty kept her still, but curiously she felt no fear.