get her hopes up too high. It could all be, and probably was, spank material slave-wear. It was unlikely she’d ever wear anything normal again. Still, being allowed some choice in something was . . . novel. There had been a time when she’d believed she’d wanted all choices removed from her.
But that hadn’t been true. When confronted with a truly powerless reality, the idea had been hot and exciting, and perhaps if it had been a good man, someone who hadn’t been intent on making her his torture toy in the literal sense, it would have been different. But the reality she’d been given instead drove home how valuable some freedoms were. Even the little ones.
“Grace?”
Her eyes flew to his, torn between the extreme gratitude of being addressed by name, as if she were a person, and fear that she’d be punished for standing there, gaping like a fish. Think when you’re alone, idiot. Not when he’s standing right here. Before she had time to work herself into a real panic, he spoke again.
“Do you understand what I just told you?” His voice was kind still, no anger apparent.
“Yes, Master,” she squeaked out. She looked at the ground, unable to stand seeing what a devastating disappointment she must be. She didn’t look up again until he’d left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
When she was alone, she went to the walk-in closet and gaped at the contents. What? Either he was fucking with her head or she was dreaming. This couldn’t be real. She wasn’t sure which thought was more disturbing, that he was going to so much trouble to make her feel safe only to take it all away again, or that she might still be lying on the cold stone floor in Lucas’s dungeon, dreaming all this.
The clothes were all normal. Stuff she might even have bought herself before the island. Grace closed her eyes against the vague memories of a time when she’d shopped. She hadn’t thought before she’d stepped on that plane about never going shopping again. The simple idea of never picking out or buying her own clothes hadn’t entered the fog of kink in her consciousness. She’d been too wrapped up in the fantasy and unconcerned with the practicalities, which she’d assumed would work themselves out.
Opening the drawers, she found actual pajamas. Pajama pants and cami tops. Not slut wear. Not slave wear. Of course, why would he dress her like a whore if that wasn’t why he’d bought her? Still, William seemed to have a uniform. Why didn’t she have a uniform? And why was he giving her the option of cooking and cleaning in pajamas to begin with? She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it.
And how did he know her sizes? She had a vague memory of Lucas measuring her soon after she’d arrived, and noting the information down on some papers. Had that information been passed to Asher when he bought her? It must have. Otherwise she couldn’t comprehend how he’d know her bra size and what size jeans to get. Though everything might be a little big. She’d lost some weight since arriving.
She picked pajamas. Though she was scared it was a trick, she couldn’t resist the comfort of simple PJs. The bathroom was as lush and wonderful as the other room. She dropped the cloak once she was inside behind the locked door.
She’d hesitated about locking it. The idea of having the power to lock someone out, instead of being the one locked in was a new and exciting concept. She was afraid that if Asher came upstairs and found the door locked, she’d be in trouble she didn’t want to think about. Her eyes drifted to the door in question.
The anxiety came over her in a wave, making her feel clammy, hot, cold. Her skin felt tight stretched across her, and she had to unlock the door. Just because she had a lock, didn’t mean she was allowed to use it. And God help her if she did and he found out about it. Once the door was unlocked again, the anxiety receded until she was back to the normal, general level of fear she experienced all the time.
Grace didn’t recall what it felt like not to be constantly afraid. But there was fear and there was panic. The former, when it was dull and constant, could be coped with. It could become the new normal, so you couldn’t really remember what you’d