Subjection (23 page)

I start to feel sick as he wakes me up earlier and earlier each day. I don’t even bother looking at a clock any more. The strange thing is that he doesn’t seem any less angry, in fact, he seems more angry with every passing day, and I start flinching away when he comes near me. It doesn’t make sense, and I know it infuriates him every time I do it, but he’s so out of control and explosive that I can’t override my own self-preservation instincts.

He never says anything about it though, he just snaps at me to keep working.

By the eighth day, I’m crying within an hour of waking up. I’m down on my knees again, on the tile floor of the guest bathroom, scrubbing the already white grout with a small toothbrush and cleaning paste. My knees are bruised and my back hurts and I sit there in tears until he comes in to check on me. He orders me to continue, and I just can’t. I don’t move from the spot, and when he comes back in to check on me, I’m in a ball on the floor, whimpering and covering my face. “Just beat me, master,” I mumble, wishing I wasn’t saying it. I’ve never willingly asked to be beaten before, but it would be better.

“What?” he demands, standing over me. I curl away, expecting a kick.

“Please, just beat me, master,” I repeat. “Just get it over with. I can’t take this.”

He grabs me by the shoulder and jerks me up, and it’s all I can do not to go limp under his grasp. “Whatever gave you the idea that I was going to beat you?” he demands.

The endless torture, maybe? “Please, master, I know that what I did was wrong. I get it. I can’t keep doing this, sir, I can’t keep working like this, it’s killing me, and it’s not helping you. I just… I’d rather you beat me than drag it out like this. I won’t do it again. I won’t look anyone up and I won’t try to find my family and I won’t do anything wrong, I promise!” I’ve turned into a sobbing mess, and I’m shaking, half from the exhaustion and half from the terror I feel.

“I thought you wanted to learn more about me and my family,” my master says, his voice low and dangerous. “I thought I’d show you first-hand what I’m about.”

“This isn’t you, master!” I protest without even thinking about it. He’s silent too long and I dare to glance up, surprised when he looks back at me in shock. “You’re not like this. This is just… pointless suffering, and cruelty. None of these things even need to be done, and you’re not getting any work done in the meantime because you’re trying to prove some stupid point! It’s inefficient and wasteful and—”

He backhands me, which I know damn well I deserve, and his iron grip on my arm is all that keeps me from flying into the wall. I taste blood where I my teeth catch on the inside of my cheek.

“Don’t
ever
speak to me like that again, Sascha,” he hisses. It’s the first time he’s used my name in days. “You don’t know the first thing about who I am.”

“I know you’re smarter than to waste perfectly good help on scrubbing grout!”

He draws back his hand to hit me again and I don’t flinch or back down. I stare into his eyes, bracing myself for the hit, knowing I deserve it as much as the last one, but refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

“Get out of my fucking sight,” he growls. “Take one step out of your bedroom before you’re told otherwise and I
will
beat you. Try me and I won’t even bother selling you—I’ll give you away.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He’s still clutching my arm, and I glare pointedly at it. He shoves me away, making me stumble as he does it. Before I can get myself into further trouble, I rush down the hall and into my bedroom. I manage to hold in the tears and shaking until the door is shut and my head is hidden under my pillow. I don’t know whether I won or lost the fight.

Chapter 20
Threats

I watch Sascha leave, barely able to contain the rage I feel toward him. I was supposed to be training him, putting him in his place, making him feel stupid and afraid and inadequate, just like the best training methods dictated. I wanted to feel vindicated when he worshipped the slightest hint of kindness, to see him so broken that he could never forget who owned him again.

I wanted to force both of us to remember our respective places before we got too comfortable.

Instead, I feel ashamed. He’s still not the perfect slave that the treatment was supposed to produce. He’s worse; he’s smart, and he saw through my game as clearly as I saw through my mother’s. I’ve always been taught that fear accomplishes something; when it fails to accomplish, it is clear that I am just being cruel. It sickens me. The threat to sell him wasn’t much better, but I had to get him away from me. I still own him, and the disrespect he subjected me to was enough that I wanted to lose all control, beat him until he screamed and bled and begged me to stop.

I want to wash all of my mother’s influence from my mind.

I try to decide what to do. A part of me wants to give him the beating he asked for, another wants to just leave him to stew in his own anxiety for a few days. I thought I was prepared to deal with a slave; slave training is in my family, in my blood. I know all the right things to do. I just never expected to get a slave like Sascha.

A knock on the door draws me away from my thoughts, and I answer without a thought.

I’m shocked to see Kristine Miller standing there with a smile on her face.

“Why are you here?” I ask, too stunned to worry about being polite.

“Can’t a mother visit her son?” she asks, her voice false and sweet-sounding. “I’ve never seen your place. I gave you the money for it, but I’ve never seen more than a picture.”

“You said you didn’t want anybody to associate your good name with mine.”

“Well, then, I had better come inside.”

Without waiting for an invitation, my mother steps into the door, glancing expectantly at me until I close it behind her.

“Most people have their slaves do that sort of labor,” she comments. She’s barely inside of my house, and already she’s criticizing me. “Where is your little pet, anyway?”

“In his room,” I reply, curt.

“In the room you let him use,” my mother corrects. “Never forget who owns who.”

She’s not talking about the slave anymore, she’s talking about me and her. “He doesn’t know,” I inform her. “What happened, the research. He doesn’t know.”

“So, I take it you want to keep your secrets safe, Mr. Michaud?”

I can see her mocking me, but I don’t care. I’m furious at Sascha, but I don’t want him to be a pawn in this exchange. I subjected him to her style of training; the least I can do is protect him from experiencing it firsthand.

“Why are you in my house?” I ask again.

“To visit,” she repeats. “You don’t mind, do you? If I have a look around, see what you’ve done with the place.”

“I’m sure there are neighborhoods having home tours right now.”

“But none are as interesting as yours,” she reminds me, her eyes cold.

“You have no right to be in my house,” I mutter, uncertain of how to remove her. “You don’t have a warrant, or an official investigation, or—”

“Cash, I wouldn’t have anything to do with those, anyway,” she reminds me, a smile playing on the edge of her lips. “I’m not a law officer. I’m not even a quality inspector. There are people that review my human products, but I would never debase myself by doing that work on my own. I research. I think. I design. Surely, you understand that after all these years?”

I nod. I do understand, but just because she doesn’t have the official titles doesn’t mean she can’t make my life hell again.

“Of course, I could probably pull a few strings and get one of my friends in the judicial department to find a way in here,” she says, as if she’s just musing out loud. “I mean, it does demonstrate a commitment to quality. And if my very own son refused to let me into his house… well, I’d say that seems suspicious, don’t you? Suspicious enough for a formal investigation. It would be terrible to see all those armed officers swarming the house; they always track mud in on their boots.

“Welcome to my home,” I say, not meaning it in the slightest. I just can’t fight her. It’s not worth it.

“I’ll let you know if I see anything that’s non-compliant,” she says, winking conspiratorially at me.

I stand back and watch her take over my home. She rifles through everything she can, looking for something to incriminate me. If I protest, she’ll have her evidence, but if she finds something, she’ll find even more. She questions me as she does it, talking about my job, my friends, my social life, my slave. She spends a lot of time talking about Sascha, and I get increasingly worried as she does. I don’t know that I can trust the slave, not after what just happened. I hurt him, I tormented him, and the last thing I did before leaving him in panic was threaten to give him away like an unwanted puppy.

Like a predatory animal, my mother senses my fear.

“Does your slave spend all day in his room?” she asks.

“No,” I shake my head. “He annoyed me and I told him to get away from me.”

My mother purses her lips. “Avoidance isn’t a good strategy, Cash,” she chides.

I wish I could avoid her.

“Take me to him,” she demands, and I comply. I don’t know what else to do.

As we walk down the hall, I can feel her frown getting larger. Sascha’s door is closed, as it always is, and it’s in violation of the Miller System training that demands that slaves not have any privacy. I can feel her judging me and my slave.

“I didn’t want to see his face,” I mutter, feeling ridiculous for making an excuse.

“Our associates make punishment hoods for a reason,” she comments, throwing open the door like it belongs to her.

Sascha is lying on the bed, quiet, curled into a ball. He jumps when he hears the door open, but he doesn’t move.

“Sascha,” I intone, praying he won’t fight it. “Up and on your feet.”

He responds immediately, tears forming in his eyes, quickly replaced by confusion as he sees that I am not alone. I want to pause everything, to tell him what’s going on, to let him in on everything I can. I don’t want him to know, but I need him on my side. I realize just how badly I might have ruined this for myself.

“Sascha, this is my mother,” I say, carefully keeping my tone level. “You will answer any questions she has and treat her with utmost respect.”

Sascha nods. “Yes, master,” he replies. He studies my face for a moment, then turns and bows his head deferentially in my mother’s direction. “It is a pleasure to meet and serve you, ma’am.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s putting on the good slave act, at least for now. He studies her for a moment, a confused look on his face, but then he lets it pass, standing there silently and waiting.

“How long has Cashiel had you, boy?” she asks, starting a series of demographic questions. Sascha stands at attention in front of us, answering perfectly. I am amazed by how well he performs; he still looks like he’s had the life beaten out of him, and there is a bruise on his face from where I hit him earlier. It bothers me to think that my mother would be proud of that fact, if not the specific placement of the bruise. She asks Sascha what he thinks I do, what I use him for, if there have ever been any problems that a “mother” would want to know.

She’s investigating me without really investigating me. I would almost rather suffer through a formal investigation, except I know she would stage that in her favor. This is a hunting expedition, but it’s also an intimidation tactic. She will have me submit, or she will force it. At least this way, I have some illusion of control.

She orders Sascha to follow us around the house, continuing to interview him. She asks about the kinds of food we eat, the correction tools I use on him, the freedoms and restrictions he has. Again, he surprises me, providing appropriate stock answers at every turn.

“Cash, would you mind me meeting with the boy alone?” she asks, smiling coldly. “A mother is always so concerned about her boy.”

I seethe. Just when I think I am getting ahead of her, she outwits me again. I can’t say no, but I don’t want to say yes. “Of course not,” I reply. I turn to Sascha, trying to disguise the apologetic look on my face. “Go with her. Obey.”

My mother looks like an animal about to devour her prey.

“If I find him to be unsatisfactory, do I have your permission to implement some corrections?” she asks, like she’s trying to be polite.

I see Sascha going pale, and I want protect him. I think about it, instead.

“I’ll handle it,” I answer, finally. “After all, he is my responsibility. I know how much you hated when I neglected my responsibilities.”

She shoots me a glare, the one that tells me she’s furious at me for making her lose. She’s underestimated me.

“Come, boy,” she snaps, grabbing Sascha by the arm. “We’ll see how well you remember your training.”

I try not to think of how bizarre it is that my master’s mom is basically kidnapping me. She digs her fingernails into my arm and drags me into his office. It seems weird that he’s not here, just like it seems weird to see the same dark eyes on his mother as I see on my master every day. They look so much alike that I start to wonder what his dad looks like, if he and his wife are as alike as my master and his mother. She looks familiar, but I can’t quite place her. I attribute it to her familiarity to my master.