Chapter 58

There are so many questions running through my head, but my brain freezes again when I see her choice of clothing. The white pants are loose-fitting and flow over her lower body. The navy blue top is cut high at the neck and falls over the curve of her breasts and down past her waist. The color accents the blue of her eyes, and the smooth plains of her exotic face are highlighted by the edge of the material against her skin. A white scarf covers her head, hiding her glorious hair. Though she's covered, nothing but a complete facial mask could possibly hide her beauty.
"Is my attire appropriate, Sir?"
I frown in displeasure and her hands fumble with the knot at her scarf. I rest my hand on top of hers, covering her trembling fingers, and stop their movement.
We need to settle this right now. "What is my name?"
She hesitates but replies softly, "Zach."
"Please use it." I rub my fingers over her skin and inch my body a little closer so I can inhale her scent. "You are lovely."
"Yes... Zach."
"Thank you. We'll leave in fifteen minutes. I need a bit of food and coffee first."
She looks at me for a moment and it's obvious she's deciding if she should say something. "Master doesn't always allow me to cover my hair," she finally shares.
Like I know why Monroe does anything. "Do you feel more comfortable with it covered?"
"Yes, Sir... Zach."
Her quick save makes me smile. It almost hurts to see her hair covered, so maybe that's how Monroe looks at it. "You look fine," I say even knowing she looks much more than fine. She'd be fucking gorgeous in a plain sack.
We eat breakfast quickly, saying little. Freshly showered and with the ibuprofen kicking in and my stomach filled, I feel much better and more in command of my circumstances. Angel and I will have a long discussion after I read the contract and decide how the next few weeks will proceed. Past a few weeks, I can't think about at this time. Monroe had better get his ass home quickly.
We enter Monroe's home and the smile and hug Angel bestows on Stephens startles me, but not as much as the smile and embrace Stephens returns. The old coot has a soft spot for Angel that I wouldn't have believed if I didn't see it myself. I'm actually jealous that Stephens receives such warm regard, and I bite back a growl.
Monroe gave me carte blanche when it comes to Angel. Just the thought makes my cock respond and for the oddest, unknown reason, I don't want other men around her. This isn't like me in the least.
***
An hour later I'm holding Angel and Mon roe's contract in my hands. It's short and straightforward. Different than the few I've signed in my D/s relationships. There are no limits, soft or hard. Anger tightens in my gut. The contract states Monroe decides all limits. This is complete bullshit. I know Monroe loves edge play and even crosses into RACK which stands for risk-aware consensual kink.
The thought of Monroe-hell, the thought of anyone-having that kind of control over Angel makes my blood boil. What the hell is the matter with me? Yesterday I tried to tell Monroe some of my internal feelings about him, and today I want to kill the man.
Again.
I need to speak with Angel.
After searching the house to no avail, I finally break down and ask Marguerite, who's in the kitchen doing whatever it is she does to stay busy. "Hiciste mi grito preciosa dulce," she responds. The rapid fire words are too fast for me to follow, though it's obvious by her tone that Marguerite is angry.
"I'm catching part of what you're saying but..."
She tosses the wet rag she was holding at my chest. I catch it before it hits my shirt. "You make her cry, mi hombre fuerte grande."
"Ah, hell." I sling the rag into the sink and run my hand over my head. "I'm at a loss, Marguerite. I may be big and strong, but I don't have a clue how to handle a slave. This is Monroe's doing, not mine."
"Se駉r Monroe make her happy. She smile, but she no smile when she come home this time. Now she no smile with you. Her soul lost. Se駉r say you help to bring back more."
And the biggest reason I won't kill Monroe is because he makes Angel happy. My frustration is clear, though. "I'm glad he told you, because he said nothing to me."
Marguerite's lips soften slightly and she flashes a quick smile. "She love you, she love Se駉r. She ask Marguerite muchas preguntas. She tiene im醙enes."
I pull through the Spanish and puzzle out a few words. "Questions and pictures about what?"
"Mi gran hombre est鷓ido."
"I feel stupid, but why me?" She rolls her eyes and I take a minute to process our conversation. "Where are the pictures?" I finally ask.
Marguerite turns and begins rinsing out the rag she tossed at me. She looks back over her shoulder and says, "Her room."
"Where is Angel right now?"
"El jard韓 con l醙rimas."
"English, please." My frustration is at its limit.
"El garden with tears, hombre est鷓ido."
Without another word, I leave the kitchen and head to Monroe's bedroom. I knocked on the door earlier with no answer. This time I enter without bothering to knock. The room has Monroe written all over it, and I allow my eyes to travel around the opulent surroundings. It's impossible not to notice the restraints at the corners of the masculine four-poster king size mega bed. The bindings actually surprise me. It's unlike Monroe to play outside his dungeon, Club El Diablo, or when he's working on his art in the photo studio. I go to the double-shuttered doors on the east side of the room and pull them open.
The room beyond is feminine and obviously belongs to Angel. The bed is also king size and is covered by a gauzy, soft, green canopy. My eyes travel until they land on the far wall, which is covered with framed pictures. I move closer.
Monroe's Shibari.
But these pictures focused only on me. I've never seen them before and I thought I'd seen all of Melody's and Monroe's creations. In these photos, my face is uncovered, which is odd because I never realized they were taken. Even more surprisingly, I'm not angry.
The art itself is incredible and the photographs bridge years. The early ones show my inexperience, but they're somehow bolder than I remember. The later ones, bolder still, as my dominance matured.
"He freed me as did you."
I turn at the sound of her voice. Waves of cascading wind-blown hair surround her body. My gaze travels every inch of her. She's wearing a loose yellow caftan that stops at her ankles. I lift my eyes and meet the ocean-blue depths of hers. It takes a mental shake in order to speak. I wave at the wall. "I've never seen these pictures."
Angel moves a step closer. "He gave me a room down the hall but my nightmares grew worse and he moved me in here. That is when he gave me the pictures."
"Were you his slave then?"
Her expression closes off and I almost wish I could retract my question. "No," she clips.
I'm going for broke. "Why are you his slave now?"
Her smile seems sad somehow. "It works for us and I love him."
I should stop while I'm behind. It hurts to hear her say she loves Monroe. "How do you know something else wouldn't work for you?"
She shrugs. "I tried. It did not."
I look back at the wall and something occurs to me. "Were the pictures here when you moved into the room?"
"Yes."
"Why?" It makes no sense. "Why would he have pictures of me in here?"
She gives another slight shrug. "You must talk to Master."
I glance over my shoulder. "But you know the answer?"
Another brief smile and again it's somehow sad. "Not all of it, no."
This is getting us nowhere. I have more questions now than I did before. "We need to talk about the contract." I pace a few feet in front of the pictured wall trying to decide where the discussion should take place. The wall is almost creepy now and I just want to leave the room. My knee throbs and I hobble for a moment.
"I will get what you need for your knee from Marguerite if you will sit on the bed."
I look at the bed and then back at her. "Sitting on your bed is not a good idea. I can make it downstairs and Marguerite can treat me there."
I step toward the door and the muscles surrounding my injury decide to spasm. I can't stifle my groan. Angel wedges her shoulder beneath my arm. "Christ, this is a bad idea," I say in pain and exasperation.
Angel disengages herself and pushes slightly until I'm lying on the bed. She picks up the house phone on the nightstand and fluent Spanish pours from her delectable lips as she requests the items that are needed to ease my suffering. I give a weary sigh and sink back into the pillows.
"You will need to remove your pants if I am to help you."
My eyes shoot open. "That is a very bad idea. I prefer Marguerite's care."
The hurt look she gives almost makes me reconsider. Then her face changes and I swear a touch of stubbornness takes over. Without saying a word, she leaves the room.