Page 1 of Reclaimed

1

JERSEY

A311

Aviolent surge of electricity tears through me, every muscle locking as searing heat unfurls beneath my skin. I jolt upright, choking on a gasp as my gaze sweeps wildly around the room, searching for the source of this rude as fuck awakening. The screen on my Guardian cuff glows in the darkness, tattling on itself.

I slouch back against the headboard with an irritated sigh, the residual shock still crackling beneath my skin. The other side of the bed is empty, the ensuite’s dark, and Commander Martin's phone is gone from the charger. Knowing nothing’s lurking in the shadows, my nervous system starts to settle.

Well, nothing besides the usual threat, and it seems he's already downstairs.

The screen flashes again, and I scowl down at the matte-black device permanently fastened to my wrist as his message scrolls across the screen.

Bring coffee to the office.

I huff out a breath, swiping the message away and kicking back the tangled duvet. As I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, I cast a resentful glance toward the photograph on the nightstand, muttering, "Bet he never tased you awake for coffee."

Grace smiles brightly back at me from the framed wedding picture while Commander Martin presses a kiss to her temple. It creeped me out at first, the way she seemed to stare into my soul while her husband used my body to purge his aggression. Eventually, it became my distraction. I'd let my mind wander, studying the intricate details of her dress, counting the roses in her bouquet– twenty-six, to be exact– and trying to understand the happiness shining in her hazel eyes.

The eyes he claims I have.

The reason he had to have me.

Sliding off the bed, I grimace when my bare feet hit the hardwood, a dull throb radiating from between my legs. My jaw tightens with each step as I head down the hall, tugging off my oversized sleep shirt and discarding it on the bed as I pass through my room. With as rough as Commander Martin was last night, I half expect to see blood when I glance down, but there isn’t any. And the pain is nothing some ibuprofen and a hot shower can't fix– more than I can say for the bruises littering my thighs from his harsh grip.

I twist the water on, finger-combing my hair into a messy bun before setting a fresh towel on the counter. Steam billows around me as I pull back the curtain, and I step beneath the scalding spray without flinching, water pelting my body and dissolving the tension from my muscles in seconds.

He's not always brutal. Most of the time he’s playing out the sick fantasy of making love to his dead wife. Calling me by her name as he pairs soft kisses with tender strokes, savoring every minute. I like it when he’s rougher, when his movements pulse with rage, rather than the sensual courtesy of a Hallmark card. I’m sure it’s a fucked up preference, but I’d rather be punished for being me than be worshipped as his perverted stand-in. But last night was different.

Stress etched his features as he flipped me over, yanked me by the ankles to the edge of the bed, and slammed into me. The first time that happened, I tried to fight back, then spent weeks recovering from a bruised trachea and dislocated jaw. The most fucked up part was that I still had to service him daily.

Now, I just lie still.

Commander Martin doesn’t like to acknowledge those moments. When he loses control; when I can’t soothe him the way she apparently did. He wants the evidence washed away so he can go on ignoring his shortcomings.

The soap lathers beneath my palm as I scrub at his marks. The bruises sting as I rub harder, as if I can erase them with more pressure, more soap. But even if that were possible, it'd only be a matter of time before he left new ones.

I'm his Asset. That's what he bought me for.

Too bad I'm the one paying the price.

I cut the water off, pat myself dry, and pull out a soft grey lounge set.

Between last night and this morning’s crass wake-up call, I don’t waste time getting dressed. I'm not stupid enough to provoke the devil when he's already on edge.

Silence stretches around me, the hazy glow of sunrise beginning to seep in through the windows as I descend the stairs. The warm scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air as I pad into the kitchen and pluck two cups from the shelf, making sure my guardian’s is full to the brim before pouring my own. The carafe hovers in my hand as I try and fail to hold back a yawn, staring down into the mugs while gnawing on the inside of my cheek, watching the dark liquid swirl around temptingly.

Should I take Commander Martin's cup in to him? Yes.

But is my exhaustion-riddled body practically begging me to take a drink? Also yes.

Fuck it.

The glass pot clinks against the burner as I rush to replace it and snatch up my mug. I hum in satisfaction as the coffee hits my tongue in all its caffeinated glory, my shoulders sagging in relief.

The joy is tragically short lived.

My muscles seize, knees buckling as I drop to the floor like a ragdoll. The mug shatters, scalding liquid splashing my skin as an electric current rips through my system, my back arching and limbs jerking uncontrollably as sharp, blinding pain splinters through my body.