Page 9 of Own Me

“Long night?” I take a seat in front of her.

“Yeah—you can say that. How are things going with Shay?”

“Going. I was hoping to get some feedback from you. Do you know anything about her past?”

I’m curious if Shay opened up to Tabitha during her intake. Sometimes not everything discussed is disclosed to therapists. It’s not a bad thing because it makes us work towards gaining trust with our patients during sessions. With Shay, I can use all the help I can get, and I hope that with the notebook I gave her, she’ll open up there.

“Unfortunately, all I could get out of her is what I told you. Her previous partner’s driver gave me a little more information, but nothing super helpful. Has she opened up at all? Would you like me to try having another session with her?”

“No, I don't want to push her too far too soon. I gave her a notebook and told her I wanted her to write what she doesn’t want to say out loud. I’m hoping it’ll help her feel more comfortable with me.”

“That’s good! Great idea. How is she feeling? Any signs of self-harm?”

“She’s not eating very much. So I’ve implemented a rule that she has to eat 3 meals a day. I’ve already spoken to the kitchen staff so they’re aware. So far she’s missed one meal, and that will need to be addressed.” I lean forward with my elbows resting on my thighs. “Tabitha, I’m afraid 6 weeks might not be enough time with Shay.”

She looks down at the papers on her desk and sighs, “I agree—but we need to try our best to use this time wisely. After the program ends, we can transition to outpatient therapy. I’ll look into finding someone in New York who is familiar with the Institute. They can do weekly sessions with her.”

That’s not good enough. “Understood. Keep me posted on the search,” I stand to walk out of her office.

“Rayne. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t fix everything, and that’s okay. We are here to help, not make everything picture perfect again. Do what you can, and we will make sure she gets what she needs afterward.”

“Yeah—I'll do my best.”

I walk out of her office conflicted. I barely know this woman, but something inside of me pulls me towards her. I can’t explain it. Shay Clarke has grabbed hold of a piece of my heart, and now I’ll fight like hell to take hers.

I knock twice on Shay’s door. No answer. I manage a small smile, thinking she’s downstairs eating like I instructed her to. Good girl. I opened the door to an empty room. She had made the bed and tidied the room. I’ve had patients who leave their rooms looking like a bomb had gone off. Not Shay, though. She’s neat, meticulous, and leaves little sign that she has even been here.

Instead of leaving, knowing she’s not here, I take advantage of the moment and go through her things. This isn’t something I usually do since it’s done at intake, but maybe there is something here that will give me more insight as to who she is. She hasn’t unpacked her suitcases, and one sits in the corner of the room; the other is in the closet.

I go through the small one—it’s only clothes. No other personal possessions. I take the larger one out and look through it—again, only clothes, shoes, and a hair dryer. I figure since she said she liked to write, she might have a notebook, laptop, or tablet with her to keep her entertained. Instead, I realized she has no belongings aside from the clothes I assume her previous Dom picked out and bought for her.

She has no identity. Nothing she can absolutely call her own. She was a slave—used only for what she could offer: service and obedience. I got what I came here for, even if it wasn’t what I was expecting. As much as I want to enjoy her being easy to handle, she needs to learn who she is and her place in this world.

Chapter Seven

SHAY

Rayne wasn’t in his room this morning for breakfast, so I went alone. I wonder what he has in store for me today. After our conversation at lunch yesterday, I kept to myself, and so did he. I could tell he had more to say. My appetite has come back a bit more, so this morning I grabbed some eggs, bacon, and toast.

Not my usual go-to for breakfast; I always had a lighter meal per Arin’s orders. It feels good to be able to eat whatever I want, just as long as I eat 3 meals a day. That has been the only rule Rayne has given me so far. It wasn’t demanding or demeaning, but for my own good.

When I agreed to treatment, I agreed to follow all of his rules. Taking direction and following rules are things I’m good at. I’ve always been submissive, and I enjoy doing things to make people happy. Arin saw that in me from the moment we met, and he used it to get what he wanted from me for a long time.

I want to make Rayne pleased with me, so I’ll make sure to eat every day, even if I’m not hungry. The tension and worrisome feeling of someone being disappointed in me is something I can’t stand. I’ve always been a people pleaser; never wanting to say no, even if it was something that could eventually hurt me. I can’t help myself. This is how I ended up with Arin.

A lump forms in my throat whenever I think of him. My stomach sours mid-chew; I feel like I’m going to throw up. Why do I always feel so sick to my stomach when I think of him lately? It must be grief. Loneliness. Fear.

“What are they serving this morning?” A deep voice from behind me makes me jump in my seat. It takes me a moment to realize who it is. Rayne. He’s looking so handsome this morning in a plain black shirt and dark jeans. I love how he can wear casual clothes and be so relaxed. I’m not used to that.

“Uh–the usual. I decided to switch things up this morning,” I mutter under my breath, but when I look up at him, I see the quick twitch in his lip. His eyes are focused on me, but not in a way that frightens me. No, he’s observing me like he has been since the moment we met.

Watching every move. Contemplating. Planning. Being careful with his words and actions. Like I’m a scared little animal he doesn’t want to spook with sudden movements or sound.

It suddenly infuriates me. Something snaps inside of me, and I want to roar. I want him to show some emotion, tell me what he’s thinking or what he wants to do with me. Anything but this quietness I receive from him.

What do I have to do to get a rise out of him?

Why do I want to in the first place? That thought makes me afraid.