Page 14 of Anchored

“Please don’t make me come in here again on Monday.”

Tim’s voice was soft, but the warning was clear, so Daniel said, “I won’t.”

Tim sighed and drew Daniel to a stop in the near-empty newsroom, looked him in the eye. For a moment, Daniel thought he might scold him, but instead he just shook his head and said, “I’m sorry you’re unhappy.”

Daniel waited for the rest—But buck up, do your duty, your happiness has no bearing here—but Tim just said good-night and sent him on his way.

The doorman told Daniel the penthouse was unlocked and to let himself in. Daniel was perfectly happy not to be led off the elevator by his master, but once he was standing in the condo, he had no idea what to do. He had no place here yet, no rules or boundaries. He didn’t know what was okay to touch, or if he was allowed to sit, or if the offer to use the kitchen still stood. He wanted to shower, wash the makeup off his face, let the heat unclench the muscles in his back, but he didn’t know if that was allowed either.

At a loss, Daniel tiptoed toward the slave suite. The light was on in the bathroom, but not the bedroom, and he could hear Dave snoring softly through the cracked-open door. There were lights on in the large, open kitchen/living room, but none down the hallway toward the guest room or his master’s bedroom. Everyone was asleep.

He eyed the kitchen table and counters, the coffee table in the living room, looking for a note or directions or . . . something, his jaw cracking with a yawn as he walked a circuit around the room. He found nothing, but then, he hadn’t expected to. His master had obviously assumed that Daniel would know what to do. Maybe, in his belligerence or his pain, he’d simply not heard whatever instructions his master had given. Or maybe Tim had told him, and he hadn’t paid attention. He knew companions warmed their masters’ beds, but was that . . . was he . . .?

What if he accidentally woke the master? What if he went in there and his master didn’t want him? The man would be angry; he would punish him. He would tell Mr. Foster.

Better not risk it. He’d sleep on the couch.

Except, he didn’t know if he was allowed to do that, either. His first mistress never let him on the furniture.

Fuck it. He’d sleep on the floor.

Thank God for carpeting. The floor was hard and chilly, but at least not unbearably so. He fell asleep on his belly but woke up sometime in the middle of the night, curled on his side, shivering cold and with a crick in his neck. Misery prompted a moment’s contemplation of crawling into his master’s warm bed, but in the end, he simply pulled his arms into the sleeves of his T-shirt and propped a sneaker under his head in lieu of a pillow.

When next he awoke, it was morning, and his pajama-clad master was standing over him, arms crossed, hair rumpled, looking decidedly unhappy.

“I woke up and my bed was cold,” the master snapped.

Daniel popped his arms from his sleeves and bolted to his knees, barely feeling the pain or stiffness in his body over the sudden panic and the rabbitlike thumping of his heart. “I’m sorry, Master,” he blurted, because the master was pissed and he was going to tell Mr. Foster and Daniel could barely breathe. He couldn’t handle another trip down to the basement, he couldn’t. “I came home and everyone was sleeping and I didn’t know what to—”

The master cut him off with an uncoordinated wave, then rubbed one eye with the hand he’d just flopped at Daniel. “I need caffeine before I can listen to this.” Cram the excuses, you dumb slave cunt. I’m not interested. “What time is it? Jane!” Daniel flinched at the shouting; it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t aimed at him. The master squinted at the kitchen, back at Daniel. “Where’s Jane?”

“I, I don’t—”

“No,” the master sighed, this time rubbing his other eye. “Of course you don’t. You just woke up too.”

“I’m sor—”

“Yes yes, you’re sorry, I get it, now please stop apologizing; it’s fine.”

It’s . . . what? Daniel sucked in the deepest breath he could, tried to force his brain to think. Something was definitely not adding up here, and he was starting to get the sense that maybe this situation didn’t actually call for panic.

The master turned his squint on Daniel. “Are you cold? You’re shaking.”

“Y-yes, Master, the floor is—”

He was cut off this time by Jane bustling through the front door with a brown paper bag tucked under one arm and a large steaming takeout cup in the other. She paused in the entranceway when she saw them, eyeing them both, but then stepped forward and held out the cup. “You’re up early, Master. Grande soy latte, extra sugar.”

The master snatched the cup from her hand and took a long swig. “Yeah, well, I woke up alone and got worried.”

Daniel flinched again, but Jane just winked. “And grumpy, too.” For real? Had she seriously just spoken to her master like that? “But cheer up, Master—the bakery had those gluten-free bagels you love. Still hot and everything.”

The master grunted, but fell in line behind Jane, following her to the kitchen table and plopping down in a chair. She smeared some jelly on a bagel and gave it to him, then handed him two morning papers.

The master took a bite of his bagel, grunted in what appeared to be satisfaction, and flipped to the sports section of the Times. He looked pretty engrossed. Daniel considered getting off his knees, but he wasn’t sure the master was done with him yet, and if the man had forgotten about him, he didn’t want to do anything to redraw his attention.

Another bite, another little grunt-hum. Then the master put his bagel back on his plate, dropped the paper, and turned Daniel’s way.

Daniel braced himself for whatever the master was about to demand or say.