29. Self-Rescuing Queen

"Inside, Titania."

As if she had a choice. The log cabin on the shores of Lake Marion was gorgeous, but she didn't mistake it for anything but a prison—especially after spending so much time listening to his freaking exhausting list of rules.

After his first warning, she'd listened. Oh, how she'd listened, but she'd learned very quickly not to question.

She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, praying he hadn't knocked any teeth loose, then swallowed a mouthful of coppery fluid before she gave in to the urge to spit it in his face.

Dr. Pappas, rule fifty-two said I should only wear Petal Pink nail polish, but rule one thirty-seven says good girls don't polish their nails.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

What the fuck was Petal Pink anyway?

He'd set her up to fail. Well, assuming his crazy allowed him to remember all three hundred of his idiotic, nonsensical rules. It was like he'd taken everything that was beautiful about a consensual power exchange relationship and perverted it into an Escheresque parody.

"There's my good girl." Dr. Pappas ran his hands up and down her arms, letting his thumbs brush the outer curves of her breasts.

She shivered, barely able to hold her revulsion in check. "Yes, sir."

"And already so needy for your Master." He stroked the rapidly swelling cut on her temple, making her wince. "We'll have to get some sort of makeup to hide that mark. I hope you don't make me punish you again. You'd be pretty without so many bruises."

Not only did he have a criminally deluded misunderstanding about the nature of consent, but he was also tossing out the tired excuse abusers used to gaslight their partners into believing they were at fault.

He sighed happily and led her into an opulently appointed bedroom decorated in what should have been soothing shades of blue, then opened the closet. It was filled with…

Sheer nightgowns, all in pale pink.

Let me count the ways I want him to die…

"What was rule two hundred?" He kissed her shoulder, and she sucked in a breath to keep herself from throwing up when she smelled his stupid breath mints.

"Ladies should always wear dresses, sir."

The closet was in direct contradiction to rule one sixteen, which said ladies didn't wear anything revealing.

"Good girl. Choose one and show me you know how a young lady should dress."

"Yes, sir."

She picked one at random, knowing her choice truly didn't matter, then tried to ignore his avid gaze as she changed as quickly as she could. Despite her rush, it felt like ants were crawling on her skin.

Please, God. Let my Daddies come before he touches me again.

A sob crawled up her throat as she straightened the nightgown and turned to face Dr. Pappas. She couldn't give up hope. Her Daddies would come for her.

"So beautiful," Dr. Pappas murmured, stroking her bare back. "Perfect. A worthy mother for my children."

A block of ice lodged in her stomach, but the pistol in his hand stopped her from tearing his eyes out. Maybe if she was very lucky, he'd want a blow job. It would give her a chance to bite his dick off.

"Yes, sir," she finally said once she thought she could speak without screaming.

"Are you hungry, my love?"

"No, sir. I'm fine. Thank you."

"Silly girl." He took her hand and led her into a gourmet kitchen with a view overlooking the lake. "You'll find everything you need to create a delicious meal. You'll need to eat better for our children."

"Yes, sir."

Although she doubted she could make anything edible—even after watching Desmond—cooking meant knives. If she was very lucky, she could get her hands on a nice, heavy cast iron skillet—just like the one hanging on a rack over the kitchen island. Keeping her movements as slow and innocent as she could, she stretched on her tiptoes to reach it.

"Let me help, my love." Crowding her against the island, he pressed himself against her, letting her feel his hardening cock.

So, so gross. Just ew.

Shockingly enough, he set it on the stove, then sat at the kitchen table to watch. Taking a deep breath, she went to the fridge and grabbed a carton of eggs, plus some cheese. She'd probably burn the hell out of scrambled eggs, but that was okay.

She wanted that skillet as hot as she could get it without melting it.

"Are omelets okay, sir? I'm not a very good cook."

"I suppose we'll get you some classes," Dr. Pappas replied as he checked the action on his pistol. "A young lady should be able to cook very well."

Ugh. Forgot the pistol, didn't you?

She cracked eggs into a bowl and took her sweet time whisking them with a fork while the skillet heated. When a faint tendril of smoke rose from the cast iron, she dumped the eggs in, then screeched in faux surprise when they blackened.

"Oh, sir! I'm so sorry!" She wrapped a dishtowel around the handle and shook the pan. "I think I burned the eggs! Can you help, please, sir?"

"Stupid girl." Scowling, he laid the pistol on the table and stormed toward her. "I'm going to beat you bloody."

She let out a breath as she imagined Daddy Bastian's voice.

Wait for it, babygirl…

When Dr. Pappas reached for her throat, she swung the skillet at his head with all her might. It connected with a sick, meaty crack, not too different from the sound of a breaking egg.

He blinked once, then his eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the floor.

"Oh, hell to the no!" She kicked him in the ribs and raised the hot skillet over her head, ignoring the last bit of partially cooked egg falling around her. "You do not get to check out on me before I beat the shit out of you. Get the fuck up!"

Someone grabbed the skillet from her hands, and without waiting for them to catch her, she raced to the kitchen table and snatched up Dr. Pappas's pistol.

"Do not fucking touch me!" She lifted the gun, but it fell from her hand when she saw Desmond holding her skillet, its handle still wrapped in the dishtowel. "Daddy?"

He tossed the skillet into the sink, then opened his arms. "We're here, sweetheart. It's okay."

Her breath caught and she stumbled into Desmond's embrace as she burst into tears. "I knew my Daddies would save me."

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