Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (Masters of the Castle) Read online

  Peyton made a sound, pressing her tongue against her teeth as if she were trying to suck a piece of burger meat out from between them. Dropping the remnants of her food on her plate, she looked at Ana. When she refused to reciprocate, Peyton slammed her hand on the tabletop. Ana jumped, and the dishes rattled.

  "How long is a while?" Peyton asked again, her tone dangerous and low.

  "A few months," Ana obediently answered, her stomach clenching when Peyton's open hand closed into a fist. Those hands used to swing Ana around and pull her down to sit in her lap, cradling her as only lovers could. Ana didn't even want to look at her hands right now.

  "What have you been talking about? Me?"

  "No! I asked her about plants, that's all." At least for the most part. She began to squirm with guilt, but that guilt was followed by anger at being made to feel this ashamed of so innocent a thing. "We didn't do anything wrong."

  "Oh no? Show me."

  "What?"

  Shoving her plate aside, Peyton sat back in her chair. "If you have nothing to hide, get your laptop and show me. I want to see the conversations."

  Ana's chest pounded. "It's boring stuff about fertilizer and sunlight and…"

  "Were you having cybersex? Talking dirty with your new little friend? With me, you've got a headache night after night. With her, you get all sick and kinky. That's why you won't show me, isn't it?"

  "No!" She never should have brought this up. Or maybe she never should have talked to Miranda at all, but at least with Miranda she had some measure of acceptance she never got at home. Miranda made her feel good about herself in ways Peyton never could.

  Ana gulped, this time accepting the guilt. Miranda was a mentor and friend to her, and yes, sometimes they flirted, but it would never be anything more than that. She understood that even if Peyton didn't.

  Peyton wiped her fingers on her napkin and pushed her chair away from the table. "I want to see those conversations right now, or we're done. If they're as innocent as you claim, there's nothing to be worried about."

  Ana's supper sat in her gut like a hard, indigestible lump. Getting up from the table, she shoved past Peyton toward the bedroom they shared. Peyton followed hot on her heels, dashing all hope that she might be able to quickly hop online and delete all of Miranda's messages. Why hadn't she turned off chat archiving? Because she liked to go back and re-read them, imagining what Miranda's voice might sound like. An awful sinking sensation turned the pit of her stomach into a mass of icy dread. This argument was going to be every bit as terrible as she'd feared.

  Glancing back at Peyton once, Ana called up the latest messages, the most damning ones. Her courage failed her and she tried to delete them, but Peyton grabbed onto her laptop. It was all Ana could do to keep her from snapping it shut on her fingers. "Stop!"

  "I'm doing this for your own good," Peyton said, her eyes threateningly dark. "You don't have any sense most of the time. I'm trying to help you!"

  Ana grabbed her laptop back. "Why should I show you anything when you'll sneer and criticize?"

  "I don't—"

  "You do! You always do! I'm allowed to have a life of my own."

  "That doesn't mean you get to have secrets."

  "How can you call it a secret when I told you about it?"

  "Give me the computer, Ana." Peyton pulled on her laptop.

  Ana pulled back even harder, like one of her own preschoolers in a fight over a toy. "No!"

  "I'm not playing."

  "Neither am I." Ana didn't think she could handle having all the fun, witty banter she and Miranda had shared transformed into something dirty under Peyton's jealous scrutiny. Miranda was special. The only one in the world who accepted her for who and what she was. The last thing she wanted was for Peyton to take this from her.

  "Give it to me right now, or—"

  "Or what?" Ana dared to challenge. It wasn't funny, but a bubble of hard laughter tickled up the back of her throat. She already knew what 'or what' was. Peyton threatened to leave just about every other day. Some days she honestly didn't know why she worked so hard to stop her. Habit could be a terrible thing. She'd fallen in love with being 'in love', and even though what she and Peyton now shared hadn't been love in a very long time, the habit bound them together like a chain.

  With a sudden jerk of strength, Peyton wrenched the laptop out of Ana's arms and began scrolling through the chat messages. Face burning, Ana tried once to yank it back, but then gave up. It wasn't right. She shouldn't have lied to Miranda about Peyton, she certainly shouldn't have lied the other way around, but Peyton shouldn't be allowed to search her messages as if she were a criminal, either.

  "Give it back," Ana snapped.

  "'Peyton doesn't care', huh? Like hell I don't care! And what's with all this perverted spanking crap? I've told you no and I meant it."

  "Please…"

  "You want a leather-corseted dominatrix to whip you and call you dirty names? Slut! Whore! If you want to get hit, just say so! I'll hit you. It's not my style, but maybe then you won't like it and you'll stop going behind my back asking for it!"

  "This is why I didn't tell you!" Ana raged, the icy dread in her stomach turning hot with injustice. "We didn't do anything wrong! I hate it when you're like this! If you weren't so insane with jealousy, like I'm your 1950s wife…"

  Peyton slapped her across the face. Hard. "We?" Before Ana could take a breath, Peyton slapped her again, knocking her back into the dresser and sending her glasses flying to the floor. "How dare you call her a 'we?' You and I are the 'we,' not anyone else. End this right now. You need help."

  Crying, she was so angry, Ana dropped to the ground and fumbled for her glasses. Her face was on fire, stinging so brightly she could swear she could feel each of Peyton's fingerprints branded against her cheek.

  "You brought this on yourself," Peyton said above her, and Ana lost it.

  She vaulted to her feet, shouting at Peyton with all the force of months of pent-up resentment. "Don't you hit me! Don't you dare hit me again! I'm sick of tiptoeing around your blow-ups, afraid to breathe wrong in case you get upset!"

  Peyton snapped her hand back a third time, but something in Ana must have stopped her. Maybe it was the way she refused to flinch. She was too mad to flinch. The inside of Ana's cheek trickled warm blood where the last blow had cut her teeth into her flesh. "If you wouldn't make me angry, I wouldn't hit you," Peyton wavered, her voice trembling although her hand didn't. "Since that's what you like, don't complain. All I've ever asked is for you to be a good girlfriend."

  And all Ana wanted right then was to get her laptop back so she could open up a chat window to Miranda and fall bawling into her comforting virtual arms.

  "I'm sorry," she said, because in that angry, bitter, resentful moment, she truly was. Her voice became strangely calm, although it quavered wildly. "I think you should leave."

  "I think you should try harder to apolo—What?" The mask of superiority on Peyton's face vanished behind a wave of disbelief. "Leave?"

  "It's over," Ana said, scrubbing at the flood of tears. Her jaw ached and cheek throbbed, and her heart felt as if it would implode inside her chest. "I'll give you money for a hotel tonight, but leave your key on the table."

  Peyton stiffened, the gears of her thoughts visibly shifting before she switched tactics. She inched closer, her tone turning soothing. "Honey, you're upset. I'm sorry I hit you. You know I hate doing it, so let's go take a shower, relax, let everything go. We need to talk about this so it doesn't happen again."

  Ana wavered. It was hard to look at Peyton and not see her as she'd seen her the very first time they'd met. How had things gone from being perfect to screwed up? And how, with her face still burning and throbbing, could she be tempted to concede—but for what? They would have one evening of niceness followed by another fight sooner rather than later. She'd had enough of jealousy, of tiptoeing around volatile tempers and heavy hands and being made to feel guilty for the kinky fantasies that
haunted her.

  When Peyton reached for her, she yanked away. "You need to leave. Now."

  "You're being irrational, and I'll bet it's that plant woman's fault. She's got you twisted into thinking crazy things. Let's have a nice—" Peyton tried to reach for her again, but Ana jerked back a second time, putting more distance between them.

  "Get out," she ordered. She got her purse from the living room and took out a handful of twenties. Hands shaking, she counted five of them. Peyton earned as much managing the coffee shop in one day as Ana earned all week chasing after three-year-olds at Calvary United Methodist Preschool, but for a night of peace, Ana would deplete her emergency funds. When Peyton made no move toward the door, Ana played her trump card… the one she had hoped never to use. She shoved the money at Peyton. "Leave now, or I'll call the police and show them what you did to my face."

  More likely than not, the police wouldn't do much. When a man hit a woman, police jumped. When a woman hit a woman… Ana turned away. That old habit rose up hard to bind the chain around them tight once more. In that moment, all she wanted was for Peyton to hug her, reassure her everything would be okay, and wave a magic wand to turn back the clock. She wanted Peyton to love her, but she'd given Peyton months of chances. No one would stand up for Ana unless she did it herself.

  Peyton looked at her burning cheek and, for less than a second, her expression twisted into something genuinely remorseful. Her chin quivered, but Ana refused to watch. If she cried, Ana would give in and beg Peyton to stay, and then nothing would ever change.

  The quivering chin stiffened. "You're frigid, that's your problem," Peyton spat, all traces of heartbreak vanishing from her stony expression. "Frigid and chasing after a fantasy. Go then. Chase after your sugar mama, and good riddance."

  Grabbing Ana's money from her hand, she stomped through the house, snatching up her coat and keys before marching straight out the front door. When she slammed it hard behind her, Ana locked and leaned against it, helplessly listening as her angry footsteps receded into the distance. The door blurred out. So did the floor around her feet.

  Sliding downward, Ana folded into a heap by the wall, crying too hard to be able to see.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I hope you're happy. I named the ponytail plant Miranda. Remember, this was your idea, because now you're doomed to die within the week.

  Miranda chuckled. Sassy thing. Small wonder Ana fantasized about spanking; she begged for one with every other sentence she typed. Making herself comfortable on the sofa, Miranda took a sip of her morning coffee before launching into their usual round of teasing. Maybe I'll name a plant after you, Miss Sassy. Probably a tomato.

  Why a tomato?

  Because in order for them to grow strong, someone must first tie them up. Miranda chuckled and took another sip of her coffee.

  Ooh, bondage! How kinky!

  That put an instant desire to wrap Ana in a lovely rope corset into Miranda's head. Brat, she typed. Have you ever seen a baby tomato plant?

  Nope.

  Miranda sent her a link to a site with tomato plants tied to wooden stakes. See?

  What are the sticks for?

  Spanking naughty young ladies. It doubles the fun. The second she hit send, Miranda wished she could take that back. She should have let Ana be the one to re-introduce that particular topic. Before Ana could reply, she changed the subject. You'd better be taking good care of my namesake!

  I wish I hadn't killed the peace lily. Sure could use some peace around here.

  Miranda studied that line for several long seconds before she dared to ask, Is something wrong?

  There was no reply and Miranda waited for almost fifteen minutes.

  Ana? Are you all right?

  Although Ana always said goodbye before signing off, she had left the chat. Concern sent a pang through Miranda's chest, but there were dozens of normal, everyday reasons for why someone would get off their computer abruptly, and none of them meant something was really wrong. Maybe Ana had errands to run or a lunch date with her girlfriend. Maybe she had to go to the bathroom or get ready to leave for work. Miranda checked the time. The next busload of clients wasn't due for another two hours, but then she would also have to sign off, too.

  In an effort to ignore her mixture of worry and loss at Ana's unexplained absence, Miranda clicked onto another window. She ran a quick check through her other messages and read past chat texts she and Ana had shared. Her spider plant needed pruning so it wouldn't keep snagging its leaves in her hair. The undisciplined thing had put off enough new shoots to create a trellis of entangling vines that hung from the hook on the ceiling all the way down to the floor.

  Snipping at the overenthusiastic growth reminded her of Ana's troubles with her peace lily. Maybe she should send Ana a starter shoot or two. She went through her mental stock. Her orchids were beautiful, but any gift she sent ought to be more resilient than the ponytail plant currently languishing in Ana's dubious care. Maybe a pothos plant, or a cactus.

  Or maybe a fake rubber plant.

  Miranda chuckled as she headed towards the windowsill dedicated to her more prickly charges. She'd never met a person more determined to have a plant, and yet so unable to make it thrive. Speaking of which, her miniature yellow roses were shriveling. With so much of her attention on the hospital these days, she hadn't fertilized, trimmed or, in some cases, watered in over a week. Miranda tsked.

  Retrieving her watering can from the kitchen, she made the rounds through her living room garden oasis—trimming fresh cuttings off some of the more enthusiastic trailers, and feeding and watering as she went. When her laptop dinged the receipt of a new message, her foolish heart gave a fluttering leap at the thought that Ana might have returned.

  She chided herself the whole way back to her favorite section of the sofa, but that didn't stop her from abandoning her hobby to nestle amongst the pillows and pull her laptop back onto her thighs. A one-fingered tap on her mouse pad brought the screen back out of sleep mode, and there it was—romantic titillation in its purest and most useless form… followed by the crashing realization that her earlier instinct had been right on target. Something was wrong.

  No, I'm not.

  What's wrong, lovely? Is there anything I can do? Again, the cursor sat there. No response came back for so long that Miranda began to wonder if Ana had left her computer again, but then—

  Can I ask you a question?

  From Ana, that could mean anything. Of course.

  Do you think I'm a bad person?

  Miranda's heart contracted. Of course not. Your peace lily might disagree, but I think you're wonderful.

  Lol!

  Miranda relaxed a little. She knew Ana hadn't laughed out loud, but she might have smiled, and that was a step in the right direction. Do you want to talk about it?

  * * * * *

  Ana's vision blurred, and she brushed away a tear. She was crazy, just like Peyton said. She was about to tell an online stranger something she had never told anyone else—not her real life friends, or co-workers, or her parents. If her mom and dad found out, they would find Peyton and break every bone in her body. Or at least her dad would. Her mom would cry and want her to move back home, and she'd never allow Ana out of her sight again. She'd repeat how much she wanted grandchildren, and why couldn't Ana at least try dating one more nice boy? Because no boy hit a girl, ever, and having babies would solve everything.

  Are you there, Ana?

  She brushed away another trickle of tears. Her cheek stung at the slight pressure. Miranda seemed so nice, so normal… but the media was full of stories about women abducted and murdered by 'nice' and 'normal' people they'd met online. She sniffled. I want to tell you something, but it feels weird. I mean, I don't know if we know each other well enough for something like this.

  Miranda's cursor blinked for a long time. She'd crossed a line, Ana thought. She should apologize, make a joke or two and keep her problems to herself.

  I don
't want to pressure you, Miranda replied, but you seem upset and that worries me. If you want to talk about it, you can tell me anything. If I can help, I will. If I can't, I'll listen while you talk it out. I love talking to you, Ana. I care about you.

  Ana set her laptop aside and folded in around herself, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking. She wanted to cry, but for a change, the tears wouldn't come. She wanted to bury her face in her bedspread and scream and kick her feet and throw a useless tantrum. But she was an adult who took care of three-year-olds, she wasn't three herself. So, she didn't. It was irrational, just as irrational as wishing Peyton could be there to hold her.

  Ana reached up and prodded her sore cheek. The bathroom mirror had revealed three places where Peyton's fingernails had broken the skin. In those spots, the redness would take days to heal. So would the inside of her cheek where the impact had gouged her flesh against her teeth. She hadn't gotten down more than a few mouthfuls of soup for breakfast, and it hurt to talk. Not that she felt like eating or talking right now, anyway.

  She couldn't think what to say. Not until Miranda popped back with: I don't want to push you. I'm sorry if anything I've done has offended you. Please, talk to me when you—

  Ana panicked. The last thing she wanted to do was push away the only person who had, to date, made her feel normal. No, please don't go! It's just hard to type.

  A brief pause, and Miranda's cursor blinked forward. Have you hurt your hand? Do you want to call me? Dial *67 first to block your phone number from showing up on my end, if you want. I won't use redial.

  That Miranda would suggest a phone call, and in such a way as to preserve Ana's own privacy, almost broke her down. Her throat tightened. She had to struggle to breathe. Thank you, but… Ana hesitated, not sure how much was safe to admit and shamed by the truth. She wanted to close her laptop and go to bed early. I think I'm too upset for the phone.