"The driver—"
"Will wait without question if he is indeed the type of person I can use. For now, you'll follow me and keep silent, and that is all. Bran, take your brothers and sisters back to the kitchen. On guard."
Immediately the dog spun, his siblings in pursuit. They parted around Jacob, a river of fur and flashing eyes, and galloped back down the hall, leaving the two of them standing ten feet apart. To Lyssa, the distance didn't seem so much like the distance of strangers as the paced-off field of potential combatants.
When Jacob hesitated, she raised a brow. "If you can't follow my commands without question, you're also not the type of person I can use."
He would think her uncharitable for not thanking him, for not answering the many questions she could see he had about her welfare, about the house, about his role in it. But she was not his companion. He was applying to be hers. Despite their unfortunate beginning, it was time to see if he would accept a full understanding of what that meant. Only then could she decide whether to allow him to serve her under one mark. Maybe two. She knew he would be discontent with anything less than three, but it was not her role to make him content. He needed to accept that as well.
* * *
This was not the same woman he'd helped into the limo. It was another intriguing version of her. At the salon, she'd been a temptress. Here she was that, but also obviously queen. He felt it in her assessing gaze, the imperious tone and the restless lust that moved in her eyes and had his cock jumping eagerly even as his mind balked at being treated as chattel.
She was walking away, leaving him the choice. Once he followed, he was agreeing to be what she was requiring at this moment and perhaps ever after. He struggled with it, the independence of a lifetime warring with the image Thomas had given him of a woman who needed him, who intrigued his mind and fantasies.
She stopped at the stairwell, laying her hand on the banister. Slim, elegant fingers, the middle one bearing a ring with a sapphire set in silver, the gem as large as a fingernail. He wondered if her husband had given it to her, and unexpected displeasure surged at the thought. Lifting that hand, she freed her hair from a clip that held part of it away from her face. As the strands dropped, she ran her hand through the silken weight of it, an ebony tide that pulled his gaze to the hips it brushed. The black satin robe clung to her, the fit and loose neckline telling him she wore nothing beneath it.
"Jacob." Her voice was a purr. Her eyes were as dark as the shadows clustering around the stairwell. "Every moment you hesitate will make your punishment much more intense."
"I'm not afraid of pain, my lady."
She chuckled. "Then you've not experienced it intensely enough. But there are punishments far worse than pain."
"Worse than losing your sense of yourself?"
She cocked her head. "Sometimes that is the most pleasurable part of pain. Come. I'd say I don't bite"—her lip curled up slightly at one corner—"but we both know that to be untrue."
When she ascended the stairs, he found himself following, taking them two at a time to her one. As he caught up, an instinct contrary to his nature kept him a pace behind her.
She took him to her bedroom where he'd laid her less than two hours before, hoping he was doing the right thing, that he was overlooking nothing for her care. He hadn't wanted to leave her side. But when her face had eased into a peaceful expression, he'd returned to Mr. Ingram to keep him company. The driver had refused to leave until she presented herself to him fully lucid and assured him Jacob was welcome in her home. If Jacob had dallied over her, he was certain the man would have come looking for him with that Beretta, a situation certain to have disturbed his lady's much needed rest.
While he'd followed Thomas's direction to get past the dogs, even Bran had not given him an unconditional green light. He'd stood stiffly by the front door, his stock-still posture and the watchful eyes seeming to say, "Well, then. Do you have the stones, mate?"
Now in the present, as Lyssa glanced over her shoulder at him, he had the feeling the same challenge was being issued.
Do you have the stones, mate?
Chapter Seven
As he stepped over the threshold she was moving to the walls, switching on small spotlights to highlight the room's artwork. "Stand in the center of the room, arms at your sides."
A Matisse. A Titian. A Van Gogh. Deep expressions of the soul in a multitude of colors, like the woman who lived here. While he had many questions for her, he knew the spur of curiosity was not why he wanted to ask them right now. A part of him wanted to deny she could order him to be silent. But he had to understand the unfamiliar before he could determine if it needed to be rejected or defied. What was swirling through him now as he obeyed her command was definitely unfamiliar. His loins tightened with every quiet sound he heard. Her feet sinking into the carpet. The soft swish of her robe moving on her legs. She fluttered at the corner of his vision and then disappeared.
Before he could turn in surprise and look for her, her hand touched his back.
"That's a neat trick," he said.
"Jacob." Her voice was a whisper along his spine. "I know you're nervous. I can hear your pulse. You've never submitted before. When you make love to a woman, you take her over. You let her feel your strength, your desire. If there is any surrendering, she surrenders to you. When you let yourself go, it's only when you're certain she's become lost in you. In the passion you've given her."
Did he detect a certain edge to her tone, as if she resented the women he'd had before? That would be absurd. Almost as absurd as his relief when he saw no evidence of Rex's presence in this room. Nothing to remind him she'd been alive long enough to have been touched not only by her husband, but by many other men.
She caressed his hips, holding him as she rose on her toes to press her mouth under his ear. "If you wish to be my servant, you must learn what surrender truly means." Her hands slid under his arms and she began to toy with one of the shirt buttons, the color on her nails shining faintly in the soft light. "So don't make me gag you. I want to make use of that pretty mouth of yours, that clever tongue. You'll stay silent from this point forward unless I command you to speak. Remain still."
He'd begun to raise his hands, intending to clasp them over hers on his abdomen, but at that he stopped, battling his own will. Taking a deep breath, he made himself lower his hands back to his sides.