But for now, she’d made her decision. She’d be that broken branch and see where she ended up, as long as she didn’t take him over the falls with her. She was just afraid that she wouldn’t care, that she’d cling to him so she wouldn’t fall alone. And she’d never been pathetic like that.

“All right.” His fingers caressed her palm. “Let me show you a few more things.” He rose, and drew her up with him. She didn’t like being in unfamiliar surroundings, but with his arm around her waist, guiding her, she tried to relax, somehow knowing he wouldn’t let her stumble over things. “What’s that scent?”

“Jasmine, from my front yard. Jon had some cut. Mixed with lavender.” He guided her to the pottery vase that held them, molded her palms over it. There were smooth rolls, curves, not like a normal bulb vase. She took over the investigation, her brow furrowing as she worked her way up it, then sideways, and back up again, until she found the flowers, the thin stems and nodding blossoms. He had a fan going, and they were swaying in the faint breeze. He had a screen open as well, because she could hear shrill birds crying out over what he said was the bayou. She could smell it, the damp vegetation and salt.

“It’s a person, isn’t it?”

He closed his hands over hers, leading her to the clay features, distracting her with the brush of his fingers on her knuckles. “It’s an abstract reclining nude. She’s lying on her hip, her hands folded under her face. Her skin is texturized like a tree’s bark, the flowers forming the canopy.” He paused. “It’s a piece by a famous local Louisiana artist. The finish is ebony. Jon bought it while I was away. Thought I’d like it.”

“Oh, yeah? You got a thing for black girls, Captain?”

“Lately. One in particular.” He caressed the sensitive bone of her forefinger, his intent obviously sensual. Dana swallowed, her fingers spasming against the curve of the sculpture’s head and slim neck.

“He didn’t include hair.”

“No. He wanted the beautiful line of her skull. Long hair would interfere with that.” He touched her ear with his other hand, moved to the erogenous zone at the base of her own skull, massaging, slow. “If you decide to stay, I’ll take you to some of the galleries here. I bet you can give me a different perspective on the pieces.” She stiffened, drew back. “Sure. I’ll write up reviews for the local paper. Don’t give me the blindness-heightens-your-other-senses bullshit.”

“The fact it pisses you off doesn’t make it less true. As responsive as you were that first night, I can tell that you’re hypersensitive to every inch I move over your skin now. And you want more of it, are about to go crazy for it. I know I am.” There was no boast, simply quiet fact. She folded her arms over her chest, but she wanted to move away, and couldn’t do that without using her arms. As much as she knew he wouldn’t let her fall or run into anything, it was an instinct when she couldn’t see. So she dropped them with an annoyed sigh and moved away from him. Her thigh pressed the edge of an easy chair, and when she glided her fingers along it, she found something even softer than the cushioning. And furry. She lifted it to her face. “A stuffed animal?”

“A kitten. It was a housewarming gift from Ben when I moved in.” He cleared his throat.

“Said if I moved out into the sticks, it was the only pussy I’d get out here.”

“It sounds like he cares about you.” The wary smile tickled her cheeks, muscles she hadn’t used in a while. “He’s not harboring some secret lust for you, right?” Peter snorted. “If I was the last fuckable thing in the universe, and then only because he has to stick his cock into something every twenty-four hours or he thinks it will self-destruct. If it came to that, I’d break it off for him.”

“You love him, too,” she realized. She moved on before he could reply, trailing her fingers along the silky surface of an end table. A tall house plant, a palm, brushed her face with scratchy edges. The walls she touched to the right of the open window were beadboard, the drapes a clean-smelling cotton. As she made her way around his living room, she noted he didn’t have enormous amounts of furniture, but what he did have held a plethora of objects to discover. At one small table there was a chess game. In process, if the positioning of the pieces were any indication. Her brow furrowed again. “This isn’t a traditional set. It’s pewter, and the figures are . . .”

“Toy soldiers. That one was Lucas’s gift. They all look really GI Joe-ish. Except the Queen figure is Barbie. Carrying an M-16.” There was a smile in his voice. “It’s an older set.”

“They’re your family.”

“Yes. Once you decide someone’s your family, you watch after each other.” He let it hang there, the significance obvious. Since Dana didn’t know what to say to such an absurd implication, she kept moving, but she knew she was orbiting around his scent and heat, keeping him close. He was right about the hypersensitivity. Those few inches of her flesh he’d brushed with his were still tingling.

It had been so long since she’d reached out to explore her surroundings, as if she were a scared, lost camper who couldn’t appreciate the woods, preferring to huddle over the fire and stare down at the small tin of provisions she had left. But in his presence, where she felt absurdly safe, she was absorbing smells, seeking to touch, to recognize things. She’d been cold a lot, but now she was warm in the sweatshirt. The room apparently received plenty of sun, so it must have west-facing windows, given the time of day. If she could see, she imagined she would be bathed in light.

What the hell was the matter with her? She should be majorly pissed off, keeping her ass in that chair until he took her back. But that last tantrum had been her worst yet, and they’d been occurring more frequently lately, as if her body were screaming to split away from her damaged soul, get out and run, blindness or no blindness. She couldn’t deny it felt . . . different to be somewhere new, somewhere not about herself.

“Can I borrow a T-shirt?” she said, trying to hold on to her sullen tone. “Or did your loyal minions arrange for me to have a wardrobe?”

“The idea of keeping you naked is appealing, but they did actually bring some things by.

Let’s get you a shower first.”

As distracting as the image was, him compelling her to stay in his home without anything to warm her but himself, when his hands settled on the hem of her shirt again, she automatically latched onto his wrists to hold it down.

She could feel the weight of his stare in the silence. “Let go of me, Dana.” She knew that voice. Even with her degraded hearing, she knew the sound of a Master taking command. From the second he’d come to her place, he’d been proceeding under the assumption she desired that, even outside of a club. Like so many other things, he was right, before even she’d realized how much. She hadn’t ever indulged it that way, not trusting any Master enough. Before her accident, she’d wanted to do so, enough that her skin rippled with gooseflesh at the sound of it now. The idea had been terrifying to her then. While she was surprised at how little fear she had of relinquishing herself into his hands, when she had so little control to relinquish, she still couldn’t release him, because of other fears.

“I’m afraid of what you’ll see.” The rawness of it resounded in her head.

“You don’t have to be afraid of anything with me.” The steel was still there, but as implacable tenderness. “Lift your arms.”

Slowly, she released her hold, one finger at a time. When she lifted trembling arms above her head, he pulled the sweatshirt free.

She hadn’t been wearing a bra, so moist marsh air touched her bare flesh, making her nipples peak. He opened the jeans he’d had her don at the duplex, made her step out of her shoes, then stripped them off with her panties, leaving her completely naked.

The scar tissue marked the left side of her torso and leg like a crazy quilt design. Sick of dealing with doctors, she hadn’t scheduled any more cosmetic surgery since her face. At the time she made that decision, she didn’t care about how she looked. Now she desperately wished she’d done it. She supposed Peter would consider that progress, but resentment and terror warred inside of her at his lack of immediate response.

He’d settled his hands on her upper arms, keeping her squarely facing him. His breath was slow, steady. Too slow and steady. Something about it suggested . . . barely suppressed anger. His palms were heating with it. Part of her was intimidated, another part enthralled by the dangerous power of him, so near. He was angry at faceless enemies, she realized, at someone who would dare hurt her, leave her looking like a toy someone had broken and should have cast away.

His finger traced the mark beneath her left breast. “Does any of it hurt?”

“Not really. The ribs and arm hurt some when it gets too cold, but the scars don’t hurt anymore.” At least not the way he meant. She was pathetic. There were people far worse off than her. She should be able to handle this, but all she wanted to do when she thought about it, touched it, was cry like a little girl over what she’d lost. She’d had pretty, unblemished skin. She’d liked the line of her hip, the smooth roundness of her shoulder, the unmarked perfection of her left breast. While she couldn’t see it, she could feel it, the rough texture. Maybe that was why the “heightened senses” platitude made her so angry.

Heightened senses could be a curse, because she could feel every scar like the surface of the moon. She told herself to be glad she didn’t have eyes to confirm it. Though she’d never see the wide, wide ocean again. Or Peter’s smile.

“Please speak. If you don’t speak, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“I’m looking at a beautiful, brave and foolish woman. One whom I’m very, very glad is alive.”

Eight

She bit her lip, overcome, but he didn’t require her words. He reached away from her, and she heard the slide of something like metal across a table surface. When he brought it up, it brushed her sternum. Jewelry. Or . . . Her heart rate started accelerating.