THIRTY DAYS by Shayla Kersten
Biton Savakis, a 42 year old wealthy lawyer in New York City, is lost without his beloved slave of ten years. Since Erik’s death from cancer three months
before, the will to continue his life as a Dom slipped away. Until now. The forlorn looking redhead seems as lost as Biton feels. Maybe the young man can help ease his tension, even if only for a little while.
Cavan never chose the life of a slave but he doesn’t clearly remember a time when he wasn’t one. Beaten close to death and thrown aside by his former Master, Cavan doesn’t know how to do anything else. When Biton offers him a temporary contract, Cavan doesn’t understand the meaning of his new Master’s words. All he knows is he has a new home and someone to serve. But what will
happen to him when the contract ends… In thirty days…
Biton turned his gaze back to Antonio. “This was a set up, wasn’t it?” He let his smile soften the accusation.
Antonio shrugged. “Caught.” He reached out his hand and rested it on Biton’s shoulder. “Since you were at the club I knew you were beginning to look again. I just wanted to make it easier.”
“So was that’s my selection?”
Antonio laughed, his hand squeezing Biton’s shoulder before he released it. “No, there’s one more. Couldn’t offer you a blond and a brunette without throwing in a redhead! Cavan’s a little shy though.”
Biton turned to follow his friend’s line of sight. A rather forlorn looking redhead sat with his legs curled up under him in a corner of the room.
As he walked toward the young man, Biton could see the muscle tone through the open shirt. His eyes down, Cavan obviously didn’t notice Biton’s approach until he was looming over him.
“I’m sorry, Ma–,” the young man’s voice cut of sharply as he rose from the small sofa. “May I serve you?” He was taller than he appeared while seated. Maybe it was the way he made himself smaller, curled in a tight ball.
“Relax, Cavan. I just want to talk.” Biton sat down and motioned Cavan to do the same.
The young man complied but Biton could see the reluctance in his bearing. Tense and uncomfortable, Cavan sat on the edge of the sofa, his posture stiff. His knuckles were white as he held onto the leather collar.
“Is that your collar?”
Once again, Cavan bit back the word. It wasn’t proper to call someone Master without permission. Usually the privilege wasn’t granted until an understanding was reached. But maybe he would relax a little…
“If it makes you comfortable, Cavan, you may call me Master or Sir but it is not a contract.”
“Thank you, Master.” Pale green eyes darted up and the tension hardened muscles in his back softened a little. “Contract, Master?”
“A contract… Between a Master and a slave. Didn’t your old Master have a contract with you?”
“An agreement, then. One about your responsibilities and his.”
“My responsibility was to obey my Master in all things.”
The words sounded rote.
“What about his responsibility to care for you, see to your needs?”
“My only need was to serve my Master.”
“Do you have a job?”
Cavan’s eyes flicked between Biton and the wide leather collar, still held in a white knuckled grip. “I do now. I serve–I work in M–Mr. Casala’s house. I’m a house servant.”
Biton heard the difficulty Cavan had saying Antonio’s name without adding the title of Master. “But you didn’t before? With your old Master?”
“No, Sir. My job was to serve him.” A shudder swept down his back.
Biton glanced up to see Antonio edging closer to where he and Cavan were seated. Some questions needing asking but getting answers out of Cavan was like pulling teeth.
“Cavan, I need another drink. Scotch, straight up.”
The young man sprang like a tightly wound coil released. “Yes, Master.” Relief flooded the two words as if he were desperate to serve in any capacity.
As the young man fled on his errand, Biton crooked a finger at the hovering Antonio.
“What’s his story?” Biton asked as Antonio took Cavan’s seat.
“His last, and only, Master was Maxwell Wainwright.”
“Wainwright… the name’s familiar.”
“You probably got the emails about the incident from the Society but it was only a week or so after Erik’s death. I’m sure you weren’t paying attention. Cavan showed up at the emergency room badly beaten. His back was a bloody mess, broken arm, two fractured ribs and rectal lacerations from some kind of foreign object. He refused to press charges against his attacker. Lia called me because
she recognized the name of the man paying the bills.”
He nodded as he remembered Lia was an emergency room nurse.
“Well, the Society warned Wainwright, threatened to exclude him and issue warnings to potential subs. A week later, right after he was released from the hospital, Cavan returned to the emergency room with a broken jaw and bloody nose. Wainwright had tossed him in the street with nothing but a pair of jeans, his collar and his new injuries. Lia stepped in and asked permission to bring him
Biton’s teeth clenched in anger. No one had the right to abuse a slave. The scene was not about pain for pain’s sake. The redhead couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six. “How long was he with Wainwright?”
“Since he was eighteen, nine years.”
So he was twenty-seven. “Was it all like that? The abuse?” Biton watched as the young man hurried toward them, drink in hand.
“I think so. Getting him to talk is difficult. I would guess Wainwright threatened him. And he’s so well trained I doubt he’d ever break his confidence.” Antonio rose as Cavan drew near. “I’ll talk to you later.” Antonio nodded to Cavan as he walked past to mingle with his other guests.
Cavan knelt to present the drink to Biton as if he were carrying something precious and rare.
Biton took the drink with one hand and patted the cushion beside him with the other. “Thank you. Sit here. You don’t have to kneel.”
“Yes, Master.” The young man moved with grace to comply but his fingers once again clutched his collar.
Biton sipped his drink silently. Cavan interested him but he was so wounded, so lost. On the other hand, maybe that’s why the young man caught his interest. Biton felt the same way without Erik.