Free Tortured Soul by Kirsty Dallas, Ami Johnson

Em. I didn’t like it or the feeling that accompanied it. This was why I wanted to be numb—emotions and feelings were too hard—they hurt.
    Gabbie smiled and it was full of honest sincerity. “It’s nice to meet you. I thought I’d see if you would like me to set up the grill. I thought maybe we could grill some fish, make up a salad.”
    Shakhta stopped brushing. “We only had breakfast a couple of hours ago, but you know me, I’m always up for food.” Gabbie smiled warmly at Shakhta. She cast us one last curious glance before turning to leave, and I found the nerve to speak up without my Master’s permission.
    “Thank you,” I said quietly.
    Gabriella glanced over her shoulder, a question in her perfectly arched brow.
    “For the clothes,” I explained. Her smile was genuine.
    “Couldn’t have you sauntering around the yacht naked. Bomber is a breasts man, he wouldn’t have been able to pry his eyes away. Larz wouldn’t have been able to stop blushing, and Mr. Possessive here would likely have beaten them both to a bloody pulp for just looking.” With that she left us alone again.
    I felt more than heard Shakhta’s soft sigh behind me. “How’s your head, Em? The sedative I gave you can sometimes cause a lingering headache.” I was all of a sudden Em again. I silently chastised myself for the foolish hurt I was feeling. I was a broken submissive being delivered home by a temporary master. Nothing more, nothing less. I took note of my body, of my head, searching for pain or discomfort. I was far too accustomed to pain. I had lived with it on a daily basis for so long it was almost peculiar not to feel it. A low ache at the base of my skull confirmed the presence of a headache but it was hardly worthy of notice.
    “I’m fine. Thank you, Shakhta,” I whispered.
    “How about you help me put a salad together?” Shakhta suggested.
    This made me nervous for numerous reasons. First and foremost, I didn’t know how to cook. I had never had a need for it. Master Jonas…Jonas had a house chef always on staff. I glanced over my shoulder, and Shakhta had a sexy smirk on his face that made my stomach flip with anticipation. Anticipation of what, I wasn’t sure. My body was responding to him, to the way he looked. I was most definitely attracted to him.
    “From the horrified expression on your face, I am assuming you don’t cook much?”
    I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Blushing was a physical response I thought I had long ago done away with. In the life I had been forced into, there was no room for inhibitions or embarrassment. However, Shakhta had brought color to my cheeks without any effort or use of sexual innuendos. The smile that followed his playful smirk began low on his lips catching at one corner and led to a full-fledged grin that made his eyes crinkle in the corners. I followed the path of his joy, my eyes taking in every inch of happiness, my own lips frozen like stone in a frown that felt perpetually unbreakable.
    “Come on, I’ll teach you.” Shakhta easily stepped over me and I quickly stood and followed him to the state-of-the-art kitchen.
    Once all the ingredients were set in front of us, Shakhta had me slicing tomatoes. Easy, I could do this, and it would help keep my mind off the movement of the yacht. Well, it had done so until I peered out the window and found myself wondering if we could possibly hit an iceberg or something and sink. I looked back down at the tomatoes and tried valiantly to ignore my fears.
    “Shakhta?” I couldn’t help but seek out his permission to speak.
    “Hmmm?” Shakhta answered as he expertly diced and sliced the leafy greens, while I slowly and painstakingly dissected a tomato.
    “What did you say your boat was called, Shakhta?” I watched his lips twitch with the need to smile.
    “My yacht is called Utonut' Moi Grekhi.”
    I was watching Shakhta handle the knife at my side like a pro, and I tried to emulate his movements. “May I ask what