Free Tortured Soul by Kirsty Dallas, Ami Johnson Page A

that means, Shakhta?”
    “You may ask me anything you wish, Em. It is Russian for drown my sins. Larz thought it was in bad taste to have a vessel with the word ‘drown’ in its name, but I’m the type of man that cannot be deterred once I have set my sights on something.” The depth of his statement was profound as his dark eyes pierced mine. I was unable to hold his gaze so I invested all my concentration on the tomatoes before me.
    “You speak Russian, Shakhta?”
    “I do. My stepfather is Russian. I was taught from an early age though I rarely use the language anymore.”
    I tried to discreetly watch Shakhta from the corner of my eye. “Not even with your family?”
    His gaze looked sad for a moment. “I don’t see my family anymore, Em. You almost finished?” He changed the conversation swiftly, his voice void of emotion.
    In my haste to finish, my hand slipped, and the knife sliced my finger.
    “Em!” Shakhta suddenly cried out.
    The force of his voice caused my hands to drop, my head to lower submissively. I had upset my Master; my body immediately sank to a position of forgiveness while tensing ever so slightly in preparation for punishment. Shakhta’s strong hands gently took my injured finger and wrapped a clean dish towel around it to stem the flow of blood. While holding my hand against his chest, his other hand cupped my chin and lifted my gaze.
    “No punishment, Em, I promised remember?”
    I nodded. I had remembered, but I still didn’t trust him. There was always punishment—always.
    “I’m going to take a look and see if you need stitches.”
    I nodded again. As if unwrapping a fragile gift, Shakhta pulled away the towel. Blood pooled from a deep gash in my finger.
    His gaze darted to mine for a moment. “I don’t think it will need stitches. Let’s clean it up and put a small bandage on.”
    I nodded again, woodenly and despondent. My body was still guarded, as if awaiting the flogging that would surely come. Shakhta led me to the bedroom, pushed at my shoulders in a silent request to sit, and I did. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back out with what I assumed was a first aid kit.
    He knelt before me and began another careful examination of my finger. “This is going to sting a little.”
    I watched him raise the bottle of liquid and pour it directly over the cut. There was some pain but nothing unfamiliar and not entirely uncomfortable. Shakhta watched me carefully as he continued to dry and wrap the cut. Once he finished, he sat back on his heels still vigilantly watchful.
    Just before I had a chance to become uneasy with his meticulous consideration of me, he spoke, “It bothers me that this doesn’t bother you.” His head nodded toward my hand that now rested in my lap.
    It was just a cut. I wasn’t sure what he expected from me. Tears? Flinching? I had endured worse, much worse.
    “It was the same in the hospital; your reaction to pain is one of indifference.” Not quite sure how to respond I kept quiet. “It’s not a normal way to react to pain.”
    Suddenly I felt nervous. Jonas had assured me that I would not be able to fit into everyday society; that I was not normal and people would notice. He told me I would more than likely be institutionalized, locked away with all the other crazy people.
    “Shakhta, it was just a small cut,” I whispered fearfully.
    “When you were in the hospital in Claymont, you refused pain medication.”
    A thought suddenly occurred to me that Shakhta might think I got off on pain. There were men and women out there who enjoyed pain on a sexual level. Perhaps he thought I was one of those people, a masochist of sorts.
    “I don’t like medication that makes me sleepy, Shakhta. I don’t like being helpless,” I quickly explained.
    He raised his hand, and just when I thought he might place it on my knee, he hesitated. He had promised me he wouldn’t touch me without my permission, a promise which I found almost laughable, if I