Anchored: Belonging (Book One) by Rachel Haimowitz

Author:Rachel Haimowitz
Language: eng
Format: mobi, pdf
Tags: M/M Alternative Universe Erotic Romance, M/M erotic romance, slavery, gay erotica, NY, Noble Romance Publishing, New York, AU, Rachel Haimowitz, M/M, male/male, male/male erotic, gay erotic romance, Alternative Universe, male/male erotic romance, M/M erotica
Published: 2011-09-24T09:36:37+00:00

Chapter Twelve

When next Daniel awoke, he was blissfully alone. He didn't remember falling back to sleep, though obviously he had. He'd also somehow managed to sprawl across the entire bed. He peered at the clock and nearly panicked. 2:37 p.m. ? Jesus! He hadn't slept that late since . . . since . . . . Well, the last time he had, he'd probably been too sick to remember it. And even though he knew he had no real place here, nothing to do, nobody who needed him, he still couldn't shake the feeling he'd overslept, shirked some duty, and would be in trouble for it.

But nobody came in shouting or wielding shock prods. In fact, nothing happened at all. He heard no sounds from outside the closed door, and actually suspected he might be alone in the apartment. A strange thought, vaguely frightening, yet also quietly liberating; if ever he'd been alone—truly alone—even once in his lifetime, it predated his earliest memories.

He climbed out of bed in a strange slow motion, tiptoed to the door, and cracked it open, absurdly afraid that even the slightest noise might break the spell.

The hallway was empty. So were the guest bed and bath, and the living room, and the kitchen. The slave quarters were abandoned, too.

Back in the kitchen, he spun a slow circle and thought, I can do anything.

He entertained the idea of running away for about 0.6 seconds, but of course, the damn locator chip buried behind his left collarbone would make that impossible. Not to mention that even just a ghost of the memory of what he'd endured the one and only time he'd tried, on a trip to Denmark a few months after they'd taken Victor away, left him nauseous and shaking. He'd make them kill him before he'd ever suffer through that again. Besides, where would he hide in the States, even if he could somehow ditch the chip? Everyone knew his face here.

Forcing such thoughts from his head, he grabbed a brownie, idly opening cabinets and drawers as he ate. Silverware. Cookwear. Plates and glasses. Little kitchen hand tools—corkscrew, can opener, measuring spoons, one of those plastic grippy things for opening stubborn lids. A drawer full of pens, paper, rubber bands, dozens of restaurant matchbooks . . . a Hotwheels car? His first mistress's son had played with those, would sometimes make Daniel watch but never let him play too. This one was bright red, no longer than his thumb. He pulled it out and backed it up along the counter, released it, and watched it fly. Again, and again, until it rolled right off the counter and clacked to the floor.

Daniel retrieved the car with a startled curse, terrified for a moment that he'd broken it. But the toy looked just the same as before. He put it back where he'd found it, between the paperclip chain and the hot pink Koosh Ball.

Still hungry, he opened the fridge, reeling at the sheer magnitude of choices within.

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