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was refreshingly honest. She liked that about her. Regardless of Gracie’s declaration about secret keeping, Danielle still couldn’t completely trust her, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to—if Gracie would ever give her the chance.
    The winding stairs took them to the second floor of the home, where mirrors of various shapes and sizes lined the walls of the carpeted hallway. “This is where we live,” Gracie said as they passed several closed doors. “You can only access the living quarters through the kitchen. The other staircases lead to the club areas. Master has his private residence on the attic level of the house, but none of the slaves have ever seen it.” Halfway down the hall, Gracie opened one of the doors and stepped inside a room.
    Gracie crossed to the other side of the room and pulled back the drapes to bring sunlight in through the wall-sized window, showing off a four-poster walnut bed covered with a virginal white goose-down blanket and a matching walnut dresser, desk, and nightstand. For a moment, Danielle forgot where she was, captivated by the comfort of the room.
    The sun’s rays ricocheted off the beautiful pale pink crystal chandelier, which hung in the center of the room, creating slivers of dancing lights on the walls and frames behind the bed. The lights turned on, and her sight focused on the framed images.
    Three Degas paintings.
    Her Degas paintings.
    Not the prints hanging on her walls now, but the originals, which had graced her walls before the government had confiscated almost everything in her home. The dainty dancers whom she’d envied as a child, knowing she’d never have the lithe body required for ballet. Despite that, she’d loved those paintings. To see them here, under Cole DeMarco’s roof in the very room he’d assigned to her, reminded her of everything she’d lost.
    Everything he’d taken from her.
    When Gracie took a breath, Danielle cleared her throat and took the opportunity to prove she knew how to use her vocal cords. “How long have you been a trainee?”
    â€œOh, I’m not a trainee. I belong to Master Cole.”
    Danielle rubbed her chest where a raw ache had settled. “You’re his . . . ?”
    â€œSlave. Yes. For two years.”
    â€œI thought he only trained.” Of course he had slaves. He probably had a submissive or two at his beck and call at all times.
    â€œHe did. Until me. Now there’s two of us who remain here permanently. Myself and Adrian.”
    Danielle smoothed her hand over the comforter. “Oh. Do you, um—”
    â€œFuck him? No.” Gracie sighed. “Not that we haven’t tried. He doesn’t have sex with the slaves or trainees, although he has no problem getting us off through other ways. You’ll understand after a few days. Somehow, Master knows us better than we know ourselves.” She settled on the front edge of the bed and patted the spot next to her. “The man swears he’s not a sadist, but he loves to watch his slaves squirm with desperation. I’d take a paddling over an orgasm denial any day. Right?”
    Danielle sat beside her. “Um, right.” Did all women speak so freely about sex? “Do you, um, get paid for being a slave?”
    â€œNot officially, but the members’ fees pay for my weekly stipend plus my living expenses, which remain low since my room and board are both covered. It’s structured similarly to your trainee agreement.” Gracie slid her a quizzical glance. “You did read your agreement, didn’t you?”
    â€œOf course. So what do you do for him?” Hating all the lies that were piling up, she nibbled on her thumbnail.
    â€œMaster tries to give me more of the social responsibilities in Benediction, like greeting the guests and taking their coats. Has he given you your first service requirement yet?”
    Danielle ripped her thumb from her