Faith ran. And ran. No matter how fast she moved, how hard she tried, Faith never got…wherever she was going. That didn't mean she gave up. Faith simply kept running. Her lungs burned and her legs felt like they were made of water. Damn it! "Where are you? Come back! Please!" It was all her fault. Faith knew that. If only she could catch up, she could apologize. Explain. Straining, Faith poured everything she had into running faster. It didn't help. Falling to her knees, she sobbed. "Please, little cat. Come back. I'm sorry. Don't leave me…"
With a gasp, Faith sat up. Adrenaline poured through her until she thought she'd shake right off the bed. An aching sense of loss lingered as the details of the nightmare faded away. Faith rubbed her burning eyes, finding them tacky with tears. Fighting free of the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets, she stumbled across the room on weak legs, the urge to run still strong. Faith stood at the window until her heart finally slowed. As her breathing returned to normal, Faith rubbed her chest. She felt hollow. One good punch and she might simply shatter.
To hell with that. Faith wasn't going to crumble. Not now. Not yet.
Mental posturing aside, Faith felt like crap. She'd tossed and turned all night thanks to the moans, groans, and creaking bedsprings emanating through the walls on both sides of her room.
No wonder the room had been so cheap. Faith was probably the only person not renting by the hour. Her head pounded in time with the continued sounds next door; she wanted to curl up and pull the blankets back over her head. Unfortunately, it was late. She'd somehow managed to sleep until nearly checkout. Adding her own groan to the mix, Faith headed for the bathroom.
The shower was disgusting. Mold and mildew blackened the grout, and there were places the plastic tub molding had pulled away from the wall. Faith had grown soft; this place was a palace compared to her apartment in Boston. Still, she took a very hurried shower and was happy to pull on yesterday's dirty clothes. She needed to leave. Headache or not, Faith had to get going. Somewhere. Anywhere. Last night's exhaustion was now the heady thrum of nervous energy. Faith shoved open the door and marched outside.
Faith's trip was short, though. Reality set in less than a block from the hotel. She had nowhere to go. Nothing to do. No one she could go to for help with the Mayor.
She knew where she wanted to go. She knew who she wanted to talk to. Faith paced back and forth on the sidewalk, earning wide berths and strange looks from passersby. Last night, she'd thought convincing Tara that she wasn't interested in the bond any longer was her biggest challenge. Maybe Faith had been wrong.
Maybe convincing herself that she had to walk away from Tara was the challenge. Now, having done her best to break Tara's heart, Faith realized leaving Tara was the very last thing she wanted to do. What she wanted was to tell the Mayor to take a flying leap and then run like Hell back to Tara.
Making the right decision was easy. What Faith wanted wasn't important. Keeping Tara safe and alive was. Following through with her decision… That wasn't easy at all. Faith paced the sidewalk for long minutes before gathering her resolve.
Keeping an eye out for anyone following her, she headed for Trish's. Her path was unconventional. Faith avoided a direct route. Why make herself a target for the Council? Something as lame as a restraining order wouldn't matter to Wes and his crew. The trip across town would have been better at night or any time other than late morning on a Saturday, especially as Faith reached the suburbs. People were everywhere, and Faith couldn't scale fences and take shortcuts through back yards.
Trish lived close to campus. That was a bonus. A block away and a street over from the house, Faith located a couple of college kids. One of them was nice enough to have an extra, hooded sweatshirt dangling from his backpack. Faith appropriated it with nimble fingers and only a hint of guilt. Hood up, hands stuffed into the front pouch, she ambled past Trish's house.
There were no cars in the drive, and all the curtains and blinds were closed. Faith didn't slow down or turn her head. She'd easily spotted the Council surveillance team in a white panel van down the street. Dumb bastards. They hadn't even removed the special Council license plate.
Not to be outdone, a second surveillance team had taken up residence on the front porch of a house that Faith remembered had sported a For Sale sign the day before. This team belonged to the Mayor. There was no doubt about that fact.
Obviously, the Mayor didn't believe that Faith's actions in the bar were enough. He'd sent his favorite watchdog into the 'burbs. Zajicek had been a shark in a pool of goldfish at Top of the World. Sitting in a tiny rocking chair in a neighborhood full of co-eds, he was a shark completely out of water. Faith ducked her head and pulled the hood farther over her face.
Both teams of watchers had technically obeyed the restraining order. They were well outside one hundred feet of Trish's house. Yet they were still too close for Faith to risk using Trish's front door. She continued to the next house with no signs of life, hoping it would serve her needs.
Shielding her actions as best she could, Faith slammed her palm into the front door. The dead bolt ripped from the frame and sprang open. Faith stepped inside and grabbed the door before it came off the hinges or embedded in the wall behind. Quickly closing it behind her, she waited. No one in the house could have missed her entrance.
Seconds turned into minutes. No police or angry homeowner with a baseball bat arrived. Faith relaxed and hurried to the garage. A utility door led to the fenced backyard, her path to Trish's house without the watchful eyes of the Council or the Mayor's crew. She scaled the privacy fence between the yards easily.
The tingle of big magic hit Faith the second her leg crossed the top of the fence rails. Son of a bitch. How could she have forgotten? Tara had warded the house Faith's first night there. She froze, waiting for an invisible hammer to crush her or a lightning bolt to fry her as she sat uncomfortably astride the thin fence boards.
Nothing happened, though. Faith slowly slid to the ground, heart pounding. No magic. Fine. That was fine. Tara must have done something so the magic recognized people. Staying low to the ground, she crept up to the windows overlooking the yard. The interior was dark. Faith peered intently through the glass, hoping to catch movement or other signs that anyone was home. No was there, though. No one Faith could see.
Moving with more confidence, Faith "let" herself into Trish's garage via its utility door. It was easy from there to enter the house. The quiet stillness was creepy. In the short time Faith had lived here, there had always been someone in residence. Trish and Maxie. Monica. Tara.
Faith automatically turned to look at the entrance to the kitchen, imaging Tara coming out to announce, "I made pancakes. Shapes this time, just like Mama used to make."
It didn't happen, no matter how long Faith stood there or how much she wanted Tara to appear. With steps as slow and reluctant as a submissive marching to the spanking bench, Faith walked farther into the house. She was here for a reason. This wasn't the time to wish for the impossible.
Faith was sidetracked a second time in the living room. No imaginary Tara with food, just blankets and a pillow decorating the couch. A small garbage can filled with torn and crumpled facial tissues sat on the floor right next to the pillow.
There was no reason for Trish or Maxie to curl on the couch for a crying jag. Tara, though… Faith had given her more than ample reason to cry.
Why hadn't the crazy witch at least slept in the bed? Unless Tara hadn't understood Faith's message at the club. If she thought Faith was coming back; if she didn't want to "steal" Faith's bed, Tara would sleep on the couch.
Or…What if Tara had slept on the couch because, after last night, she couldn't stand to be near anything Faith had touched?
Faith sat down on the couch and picked up the pillow, ready to do some crying of her own. The pillowcase was soft and it smelled like Tara. It somehow felt like Tara, too. The dark corner in Faith's mind that held the bond warmed. Closing her eyes, Faith ignored the usual fear her link with Tara caused. Tara wasn't scary. Without the panic, it was so much easier to let the mental "Tara blanket" wrap around her. Tara's warmth, her hidden strength… They were all there. Unconsciously surrendering to that tiny piece of Tara in her mind, Faith stretched out on the couch, wrapping herself in the physical blankets Tara had left behind.
The real blanket was still wrapped around Faith when she woke up. Sitting up, Faith cursed. She was so stupid. She hadn't come to the house to take a nap or move the fuck back in. What if Tara and her friends came back? Convincing them that she was through with Tara would be next to impossible, no matter what she'd done at the bar last night, if she was all snuggled up in Tara's blanket like some pathetic sub longing for her mistress. Faith refused to acknowledge her own longing for Tara, to admit for even a second how much comfort she got from being wrapped in a blanket carrying Tara's scent.
That tiny little voice in Faith's head wouldn't let Faith live in the Land of Denial. It reminded Faith that if Tara came back, she wouldn't care what Faith tried to tell her. She'd simply stride up to Faith with all her Dominance on display. Dominance and (damn that inner voice) disappointment. Burying her face in the pillow, Faith tried to hide from the voice and Tara's sad eyes. Eyes that weren't angry or accusing. Only sad because Faith had ripped Tara's heart out and stomped on it in front of a whole club full of people.
"For some reason, I know you won't make fun of me." Tara's admission as they'd begun window shopping Thursday evening filled the house, and Faith shrank away from the truth. She might not have made fun of Tara the way her father had; that didn't mean Faith hadn't broken the trust Tara had placed in her.
Faith had broken Tara's trust once. Crawling off the couch, Faith set out to crush whatever remained of Tara's misplaced trust into dust. Feet dragging, she went to Tara's bedroom to accomplish the one goal she'd had when she entered Trish's house. Faith had no personal items to pack. She had no pretty apology for her actions to leave for Tara. For her Dominant. The one person Fate had selected for her. The woman who had been Faith's first true friend and only protector.
Only one thing would once and for all drive home the message Faith never really wanted to send.
Fingers stiff and reluctant, she unbuckled the cuff on her wrist and set it in the middle of the bed. Tara would understand as soon as she saw it. For a Dominant to take another Dominant's cuff off without their consent was worth the heavy whip and jail time for the offender. For a submissive to remove their Dominant's cuff without permission, though… There were no laws for that.
It was, very simply, the worst sort of betrayal. Worse than formal repudiation papers. It was a personal middle finger directed at the Dominant.
Faith never looked back as she retraced her steps through the garage and into the back yard. The Mayor had been clear. Get Tara out of the picture – or he would. Outside, in the bright afternoon sunshine, though, Faith's bare right wrist glowed like a beacon.
Cuffs had been a luxury Faith had never experienced until the Council. She'd grown used to the weight and stiffness. And somehow, behind her back, Faith had grown used to seeing Tara's mark. A mark that proclaimed her off limits; Tara's chosen, claimed submissive.
Stroking her bare wrist, Faith realized she couldn't do it. She couldn't kick Tara in the teeth the way the Mayor wanted. Not after she'd already hurt Tara so much the night before. Faith would meet part of his demand. She'd get Tara out of her life but on her own terms.
Last night had been a mistake. A huge mistake. Faith could have bided her time and ended her bond with Tara on Monday when the Bond Registration Office opened. Tara would have grieved, yes. Faith's crazy, sweet witch believed in the bond and in Faith. Tara wouldn't have been humiliated. Only hurt in a way she should have been expecting. Faith had warned her.
Faith sprinted back into the house. The cuff waited on the bed. Snatching it up, she buckled it on. The world somehow righted. At least a little bit. The Mayor and his threat hadn't disappeared. Faith still had to leave Tara and their bond. The leather encircling her wrist settled some of Faith's fears. Somehow, it would be alright.
Tara woke to Hellish heat. Her jaw and face ached, and her eyes struggled to focus. Orange light filtered in through slitted windows. It was hard to breathe. Tara sucked in one labored breath after another, shaking her head against the pain and fog.
Where was she? And how had she gotten here?
Every thought took an hour. Or a day. Tara couldn't fit the memory puzzle pieces together.
She tried to sit up but couldn't. Her hands were bound to her waist; cuffs clipped to a bondage belt. Yanking on them was useless. Tara tried, though. Tried until she was panting and covered in sweat.
Finally, she managed to bring her scattered thoughts under control. The narrow windows she'd glimpsed when she woke up weren't windows. They were air holes. She was bound and crated!
Tara yanked at the restraints again and kicked at the covered crate door, fear stealing what little oxygen she had. She had to get out. Get free!
Thoughts of freedom took second place, though, when she managed to roll over. On one side of the crate, right near the cage door, was a tiny inscription: Mama, you'll always be the owner of my heart.
This wasn't any crate. This was her mother's crate. Tara has scribbled that note to her mother when she was nine. She'd wanted to give her mother something happy to think about when her father locked her mother into the tiny space.
Fear spiraled into mindless panic. No! Tara wasn't going back. She'd sworn she'd die before going back to the farm. Reaching deep inside, she grabbed at her magic – and found her reservoirs dangerously low. The continued ward on the house. The mental showdown with Gemma. The shields on Faith. Tara had been distracted and stupid. She hadn't replenished her magical stores, and only dregs remained.
With enough time and the proper tools, the bindings and the crate would be manageable.
Tara had neither. A door opened and closed somewhere nearby. Squirming and wiggling, she peered through the air holes. Gray, gray, and more gray. Whatever was outside the crate, it was gray. Tara didn't particularly like gray, and she didn't recognize one gray over another.
She did, however, recognize one of the voices getting closer. "I told you, the girl's mine. I'll take care of her." Tara's father. And he was nervous. He always got blustery and angry when someone challenged him.
"Our employer is trusting you to do just that." This voice was new. Smooth and well-educated. Tara yanked on the cuffs again, wishing for Faith's Slayer strength or Willow's off-the-cuff magical prowess. Her wishes were pointless, as were her attempts to get free. All Tara accomplished was missing part of the conversation. "…arrangements. I need assurances that you understand the expectations."
"Donny and I'll handle it. Don't know why you think the bitch is a problem. Stupid, stuttering, useless piece of ass, just like her whore of a mother." They were so close now! Throwing caution to the winds, Tara grabbed at the dregs of power. She'd show her father how useless she was. Except, once she had the energy, Tara realized one horrible truth: if she actually managed to channel her inner Willow, there would be no power left.
No power meant Tara couldn't maintain the ward on the house or keep the shields on Faith. Faith would be completely vulnerable if the Mayor or the Council went on the offensive.
There was no time! The gray landscape outside the crate was blocked by charcoal gray trousers on one side and faded blue jeans on the other. Her father never wore anything other than jeans. Tara yanked on the unlined cuffs in mindless fear until her wrists bled.
A booted foot slammed into the crate, and Tara screamed. "Shut up! I'll get to you soon enough. Then you can do all the screaming you want," her father snarled. "Are we done here?"
There was a long, weighted silence. Then the stranger sealed Tara's fate. "She's all yours."
