Protege(2)
“That’s quite a life-altering decision. Tell me how you discovered Fernweh. You aren’t a direct relative of any of our clients, which is typically how referrals come to us.”
Her gaze again lowered and she swallowed. “I assume you’re familiar with the school that employed me.”
“I am. Small town, generic demographic, rural enough that the lands don’t require picket fencing to boast the community’s charm, yet everyone knows the bank teller, the librarian, and the mechanic by name.”
Startled by his astute and somewhat symptomatic synopsis, she met his gaze again. “Have you been there?”
“No, but no one walks through my door until I’ve done my research. Do you find it difficult to breathe there, Ms. Banks, among all that open land with few shadows to hide any secrets?”
Her chest tightened as her heart beat a bit faster. “It can get claustrophobic.”
His eyes creased. “Ironic.” His chair shifted, but he continued to study her. “Do you feel like you’re hiding in plain sight sometimes?”
How was he reading her so easily? They’d never met. He’d never been to her town. What sort of research had he done? This man, after only a few minutes of meeting her, seemed to see her deepest secrets, the ones she never whispered or dared to write down.
Her gaze darted to the surface of the desk and held. “I’m not hiding, but sometimes I feel like I’m dying, in front of everyone, but too gradually for anyone to notice.”
“Lost?”
She nodded. “Yes. Lost.” It was something she’d felt since childhood, but lately the adrift sense of meaninglessness overwhelmed her.
“And you’re hoping to find an anchor.”
She nodded, sensing that his inference didn’t require an answer. A familiar lump built in her throat and she swallowed to force it back, but it didn’t budge. Her eyes glazed with unshed tears that she quickly blinked away. There was a soft whisper of fabric, and a silk handkerchief was offered just inside her peripheral vision. He’d moved so quietly she hadn’t noticed him stand. “Thank you.” She took the handkerchief and blotted away her inexplicable tears.
“You’re welcome.” His voice was low. “Do you cry often?”
With forced calm, she blinked away the dampness at her lashes. “I don’t know why I’m crying now.” This was absurd.
“I suspect you’re nervous, perhaps a little unsure. Disclosing personal details is a necessary part of the Fernweh process, I’m afraid. The unease you’re likely experiencing is your mind’s protective instinct to hide all vulnerability. There’s no judgment here, Ms. Banks.”
She sniffed and blotted her lashes again, certain her makeup was blemished. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”
“No need to apologize. You were informing me how you discovered Fernweh.”
She nodded. The gentle way he coaxed her to continue somehow made it easier to go on. Though she was the one speaking, he seemed to be in control of the conversation.
“Right. Well, with the economy as it is, our school let some employees go. The arts took the largest staff cut, but then the language department felt the pinch. I should have planned for such a thing, but I have a habit of putting too much faith in intangible security.”
He said nothing, so she went on. “At first I kept myself busy, but then I was just . . . hiding, I guess. I watched TV for hours on end, abused my Netflix, stalked social media, but never really commented or interacted with others. My voice mail slowly filled up with messages from concerned friends until it was full. I actually found the silence relieving.”
“You were depressed.”
Such a simple diagnosis, such a complex and insufferable disorder. “Yes.” She finally sipped the water. The pure taste was refreshing, more so than tap. She wondered if he had it shipped in from some exotic place.
Seeing he was waiting, she continued, compelled to give him everything, all the facts. “One day I was online searching for something. I don’t recall what. I started on Google, which led to another place, then a blog of sorts. As I was reading an article that caught my attention, some words were highlighted, so I clicked them and I wound up being transplanted to a strange site about people living in D/s relationships, and finding suitable mates within that lifestyle. I’d never heard of such a thing before. It seemed . . . not real. I couldn’t imagine people actually living in such a way. But it . . .”
“Spoke to you?”
A soft smile curved her lips as she gazed at him, appreciating his gentle suggestion. “Yes. Called to me might be more accurate.”
“Your experience with dominance and submission doesn’t accurately align with the information provided, Ms. Banks. You’ve checked off nearly the entire list of permissible . . . intimacy.” Easing forward, he fingered through the file on his desk. “And you’ve only listed four hard limits. Either your curiosity is copious or you’ve forgotten a good part of your listed familiarity.”
She’d guessed at most of that stuff. Blushing, she confessed, “I suppose I’m more interested in the emotional dynamic of relationships like that. I don’t think the sexual stuff matters all that much.”
“I’m afraid I disagree. The sexual component of every relationship matters significantly. You’ve marked an inclination for certain practices you’ve never attempted. What would happen if you were paired with someone specifically drawn to that practice, perhaps to a fetish level, and after experiencing the act, you discovered it to be something you couldn’t abide?”