Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 817(@200wpm)___ 653(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
“You’re a pirate whore, Bennett Sharp. Nothing more.” He shoved off my body, his tone cutting. “You will hang for the crimes you’ve committed against the crown.”
Ashley’s sudden transformation sucked the wind from my sails. A scathing sob rose in my throat, and I trapped it there, humiliated, devastated, and overcome.
The salve on my wounds, the pretty words about my beauty, the almost-kiss… It had all been a ruse to disarm and hurt me.
“Don’t move.” He straightened the shirt, covering my bare bottom and igniting sore flesh.
I showed no reaction and made no move to disobey. I needed to reassemble my thoughts and rein in the blubbering jumble of emotions unraveling inside me.
He set a chair directly behind my bent position, selected a book from a nearby shelf, and grabbed a bowl of lobscouse from the table. Then he settled in to eat and read as if naught were out of order.
The seething agony of his rejection and outright dismissal of my existence shook me to the core. If I were a cold-hearted woman, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so damned hurt. But I wasn’t, and I did. A vise of pain shredded my organs to a pulp. Prickling heat seared the backs of my eyes, and my head pounded beneath the pressure.
He couldn’t see my face from his position, and that alone kept me in place.
I couldn’t hide my true feelings behind a mask like his. Couldn’t stifle the spill of tears or the quiver in my chin. Until I fastened a tourniquet around my bleeding heart, I couldn’t look into his pitiless eyes.
He’d beaten me with emotional warfare.
Hadn’t I considered something as equally nefarious with Priest? I was going to fuck another man in front of him. Probably.
Probably not.
When it came down to it, I wasn’t as cruel as I wanted people to believe. But I wasn’t a saint, either. I didn’t even claim a god. Maybe I deserved this degradation.
Every proud fiber of my being bristled in objection. I was a female prisoner, bent over a powerful man’s table for his amusement, after being assaulted to a level of agony that would prevent me from sitting. I hadn’t been convicted of a crime, and until then, it was my right to fight.
But to survive this captivity, I needed to adjust, bend with the strikes, and set aside my pride.
So I lay there, deprived of grace and dignity, listening to the clink of his spoon and the rustle of pages turning in his book.
As a king’s commodore, he was expected to put country and crown before himself, behave as an officer and a nobleman, and exercise control and order at all times.
But who was he beneath the rank and title? Was he actually reading the words in that book? Tasting the meat he scooped into his mouth? Or was he hiding bawdy thoughts about me and the erection he’d neglected in his breeches?
“Bennett.” His English accent—terribly deep and more beautiful than it should have been—curled up my spine. “Stand and face me.”
Damnation. If I disobeyed, he would wrench me up by my hair. He’d done that enough times that my scalp shuddered at the sound of his voice.
I pushed myself off the table, discreetly wiping my eyes on my arm. I didn’t erase all the tears, but no matter. More fell, trailing itchy rivers down my cheeks. All I could do was remain vertical and hold my head high as I turned.
He closed the book and set it and the empty bowl aside. “Tell me the lesson learned tonight.”
“Humility.”
He’d been right about me not being frightened enough. While it went against my nature to cower, my ostentatious boldness hadn’t helped me, either. His indifference to the suffering of a woman made him a man to be feared. Not that I deigned to be treated differently because of my sex. I just wasn’t accustomed to his degree of callousness.
“Bring me the second bowl of stew.” He flicked a finger at the table.
I followed his order, grimacing as the muscles in my backside protested the movement. When I returned to him holding the lobscouse, he tossed a cushion between his boots.
“Kneel.” He took the bowl, his gaze giving mine an icy reception. “Or sit in a chair.”
The ruthless bastard knew I couldn’t put weight on my throbbing arse. My hands fisted at my sides, my stomach in turmoil. Would his torture never end?
I lowered to my knees in the V of his legs.
Then he fed me.
Spoon to lips, the action felt awkward, but he showed no sign of discomfort. Patient as ever, he scooped, lifted, and served, catching droplets on my chin, waiting for me to chew, and repeating the motions.
I was too hungry and beat down to refuse the hand that fed me. The lukewarm meat melted in my mouth, the broth bursting with spicy flavors. My stomach rolled with pleasure.