Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
My heart rate doubles by the time we reach the bottom of the staircase. Mr. Bordeaux uses a key to unlock a black iron gate, and I follow him deeper into the dim, cold space. If I had to choose one word to describe this place, it would be…
Horrifying.
It has the feel of a dungeon, with bars sectioning off cells to imprison the punished, and shackles hanging from the ceiling. But the word dungeon doesn’t quite fit either. There’s a decadence to the strange furnishings—the various high-end benches outfitted in dark red leather, and the massive bed sitting off by itself in another sectioned-off space, the sheets an onyx satin and the duvet a vibrant crimson.
The color of passion.
The color of pain.
The bed sits atop a cage, ominous in undertone. Thick leather cuffs dangle from the wooden bedposts, the sight of which shoots a shiver down the slope of my neck. My gaze stalls on an iron rack on the wall reserved for riding crops, whips, and other items that are equally terrifying and unknown. Opposite of that rack stands a wooden X, shackles waiting for wrists and ankles.
Mr. Bordeaux stalls as I take in my surroundings, stupefied, thoughts spinning in a fog. He turns to face me, and his eyes narrow as he waves a perfect, soft-looking hand. “Take off your clothes.”
A bone-deep chill rushes through me, causing me to hesitate. I’m so off kilter that I don’t notice another person in the room, and the noise registers a second too late.
The cadence of a single footfall behind me.
A light rustle.
The fierce snap of leather an instant before it strikes me on the ass, issuing a sting forceful enough to send my teeth into a grind.
“Do as Mr. Bordeaux commands.” The voice at my back is deep, harsh, leaving no room for doubt that he’ll hit me again if I don’t submit.
With shaking hands I grab the hem of my shirt and lift it over my breasts. I’m fumbling with the clasp of my undergarment when Mr. Bordeaux orders me to move faster.
“I-I’m sorry. I’m trying.”
Another snap of the whip, harder this time, and I push to my toes with a sharp cry.
“Your master didn’t give you permission to speak.”
Mr. Bordeaux shakes his head. “I’m not her master.”
“Down here we do things my way, and that means you are her master.” More footsteps sound as I struggle out of the rest of my clothing, letting it gather around my feet in a messy, abandoned pile of lost dignity. The man with the whip comes into view, and I meet a set of familiar gray eyes.
Pax, from the House of Libra, and from what I recall during the medical examination, the keeper of the dungeon. I want to cower under his scrutiny, or at the least, palm my breasts so he’ll stop molesting them with his lascivious gaze. Instead, I remain frozen with my hands dangling at my sides.
“Kneel,” Mr. Bordeaux says, drawing my attention back to him.
I follow his command and assume the pose he wants, on my haunches, head bowed, hands on my thighs, palms up.
“You’re quick to obey, but I shouldn’t have to issue the order. Unless I say otherwise, this is how I expect you to present yourself.” Three purposeful strides narrows the distance between us. “You will not move until I say otherwise, is that understood?”
A beat passes, and Pax’s whip sends a soft caress across my breasts, prompting me to stumble over my answer. “I…yes, Mr. Bordeaux.”
“You will kneel in this spot, alone and in the dark, until it becomes as natural as breathing.”
Icy fear storms through me, and I bite my lip to keep from pleading for mercy. The two men leave without another word, locks clanking into place upon their exit. A melancholy echo reverberates through the chamber. I count the ensuing seconds in the beats of my heart, senses heightened in the quiet. Gooseflesh erupts on my skin, unhindered by clothing, and I want to wrap my arms around myself, hands rubbing the chill from my flesh until I find a hint of warmth, but I don’t dare move.
Until the lights shut off, plunging me into darkness. I jerk forward, barely catching myself from losing my balance, and a whimper catches in my throat. This is the kind of blackness nightmares are made of—suffocating and oppressive as the air seems to crawl over chilled skin like phantom fingers. The moonless sky during the Witching Hour would offer more light.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count the skittering tempo of my heartbeat.
One, two, three, four, five, six…
Liam’s seductive brown eyes flash through my mind, and I latch onto the memory of him as if it’s my only lifeline.
Because right now it is.
Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…
He’s my armor against the dragon, and I replay the warmth of his fingers on my skin, the sigh of his breath on my lips, the cadence of his resonant voice.