Chapter 24 #2
Antonov tucks his weapon under his arm and straightens Rider’s lapels. When he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he reaches into his pocket and presents another stack of cash.
“Rules,” Antonov says. “Twenty thousand dollars.”
Kate nods. Rider takes the money.
Antonov walks to the wheel. His fingers look like slugs, grabbing onto the edge. Instead of spinning, he marches the wheel forward three careful spaces, stopping on a black wedge.
Cane.
“Special request,” he says. “Three lashes.”
I meet Kate’s gaze. I’ve only caned her once before. Please, she begged me. Please, please, please, please, please. She barely managed to gasp her safeword to save herself.
“Three,” she says now, accepting the terms. Her eyes spark with wildfire.
“Kate—” I start to say.
“Three.”
I can’t manipulate anything about this fucking game. But I’m Kate’s Dom. I can get her through this.
Squinting into the shadows behind the stage, I wait for Rider’s staff to earn their keep. The woman who presented the vibrators minces forward like she’s walking on raw eggs. Her hand shakes as she passes me a bamboo cane.
I flex it, measuring its action. It has a lot of spring. Too much. It will definitely hurt.
As the woman steps back into darkness, she edges around a leather-covered spanking bench.
I point to it with the cane. “I need that. Center stage.”
Antonov protests, but Rider cuts him off, saying, “Rules.” The Russian backs down.
The bench has a padded kneeler a few inches off the floor and a second, higher surface covered in the same black leather. Matching steel-studded cuffs dangle from the corners. I test their strength, tugging with both hands. They’ll do.
“On your knees,” I say to Kate.
The bench faces the back wall. She can close her eyes. Bite her lip. Pretend she and I are the only two people in the world, if she wants to.
But she says, “No. I want to see them. I want them to see.”
She’s the bravest woman I’ve ever known.
I kick the table, forcing it around a quarter turn. Her face is toward the roulette wheel now, toward Antonov and the jagged letters: Cane.
Kneeling, my back to the audience, I reach for her right wrist. “You don’t have to do this,” I say close to her ear.
“We’re taking his fucking money,” she vows.
“We don’t need his money.”
“I do.”
She raises her chin to look straight into my eyes. Despite her brave words, I can see she’s afraid. I rest my palm on the crown of her head, as I whisper in her ear. “What’s your color?”
“Green,” she says.
“Promise that’s the truth.” She has to know I’ll protect her. I’ll throw Antonov’s filthy money back in his face. I’ll carry her out of here if I have to, Federov bratva be damned.
“It’s the truth. I promise. I love you.”
My heart twists. “Christ, Kate.”
But she’s made her decision. Now it’s my job to see her safely through to the other side.
“You’re strong enough for this,” I say, brushing my lips against her straining forearm. I reach across the table for her left wrist. “You’re my perfect sub.” I fasten the bond. “I love you too.”
I flex the cane again as I cross to the other end of the table. Kate’s chest presses into the leather. Her silk top has ridden up around her waist, and a dark line of sweat marks the ridge of her spine.
Her bare ass still has a faint mark from the single stroke I gave her two months ago. When I trace it with one finger, she shudders like I’m administering an electric shock. I gentle her with my palm.
Her thighs tremble in terrified anticipation. Her knees are spread to help her balance. I can smell her sex, still ripe from her solo act with the bullet.
I set my feet. I grip the cane. I raise my arm, determined to swipe fast, to land the blow before she has a chance to flinch at its whistle through the air.
I strike.
A red stripe rises immediately, as if her creamy flesh is lit from within. Her thighs tighten so fast I hear a crack from her hips. Her toes curl in agonized reflex, and her wrists jerk against the cuffs so hard I think she’ll break the table.
“Th— Thank you, Master,” she says. Her voice is shaky but the words are clear. “M— May I have another?”
Master. I made Kate call me that once, before I knew Pyotr Tarasov had done the same. I vowed never to make her say the word again.
But she’s here and she’s mine and she’s asking because she knows I need that. Her Master is as good as green, even though the crowd is rustling like animals trying to escape a cage.
I land another stroke higher than the first, leaving two fingers of milk between angry streaks of crimson.
This time she bucks. Her fingers tighten into marbled knots, and a screech hisses through her nose.
The audience surges forward. A man calls out, “Enough!” which is bad form in a club, because no one should ever interrupt the balance between a Dom and his sub. Under the circumstances, no one seems to care.
The marks on Kate’s ass are hypnotizing, like I’m staring through prison bars.
“Thank you, Master,” she says, too loud, too fast. “May I have another?”
I deliver the final blow as fast as I can. My aim is true; the stripe is one inch lower than the first. It’s deeper though; tiny beads of blood glisten in the light. The marks from the cane match the ones on the inside of her thighs, the laddered scars from all the times she cut.
Dropping the cane, I crash to my knees beside her. I rip open the buckle on her right wrist, then tear away the one on her left. I cup her sweaty face in my palm, catching my breath as she leans into me, as she trusts me enough to let me support her.
“Sweet Kate,” I say, kissing her cheek. “Good Kate.”
She turns to press her lips against my palm, shaking like a thoroughbred that’s just won the Kentucky Derby. I help her to her feet, steeling my heart against her gasp as she shifts her weight. I need to get her out of here before she drops.
Kynk’s members didn’t ask for this. Half a dozen people are stumbling for the door. Antonov stomps to the edge of the stage, muttering something in Russian.
When Rider steps forward, his face is pale. He hands over the entire stack of money, shoving it into my hands with both fists.
“Okay, everyone,” he says to the crowd. “Show’s over. It’s time to go home.”
“Not so fast,” comes a voice from the crowd.
I recognize it immediately. My heart freezes into a solid iron ball. Kate scrabbles for my hand and misses, her fingers falling uselessly to her side.
“One more game,” says the voice from the floor.
And Nikolai Tarasov steps into the light.