Chapter 19 #2
Professional. Clinical. As if I'm not rock-hard in my pants. As if my hands aren't shaking slightly with the need to touch her, claim her, mark her as mine in every way that matters.
I cup her left breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it hardens into a tight peak.
Then I attach the clamp.
Emmaleen gasps—a sharp intake of breath that she tries to swallow back.
I watch her face as I slowly tighten the screw. Watching for the exact moment when discomfort becomes pain.
There.
A tiny squeak escapes her throat. Her eyes squeeze shut.
I stop immediately, noting the tension setting required.
"Good girl," I murmur. "One more."
The right breast. Same careful process.
Cup. Stroke. Attach. Tighten.
This time she's prepared for it, but the squeak still comes—higher-pitched, more desperate.
I go over to the cabinet, pull out an additional chain from the nipple clamps drawer, and walk back over to her. She’s already flushed. When I attach the chain to her collar, then tug her head down, forcing her to bow so I can attach it to the chain between the nipple clamps, she hisses.
Perfect.
I step back to admire my work.
Emmaleen stands before me, collared and clamped, her chest heaving with each breath. The clamps pull with the movement, sending fresh waves of sensation through her. She wants to look up at me. To meet my gaze, despite the rules. But the chain keeps her chin down.
Her nipples are already darkening from the restricted blood flow.
I like this look.
I think I’ll ask Jino to use this for daily conditioning.
"The cuffs."
She bends again, careful not to move her head too much, and retrieves the leather wrist and ankle restraints, handing them over without meeting my eyes.
I hold them for a moment, weighing them in my hands. Considering.
Then I point to the floor in front of the throne.
"Lie down. Face down. Arms and legs spread wide."
Emmaleen carefully lowers herself with obvious reluctance, her movements stiff and uncertain. She arranges herself on the cold cement, cheek pressed against stone, limbs extended. Breasts flattened. Clamps bending her nipples in an unnatural way.
She is vulnerable.
Exposed.
Mine.
I kneel beside her, starting with the left wrist. I buckle the cuff snugly, then clip it to the ring embedded in the throne's front left leg.
The right wrist. Same process.
She's breathing faster now. Shallow, panicked breaths that make her rib cage expand and contract rapidly.
I move to her ankles.
Left first. Buckling, clipping—not to the throne this time, but to the bolts set into the floor itself. Installed specifically for this purpose.
Then the right.
When I'm finished, Emmaleen is completely immobilized. Spread-eagled on the floor, unable to move more than a half an inch in any direction.
The position forces her chest to press against the marble, putting pressure on the clamps. She'll feel every heartbeat pulsing through her nipples.
I walk around her slowly, examining the sight from every angle.
Fucking beautiful.
But there's something I need her to understand before we continue.
I retrieve the riding crop from where it still rests beside the throne, then crouch near her head so she can see me without straining.
"Listen carefully."
Emmaleen's eyes are wide, pupils blown so large that only a thin ring of pale green remains visible.
"Your whipping comes first," I explain, keeping my voice level. Instructional. "This is a testing phase. You are going to hold in your reactions as much as possible. No matter what."
I pause, letting that sink in.
"I'll use your whimpers and tears to determine how far to take your punishment tonight. Thirty-seven demerits doesn't mean thirty-seven lashes. It could. If you can take it. But it's not about the number. It's about your willingness to endure the pain in exchange for the pleasure."
I tap the crop lightly against my palm.
Once.
Twice.
The sound echoes in the quiet room.
"If your reactions lie to me—if you overreact, if you feign pain to make me ease up—I will get the cane and show you what real pain actually feels like."
Emmaleen flinches. A full-body jerk that rattles the restraints and makes her gasp in shock as the collar chain pulls on her nipples.
It is this reaction that triggers it.
A twinge of something inside me that is uncomfortably close to glee.
If she lies to me with her reactions, I will cane her.
Only once.
But once is all it will take to teach her the difference between discomfort and agony.
Between a riding crop and an instrument designed to break skin.
"Do you understand?" I ask softly.
Emmaleen's voice is barely a whisper. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
Her throat works as she swallows. I watch the collar shift with the movement.
"Yes, Sir."
Close enough.
I stand, moving behind her where she can't see me. Where every strike will be a surprise.
The crop feels right in my hand. Balanced. Precise.
I trail the leather tip down the length of her spine, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. I flick it gently across her ass cheeks. Emmaleen shivers but doesn't make a sound.
Smart girl.
"We begin now," I tell her. "Remember—hold it in. Let me read you."
I raise the crop.
And then bring it down across her ass with controlled force.
The crack echoes like a gunshot.
Emmaleen's body jerks against the restraints. A sharp inhale—almost a gasp—cuts through the silence.
She whimpers, but doesn't scream.
I watch the pale skin of her ass turn pink where the crop landed. A perfect line of color blooming across the curve.
Beautiful.
I pause to pick put the candle, then light it.
Emmaleen is already trying to soothe herself with controlled breathing.
I drip the wax onto the welt. Then, immediately, as if the two actions were one, I raise the crop again and let it land. This time, lower. Across the crease where her ass meets her thighs.
A whimper escapes her throat. Small. Choked off almost immediately.
She's trying so hard to be good.
More wax.
Crack.
The opposite cheek. Symmetry matters.
Another whimper. Louder this time.
I let the wax pool along the wick for a moment, bending down to get it close to her skin, then let it drip. Emmaleen is biting her lip, stifling screams. Tears are running down her cheeks.
I pause, studying the pattern of marks forming across her skin. The way her fingers curl into fists. The tremor running through her legs.
And that's when I hear it.
The voice.
My voice—but not mine. Deeper. Colder. Something that lives in the space between my ribs where my heart should be.
She can take more. You know she can. She wants to prove herself. Let her.
I close my eyes for a split second, willing the voice away.
It doesn't leave.
It never does.
You've been too gentle. She'll think you're weak. Show her what you really are.
My grip tightens on the crop until the leather bites into my palm.
No.
I'm in control here. Not the thing inside me. Not the monster that was forged in a warehouse basement twenty-four years ago, tied to a post, starving, waiting to die.
You are me, the voice whispers. I am you. We are the same.
Crack.
The crop comes down harder this time. Hard enough that Emmaleen cries out—a full-throated sound of pain that she can't suppress.
The mark blooms darker. Angrier.
The candle slips from my hand, sputters and then goes out. Fuck.
That was too much.
I kneel beside her, setting the crop down, reaching out to touch the welt forming on her skin.
She flinches away from my hand.
"I'm sorry," I murmur. "Too hard. I—"
Don't apologize. You're teaching her. She needs to learn.
"Shut up," I mutter.
Emmaleen's head turns slightly, confusion flickering across her tear-stained face. "Sir?"
"Not you. Never you."
I press my palm flat against the worst mark, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. Checking for broken capillaries. Signs of bruising that goes too deep.
It's fine. She's fine.
But I'm not.
The monster is clawing its way up my throat, demanding to be acknowledged. Demanding to be fed.
I stand abruptly, stepping back from her.
She's still restrained. Still waiting. Are you going to leave her like this? Unfinished?
No.
Yes.
I don't fucking know.
I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to push back the memory that's surfacing. The one that always comes when the monster gets too loud.
The warehouse.
Cold concrete beneath my bare feet.
Rope cutting into my wrists.
I was eight years old, and I'd been there for seven days already. Maybe eight. Time blurred after the third day without food.
Rico had been there earlier. I'd recognized his voice even through the hood they'd put over my head.
He was laughing.
Laughing while someone hit me. While I gasped and choked and tried not to cry because crying made it worse.
And then the men were talking.
Voices I didn't recognize. Deep. Rough. Smoking cigarettes that made the air thick and choking.
"The old man confirmed it," one of them said. "No ransom. We're supposed to finish this."
"Salvatore's just gonna let us kill his kid?"
"It's the Bavga way, isn't it? Blood for blood. The aunt fucked Luca over, so now Salvatore gives us the runt. Evens the scales."
A match struck. The smell of sulfur and tobacco.
"Poor bastard probably thinks Daddy's coming to save him."
More laughter.
And that's when I understood.
No one was coming.
My father had given me to them. Offered me up like a lamb to slaughter to settle a debt I didn't even understand.
The hood came off on day ten.
I saw Rico's face clearly for the first time. Saw the cruelty in his eyes. The pleasure he took in watching me suffer.
I saw the gun on the table.
And I knew—with absolute certainty—that if I didn't save myself, I was going to die in that warehouse.
So I dislocated my thumb.
Slipped the ropes.
Shot a man in the hip with his own weapon and ran.
The monster was born in that moment.