4. - – Sera
CHAPTER FOUR
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SERA
The next time the lock turns, I’m ready. Not ready to fight but ready to pretend he isn’t there. Pretend that my survival wasn’t in the hands of a monster. I kept my gaze on the far wall in the room, counting the tiny pits in the concrete as he walks up behind me.
“Stand up.”
I don’t move. He pauses for a moment before the sound of the chair scraping. He sits behind me, but I keep my eyes fixed on the hairline cracks. The trick to surviving is to make yourself smaller than the room.
“Sera.” My name in his mouth heats something in me. “I need you to face me.”
I don’t move, just keeping my eyes glued to the wall. He lets out a frustrated groan before placing his hands on my waist, picking me up, and spinning me so I’m facing him now. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from snapping.
“That’s better,” he says before leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Here’s how this goes.”
He begins speaking like he’s reading from a script he wrote long ago, and knowing him, he probably did.
“There are seven rules you are required to follow.” He begins.
“One: You address me as Sir. Every time.”
“Two: You do not speak without my permission.”
“Three: When I enter, you kneel. No matter the location.”
“Four: You eat when I tell you to. Sleep when and where I decide.”
“Five: You don’t touch me unless instructed.”
“Six: You follow all orders immediately.”
“Seven: Your body is now mine to do with as I please.”
He waits for a moment, letting the list settle like dust.
“Do you have any questions?”
I stare at the wall over his shoulder. If I don’t speak, I can’t break a rule. He waits again before gently demanding, “Look at me.”
Of course, I don’t. The air tightens. A slow exhale escapes him, then the quietest click of him standing. He stands close enough that the leather of his belt brushes my shoulder when he moves.
“Sera,” he says again, lower this time, “I told you to look at me.”
“Do I have permission to speak?” I ask, flatly. It’s petty and precise, and it's going to cost me everything to say it.
A smile edges his voice. “You’ve been listening. No, you don’t.”
“Then I can’t look at you,” I whisper, because the only shield I have is rules used like mirrors.
He huffs a laugh. “You think you are so fucking clever.” His knuckles ghost along my jaw, moving towards my ear before his hand slides into my hair, yanking harshly. My lips part in a sharp gasp as tears prick my eyes. “Well, let’s see how clever you really are.”
He guides my body over the chair, bending me with implacable pressure between my shoulders. The wood bites into my ribs, the restraints are tugged high.
“You want to be so fucking disrespectful,” he whispers near my ear. “Let me show what happens to disrespectful little girls.”
The first blow lands across the meat of my ass. The sound is worse than the sting.
“Count, Sera. That’s an order.”
I grind my teeth as he waits.
“One.”
The number scrapes my throat. A second blow, a shade harder. “Two.”
“Say it correctly,” he says, almost bored. “Let’s not waste my time.”
I swallow harshly. “Two…Sir.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, a quiet, infuriating praise that my skin heats more than the blows. “Again.”
Three, four, five. Each strike is precise, spread out so the burn blooms evenly.
And I hate how the way my body begins to expect it.
To actually want it. By six, my knees begin to shake.
By seven, my breath is ragged. The words start to become quieter as I clench my jaw against the sound trying to claw out of me.
“Speak up,” he says when my voice stops. “If you’re going to be a brat, you have to endure your punishment. Rules and consequences go hand in hand, little captive.”
“Eight, Sir.” It comes out sharper than I intended.
“There she is.”
Nine lands lower, a clean stripe of heat against my skin. I hiss as my hands clench.
“Words, Sera,” he reminds.
“Nine, Sir.”
He brings his hand down one last time. The room rings as I breathe through my teeth, the taste of copper coating my tongue. “Ten, Sir.”
His palm settles flat between my shoulder blades, the other rubbing over my ass to soothe the sting. The contact shouldn’t steady me, but it does.
“This is the part where you kneel,” he says quietly. “Or we start over.”
My legs tremble as I slowly–inch by humiliating inch–shift off the chair and onto my knees. My pride riots, but my survival whispers. And suddenly, I begin to hate both voices. He circles me a few times before stopping in front of me.
“Much better,” he says. “Look at me.”
I drag my gaze up. He isn’t gloating, just appraising. His eyes are steady, indifferent to my shaking.
“Rule one,” he prompts. “How do you address me?”
“Sir.”
His mouth curves. Not into a smile, but in satisfaction. “There’s my clever girl.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I hate how that praise lands like oxygen. He reaches down and brushes a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Stand up,” he says after a moment, and helps me up. Once I’m fully standing, he holds onto me for a moment as I gain my balance before releasing me.
“You did well for your first lesson,” he says. “Don’t make me repeat it tonight.”
He turns on his heels and starts walking to the door as I begin to shift back down onto my knees.
“Come, my little captive,” he speaks softly. “You earned yourself a reward.”