10. Elena
ELENA
My heart hammers against my ribs. "What—" My voice comes out breathless. I hate how weak I sound. "What are you going to do?"
"I told you. You're going to be punished."
The word punished hangs in the air between us. My mind races through possibilities, each one more humiliating than the last. He wouldn't. He can't. This is—
"What does that mean?" I demand, trying to inject some authority back into my voice. "Are you going to—what, put me over your knee like some child?"
I mean it as mockery, a way to show him how ridiculous this is. But Declan doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. His green eyes hold mine, and I flush hot with shame as I realize I’ve guessed what he’s thinking.
"You can choose," he says, his voice still that same deadly calm. "Over my knee, or bent over the bed. Either way, you're getting spanked. You need to understand the consequences of disrespecting me and my men. Especially in front of witnesses."
The room tilts, and my ears ring. He can't be serious. He can't actually be suggesting—
"No." The word bursts out of me. "Absolutely not. I won't—you can't—"
“I can do whatever I want. I’ve allowed you to think otherwise, because this wasn’t the sort of husband I wanted to be. But clearly, you need to learn a lesson. So choose, Elena. Over my knee, or bent over the bed."
"Neither!" My voice rises, sharp with panic and fury. "I'm not a child, and I'm not going to submit to this—this barbaric—"
"Then I'll choose for you." He walks closer, and his presence fills the space between us, overwhelming everything else. "Bend over the bed."
"No."
"Elena." My name is a warning. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
"I said no!" I back up another step, but the bed is right behind me. I'm trapped between him and the mattress, and the realization makes my pulse spike. "You can't just—you don't get to—"
"I do. Because you crossed a line tonight. And there are consequences."
His hand comes up, and I flinch. But he doesn't strike me. Instead, his fingers close gently around my upper arm. Firm but not painful, guiding me. "Don't touch me," I hiss, trying to pull away.
"Bend over the bed, Elena."
"No!"
But he's stronger than I am—so much stronger. He turns me, his other hand coming to my other arm, and I'm suddenly facing the bed. The mattress is right there, white sheets still rumpled from where I was sitting before. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"This is what you want, isn't it?" I throw the words over my shoulder, desperate to wound him the way he's wounding me. "This is about taking what you want from me. About proving you're in control. About—"
"This is not sexual." His voice cuts through my accusations coldly. "This is a punishment. If it becomes sexual for me, that's my problem to manage, not yours. Do you understand?"
I don't answer, because his hands are on my shoulders now, pressing down, and I'm bending forward despite every instinct screaming at me to fight. My palms hit the mattress, and my hair falls forward around my face. I'm bent over the bed like he ordered, my body obeying even as my mind rebels.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"I know." His hand slides down my back, and I feel him reach around to undo the clasp of my pants. "But you're still going to learn this lesson."
The air hits my legs as he lowers my pants slowly, exposing my thighs, my ass, everything. I'm wearing black lace panties that I put on this morning without thinking about who might see them. Now they feel like nothing, like the thinnest barrier between me and complete humiliation.
"Don't." My voice breaks. "Please don't."
"You should have thought about that before you insulted my men in my house."
I hear the sound of his belt buckle, then the leather sliding through the loops. My entire body goes rigid with anticipation and dread. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I'm Elena Capetti. I'm a mafia princess. I don't get bent over beds and—
The first strike lands across my ass with a crack that echoes through the room.
Pain explodes across my skin, sharp and stinging and so much worse than I expected.
I gasp, my fingers clutching at the sheets, my body trying to jerk away.
But his other hand is on my lower back, holding me in place.
Keeping me bent over exactly where he wants me.
"That's one," he says calmly.
The second strike comes before I can catch my breath, in the same spot. The same sharp, burning pain radiates out from the impact. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but a small sound escapes anyway. My face burns with humiliation.
"Two."
The third strike lands lower, catching the curve where my ass meets my thighs. This time I do cry out. I can't help it. The pain is too much. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I won't cry. I won't give him the satisfaction.
"Three."
He's methodical about it, like he truly is punishing me, not trying to be cruel.
Each strike lands in a slightly different spot, spreading the pain across my entire ass and upper thighs.
The belt is thick leather, and every impact sends shock waves through my body.
I can hear the sound of it cutting through the air before it lands.
Can hear my own breathing, harsh and ragged, then the small, involuntary sounds I'm making despite my best efforts to stay silent.
"Seven"
My skin is on fire. Every nerve ending screams. I'm sure I'm bruising, sure there will be marks, that I'll feel this for days. And he just keeps going.
“Eight.”
I'm shaking now, my legs trembling as I sag forward on my elbows. The pain has transformed from sharp stings into a deep, throbbing ache that pulses with my heartbeat. And underneath the pain and the humiliation and the fury, something else is building.
Something I don't want to acknowledge.
“Nine.”
Heat. Not just from the strikes, but from somewhere deeper, lower. Between my legs, where I'm suddenly, horrifyingly aware of a different kind of sensation. A slickness, and a warmth that has nothing to do with the belt. My body is responding to this.
No. No, no, no.
“Ten.”
I can feel myself getting wet despite the pain and humiliation.
My body is betraying me in the worst possible way, responding to his dominance, to the control he's exerting. Somehow the burn has begun to almost feel good, spiking something in me even though it still hurts. I don’t understand.
How can anyone like this? How can this be… be good, somehow…
“Eleven.”
Please don't notice. Please don't—
"You're wet." His voice cuts through my desperate internal pleading, suddenly taking on a rasping note. It’s so fucking humiliating I want to die. "I can see it through your panties, Elena. You're soaking through them."
"Shut up,” I choke out desperately.
He chuckles darkly. “I was going to stop at fifteen. But we’ll go to twenty for your smart mouth. Your body knows what it wants even if you won't admit it, princess." Another strike, harder this time. "Twelve."
I sob. The sound tears out of me before I can stop it, and I hate myself for it. I hate him for doing this.
"You can disrespect me with your words all you want," he continues, his voice still that same deadly calm. "But your body tells the truth. You're wet. You're aroused. And you're going to remember this every time you think about insulting me or my men again."
"I hate you," I gasp out.
"I know." The belt comes down again. "Thirteen."
The pain and the arousal are tangled together now, inseparable.
Each strike sends jolts through my entire body—pain radiating out from my ass, but also something else that makes my core clench and my breath catch for reasons that have nothing to do with the sting of leather on skin.
I'm crying now, but I'm also pressing back slightly into each strike.
My body is seeking something I don't want to name, something dark and twisted and wrong.
“Fourteen.”
My panties are definitely soaked now. I can feel the wetness, cool against my heated skin. I can feel how swollen I am, how desperately my body wants something he's not giving me. The humiliation of it is almost worse than the pain. My clit is throbbing, desperate to be touched.
"You're dripping," he observes, and I can hear a strain in his voice now. "Your thighs are wet. You're making a mess, Elena."
"Stop," I beg. "Please stop."
"Fifteen." He doesn’t stop or slow down. He just keeps bringing the belt down, counting out the strokes as I grow wetter, my skin flushed and hot, my hips arching down toward the bed like I could somehow get some relief that way.
I'm not sure I can take much more. My ass is on fire, throbbing with each heartbeat. My legs are shaking so badly I'm barely staying upright. And between my legs, I'm so aroused it's painful. So desperate for friction, for pressure, for anything that might ease the ache.
“Twenty.”
The final strike lands harder than all the others. Right across the center of my ass, catching both cheeks. I cry out, my body jerking forward and my fingers twisting in the sheets. The pain is exquisite and unbearable. I feel like I’m on the verge of an orgasm, but I can’t quite get there.
And then it stops. The silence is deafening. I can hear my own ragged breathing. I can hear him breathing too, heavier than before. I hear the clink of a belt buckle as he sets the belt down on the bed beside me.
His hand is still on my lower back, holding me in place. He steps back after a moment. "You can get up now," he says finally.
But I can't move. I can't make my body obey. I'm frozen there, bent over the bed, my ass burning and my panties soaked, my entire body trembling with the aftermath of what just happened.
Slowly, I push myself up. My arms shake with the effort. When I'm finally standing, I turn to face him, and that's when I see the obvious bulge in his jeans.