17. Luna
LUNA
He makes me count my orgasms.
Every single one.
Every single day.
This one no exception.
Bent over a bowed bench in the training room—pink and plush as if someone built a rainbow for sin—the number three shines behind my heavy eyes, the single syllable repeating in my mind in case I forget how many came before it.
The consequence of being wrong, being hesitant, being human is a night spent in agony.
Tied up an ungodly number of ways while Sawyer does an ungodly number of things to my body. My mind. My soul.
Twice, I’ve forgotten the correct number. Twice I’ve begged for mercy.
Sawyer never forgets. And he is merciless.
My arms strain, cuffs stretching my arms to the floor while Sawyer presses the wand firmly to my exposed backside, one leg lifted over his shoulder. It spins over my clit with pressure that’s at once deliriously pleasurable and unpleasant.
I barely make a sound—only the occasional groan slips through my mouth, vibrating the string of drool that dangles from my bottom lip. Red light on the camera watching me, judging me, mocking me while I bare myself to a man who reveals nothing. Ever.
Two weeks I’ve tried to penetrate his mind, find his weaknesses, understand his goals, his methods, his train of thought.
Every day is the same failure.
Wake up in an empty bed.
Clean up whatever mess Sawyer has inevitably left.
Bathe, pull on a clean version of an identical white dress.
Dread training. Wait for training. Then, in the early evening when hunger gnaws and stagnation aches… Wish for training.
When he returns, he never smells like the forest he scouts—always soap. His face is cleanly shaven, his hair neatly groomed. All he keeps here is his clothes.
Sometimes—
Oh god.
My stomach caves in as my eyes clench shut. I moan out as a fourth wave wracks my body, dizzying my head already too full of blood from hanging forward. Sawyer pulls the wand away until I grunt out the final release.
“F-four.”
A moment’s pause. Then it’s back.
“Sawyer, no,” I whine, struggling against his hold on my leg. “Please.”
He’s even more ruthless today. Not once has he called me a pet name, stroked my hair, or shushed my cries.
“We have to train,” he said just a half hour ago after he returned from his morning activities. His face was pale, his eyes hollow. I asked him what was wrong, and he wouldn’t say. I begged him to slow down, but he carried me to the training room while I kicked and screamed.
He said nothing as he secured me to this … contraption. He said nothing as the wand in his hand started to buzz.
Sawyer is frightening about half the time, but it’s always the things he doesn’t say that scare me most.
Something happened. Something’s wrong.
And it kills me to not immediately know or understand what it is.
He pulls the device away and shuts it off. My mouth opens with a relieved squeak. I try to look behind me, but I can’t see Sawyer until he stands, his head turned toward the door. It’s another moment before I hear the footsteps coming up the stairs.
I lay my head back down and whine while shuffling my feet.
He didn’t stop for me. He stopped for whoever is here.
“Aurelius,” Sawyer greets the intruder—not quite friendly, not quite rude. “What can I do for you?”
I press my legs together while my skin flares, beads of sweat chilling on the back of my neck.
Even with my eyes closed, I can feel the watchful gaze, far more intrusive than the little red light.
It’s no wonder what he sees. Disgust radiates like an aura you could touch, the air shifting with his exhale.
“I wanted to see how you were doing… Zephyr mentioned you weren’t feeling well.”
Sawyer hesitates before responding. “It was the fish, I think. I’m not one for seafood.”
The intruder hums while walking this way, his calculated steps ending right in front of me. I still don’t open my eyes. I don’t move.
“Let Thorne know what we can do to accommodate your tastes. I’d hate for your weak stomach to get in the way of preparing the girl.”
The way he says girl sounds so condescending that he might as well have said whore. My teeth chomp but loosen with a gasp as hands run through my hair, tingling my scalp like a hundred little hatching spiders seeking a home.
He crouches and runs calloused fingers down my arms. “How close is she to being ready?”
“As I told you this morning, she’s making progress. She’ll need the full three weeks before anyone else should touch her.” Sawyer’s words seem pointed, defensive even. Offended for himself, maybe, but… Either way, the unwelcome touch leaves.
Knees pop inches from my ears. “Of course… I’m happy to see you busy at work.”
The floorboards cry as he wanders the room.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of my daughter.
She’s rather protective of you, and I wouldn’t want her to think I was accusing you of anything, but…
” My eyes open despite the cramp in my stomach.
I turn to stare while he plucks a riding crop from the wall.
He studies the braided handle as he speaks.
“Last night, an infant went missing. That’s the second one in two weeks, and while I’m sure you’ve been too busy with your project to know anything about it, I’d like you to come straight to me if you hear anything.
Interference with our practices comes with serious consequences, for our society as well as the perpetrator. ”
“Of course.” Sawyer nods. I wish he was facing me so I could read his expression. He sounds confident, as always. An impeccable liar. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
After a knowing smile, the intruder hangs the riding crop back up and lets out a heavy breath. “I suppose I’ll let you get to it then.”
There’s a half-second pause before the clack of shoes starts toward the door, then fades down the stairs.
Sawyer and I remain quiet until the front door slams. Even then, I’m hesitant to speak. Already, my body flickers back to life, my clit aching—overstimulated. I’m afraid if I utter a word, he’ll remember I’m here.
Sawyer walks to me and crouches just as our intruder had. I lift my head to look at him, but pain in my neck makes me rest my forehead back down.
My head turns while Sawyer runs his hands up my arms, replacing the cold touch with a warm caress that spreads all the way to my belly. When Sawyer massages my scalp, I sigh. Involuntary. Coached.
He’s evil, but there’s no denying he’s good at what he does. Icy. Warm. Icy. Warm. Until warm feels hot and welcoming, and icy is something to endure.
“Who was that guy?” I close my eyes as Sawyer scoops my hair off my back so he can massage the sore, tense muscles near my shoulder blades.
“They call him the Chief Elder.”
I wait for Sawyer to go on, but he doesn’t. He stands and walks around to my side so he can continue up my back, kneading his knuckles over every knotted lump, some that have been there for years.
“Did somebody kidnap a baby?”
His hands pause but only for a second before they start back up. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Really? Because I might have to live here for the rest of my life. It’d be nice to know what the hell is going on.”
He works his way to my tailbone before stepping behind me. When the wand starts back up, I press my legs together and cringe. “No.”
“You have to stop saying no. You’re a ‘yes’ girl now. Always.”
“Please, I need a break.”
“Shhh.” I whine as he runs his scarred palm over my back.
I can feel every mottled piece of flesh, every reminder that he lived a life before this one just as twisted, and for a minute, got what he deserved.
“You need to be strong, Luna. Anyone can withstand anything for an hour at a time. That’s all you need.
The strongest of all warriors are time and patience. ”
I squint at the floor. “Are you seriously quoting Tolstoy to me right now?”
Sawyer’s hand stills. The wand buzzes but doesn’t touch my body, not yet. I hold my breath with anticipation. When Sawyer huffs a laugh, I release it.
“Clever girl.” He shuts off the wand, but I’m too honed in on his voice to appreciate the sudden silence. Sadness burried beneath humor.
Sadness.
Why sadness?
He comes around to release my wrists while I try not to moan my relief.
He helps me off the contraption, holding my shoulders steady as I wobble.
When I meet his eyes, he gives me a small, kind smile like he isn’t the devil intent on torturing my soul. Sometimes, I think it’s fake. Other times, I’m afraid it’s real. I don’t think he knows how cruel he is—or that he believes he’s cruel at all.
But right now, it’s the concern in his eyes that unsettles me most.
“We’ll take a break,” he says, rubbing my shoulder. “We could both use some fresh air.”
I change into a white sweater dress he gives me—a supposed symbol of purity.
I’ve never felt more unclean.