I don’t have many negative memories of my childhood before my parents’ plane went down. The first twelve years of my life were filled with love, laughter, and a sense of security I’m not sure I’ll ever experience again.
But one incident springs to the forefront of my mind as I descend a steep staircase behind Mr. Bordeaux, scones flooding warm light onto the brick walls as our feet scuttle down utilitarian plank steps.
It was the year before my parents died, and Faye and I escaped into the wine cellar, pretending to run from an evil dragon that would take us to the Black Prince—a handsome young boy who intended to enslave us in the tower of his castle.
Instead, we’d ended up enslaving ourselves in the cellar, trapped by an ill-fated jammed door and a busted light maintenance hadn’t yet fixed since it went out the day before. To pass the hours until someone finally found us, we’d huddled in the dark, pretending the darkness kept us safe from the dragon.
But real life doesn’t work like that. Darkness is a stifling entity I now despise, and there isn’t a thing on Earth that will keep the dragon away.
My heart rate doubles by the time we reach the bottom of the staircase. Mr. Bordeaux uses a key to unlock a black iron gate, and I follow him deeper into the dim, cold space. If I had to choose one word to describe this place, it would be…
Horrifying.
It has the feel of a dungeon, with bars sectioning off cells to imprison the punished, and shackles hanging from the ceiling. But the word dungeon doesn’t quite fit either. There’s a decadence to the strange furnishings—the various high-end benches outfitted in dark red leather, and the massive bed sitting off by itself in another sectioned-off space, the sheets an onyx satin and the duvet a vibrant crimson.
The color of passion.
The color of pain.
The bed sits atop a cage, ominous in undertone. Thick leather cuffs dangle from the wooden bedposts, the sight of which shoots a shiver down the slope of my neck. My gaze stalls on an iron rack on the wall reserved for riding crops, whips, and other items that are equally terrifying and unknown. Opposite of that rack stands a wooden X, shackles waiting for wrists and ankles.
Mr. Bordeaux stalls as I take in my surroundings. I’m stupefied, my thoughts spinning in a fog. He turns to face me, and his eyes narrow as he waves a perfect, soft-looking hand. “Take off your clothes.”
A bone-deep chill rushes through me, causing me to hesitate. I’m so off kilter that I don’t notice another person in the room, and the noise registers a second too late.
The cadence of a single footfall behind me.
A light rustle.
The fierce snap of leather an instant before it strikes me on the ass, issuing a sting forceful enough to send my teeth into a grind.
“Do as Mr. Bordeaux commands.” The voice at my back is deep, harsh, leaving no room for doubt that he’ll hit me again if I don’t submit.
With shaking hands I grab the hem of my shirt and lift it over my breasts. I’m fumbling with the clasp of my undergarment when Mr. Bordeaux orders me to move faster.
“I-I’m sorry. I’m trying.”
Another snap of the whip, harder this time, and I push to my toes with a sharp cry.
“Your master didn’t give you permission to speak.”
Mr. Bordeaux shakes his head. “I’m not her master.”
“Down here we do things my way, and that means you are her master.” More footsteps sound as I struggle out of the rest of my clothing, letting it gather around my feet in a messy, abandoned pile of lost dignity. The man with the whip comes into view, and I meet a set of familiar gray eyes.
Pax, from the House of Libra, and from what I recall during the medical examination, the keeper of the dungeon. I want to cower under his scrutiny, or at the least, palm my breasts so he’ll stop molesting them with his lascivious gaze. Instead, I remain frozen with my hands dangling at my sides.
“Kneel,” Mr. Bordeaux says, drawing my attention back to him.
I follow his command and assume the pose he wants, on my haunches, head bowed, hands on my thighs, palms up.
“You’re quick to obey, but I shouldn’t have to issue the order. Unless I say otherwise, this is how I expect you to present yourself.” Three purposeful strides eat up the distance between us. “You will not move until I say otherwise, is that understood?”
A beat passes, and Pax’s whip sends a soft caress across my breasts, prompting me to stumble over my answer. “I…yes, Mr. Bordeaux.”
“You will kneel in this spot, alone and in the dark, until it becomes as natural as breathing.”
Icy fear storms through me, and I bite my lip to keep from pleading for mercy. The two men leave without another word, locks clanking into place upon their exit. A melancholy echo reverberates through the chamber. I count the ensuing seconds in the beats of my heart, senses heightened in the quiet. Gooseflesh erupts on my skin, unhindered by clothing, and I want to wrap my arms around myself, hands rubbing the chill from my flesh until I find a hint of warmth, but I don’t dare move.
Until the lights shut off, plunging me into darkness. I jerk forward, barely catching myself from losing my balance, and a whimper catches in my throat. This is the kind of blackness nightmares are made of—suffocating and oppressive as the air seems to crawl over my chilled skin like phantom fingers. The moonless sky during the Witching Hour would offer more light.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count the skittering tempo of my heartbeat.
One, two, three, four, five, six…
Liam’s seductive brown eyes flash through my mind, and I latch onto the memory of him as if it’s my only lifeline.
Because right now it is.
Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…
He’s my armor against the dragon, and I replay the warmth of his fingers on my skin, the sigh of his breath on my lips, the cadence of his resonant voice.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
His head thrown back, mouth a tight line as pleasure seizes his limbs.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…
The gruff cry that plays on his lips when he comes.
I let out a breath, clinging to the comfort of the memory. But it doesn’t last forever. At some point, I’m so cold that my teeth chatter, despite the way my knees ache and burn.
And that’s how Mr. Bordeaux and his dungeon sidekick find me when they return sometime later—my body tense from holding the degrading pose for so long, jaw rigid with tension, skin pebbled from the cold. Heavy footsteps surround me as I open my eyes and blink, my vision adjusting to the headache-inducing light.
“Posture,” Pax calls out an instant before his whip strikes the flesh on my back. Gasping in stunned pain, I straighten my spine, teeth clenched tight.
“That’s better. Slouching is never allowed.”
“Neither is eye contact,” Mr. Bordeaux says as he bends and lifts my chin. Unwittingly, I meet his gaze. He frowns, sending a nod to Pax, and another strike hits my back. Eyes stinging with unshed tears, I force my gaze over his shoulder, studying the brick wall behind him.
“If you think this is difficult, you won’t like what a punishment down here entails.” Mr. Bordeaux stands, letting go of my chin. “I suggest you get it right the first time.” He pauses, but his feet are in a constant state of restlessness as he paces in front of me. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Bordeaux.”
I sense his smile more than see it, since I’m still studiously avoiding the vicinity of his face. “Excellent. This session has been a good start to establishing disciplined behavior.” He thrusts a hand out and orders me to stand. As I slide my palm into his, I will the stiffness in my limbs to subside, but my knees give out. He keeps me upright with the strength of his grip while Pax grabs me underneath the arms until I’m steady on my feet.
Mr. Bordeaux gathers my clothing, and as I struggle into my undergarments, I feel the weight of his stare on me as tangibly as if he put his hands on me. I’m burning, and not in a good way.
“Come,” he says after I finish yanking my shirt over my head. He takes me by the hand again, giving a strong pull that sends me stumbling after him. “Dinner begins in an hour. I’m sure you know by now how the chancellor disproves of tardiness.”