My quarters in the House of Taurus are nothing like the spacious rooms I’d enjoyed during my time with Liam. The room is nondescript; a rectangle with a single mullion window at one end. Rustic plank flooring similar to the hardwood in the dungeon covers the small square footage. A twin bed takes up the space on the outer wall. Adjacent is a small bathroom with a shower—no tub, and no window either. My clothes and belongings are nowhere in sight, and even if Liam sends them, I can’t imagine they’ll fit into this room, considering the small closet with its sliding doors.
The space is claustrophobic and far from the luxury and comfort I’m accustomed to, but it doesn’t distress me as much as Mr. Bordeaux’s unbending rules.
Don’t speak unless spoken to.
Don’t make eye contact.
Kneel unless otherwise instructed.
More rules are bound to come, just as I’m certain I’ll stumble and break them. And that’s what has me wringing my hands as I pace the tiny space of my bedroom, because Heath Bordeaux terrifies me. That dungeon with all of its dark coldness and foreign equipment terrifies me.
Pax, keeper of the dungeon and master of the whip, terrifies me.
What happens when I screw up, and Mr. Bordeaux takes me down there for more than a “training” session? I swallow hard, but the lump of apprehension refuses to dislodge from my throat. Sliding the few hangers in the closet to the side, I search through the meager offerings and settle on a charcoal halter dress that falls to my knees. Only the thought of seeing Liam tonight makes this upcoming dinner bearable.
Except that seeing him will rip me apart. It’ll be like saying goodbye all over again, only this time we’ll have eleven other men for an audience.
After freshening up in the bathroom—and pulling on a pair of panties—I pace the length of the room once more, my limbs tense from nerves as the hour passes. At ten minutes till, someone knocks on the door, and a chill travels down my spine as I fall to my knees and assume the required pose. I open my mouth to call out “come in” but think better of it. I hate this uncertainty, this insecurity and fear that has me second-guessing every move.
Several tense seconds pass before the door inches open and Mr. Bordeaux’s manservant enters my personal space. “Please rise. You’re only required to kneel in Master Bordeaux’s presence.”
“Master Bordeaux?” Confusion pulls at my brows, and the question escapes before I can trap it on my tongue. The blond man overwhelming the space of my bedroom doesn’t seem bothered by the question though. Unlike his employer, he doesn’t appear to mind when I speak.
“Yes, though he’s Mr. Bordeaux to you.” He strides to the closet and chooses a pair of black heels before closing the doors I’d left open in my search of something suitable to wear. “He sent me in to prepare you for dinner,” the manservant explains, holding the shoes out to me.
I rise to my feet and take the offered heels. “May I ask your name?” Too nervous to meet his eyes, I focus on the shoes, fingers tracing the swirling, glittery design. “I don’t know what I should call you.”
Suddenly, building a rapport with this man seems important. With my ladies exiled for the next month and Mr. Bordeaux’s gag order in effect, his manservant will probably be my only form of companionship in the coming weeks.
“Of course,” he says, voice lowering in sympathy as if he knows what the simplicity of his presence, and the use of my voice, might mean to me. “It’s Loren.”
“Is it okay if I call you Loren?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as I slip on the shoes, grateful for at least one ally in this house, because it sure as hell isn’t Loren’s master.
“You’re welcome.” Loren holds the door open with a nod of his blond head, gesturing for me to precede him into the wide hallway that leads to the rest of Mr. Bordeaux’s home. “Master Bordeaux instructed me to pass along some directions for dinner.” We make our way into the main living room, with its sleek black groupings of lounges and curved chairs, crystal-accented side tables, and the grand piano on proud display in front of the wall of windows facing the ocean.
The House of Taurus is high-end with a sterile edge that leaves me cold. It’s unwelcoming to Liam’s inviting style that urged Faye and me to spread out sketchbooks and drawing pencils, snack trays left half-eaten on the table as we talked fashion and friendship. I can’t imagine using this space for such an afternoon of freedom, especially since Mr. Bordeaux sent my ladies away the first chance he got.
Loren comes to a stop in the middle of the great room and stands at attention, hands at his back as he watches the double doors I assume lead into his master’s private quarters. “After Master Bordeaux instructs you to stand, you’re to follow behind him to the dining room, head bowed and hands at your back. When he’s seated, you’ll kneel at his side the way he taught you and wait for further instruction.” Loren meets my gaze, and I’m taken aback by the near translucence of his gray eyes. They’re set deep, fringed with thick black lashes, and almost colorless from the light pouring through the windows.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks.
Where do I start? I’m trying to form a reply—scrambling to grab hold of the many questions firing through my synapses—when those double doors across from us open. I drop to the floor with my heart pounding a furious rhythm in my chest.
“Did you explain the rules to her?”
“Yes, Master Bordeaux. She knows what to expect.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Bordeaux takes a step closer, holding out a hand. “Rise, my queen.”
I do, careful not to meet his eyes. As he turns his back to me, issuing a command to follow him, nervous energy flutters in my belly. I clasp my sweaty hands at my back and keep my head down, each obedient step taking me further away from that sterile space that is the House of Taurus and closer to the comfort of Liam’s presence.
As we descend to the first floor, I can’t help but speculate on what my life will be like if Mr. Bordeaux wins the auction. Will he treat me like this for the rest of my life, nothing more than an obedient slave he keeps stowed away in a closet-sized room, silenced until he lets me speak?
I’m fighting the burn of vomit in my throat when we reach the dining room. Threads of conversation hit me all at once, and I sense the eleven other men—and my ladies, who, from my peripheral, are seated in their designated chairs.
As I kneel next to Mr. Bordeaux, the din of voices falls silent, chairs scrape into place, and everyone settles in for the evening. But my world narrows only to the floor in front of me, and the man in the suit to my right.
“Why is the queen kneeling during dinner?” Liam’s voice falls over me like a warm blanket.
“That is not your concern, Chancellor.” Mr. Bordeaux taps his fingers on the table, the staccato hinting at his irritation.
I’m imagining the clench of Liam’s jaw, the protest that wants to tumble from his beautiful mouth, when Faye’s words make my muscles tense.
“The chancellor is right. She’s not a dog, Mr. Bordeaux. She’s a queen.”
Oh God.
I spring to my feet before he can react and shoot my oldest friend and confidant a harsh glare. “Go to your quarters. You’ll spend the evening alone without dinner.”
Faye’s eyes widen, her expression stricken as the reprimand settles between us. I’ve never wielded my authority over her in such a way, always acting with deference to our friendship and the fact that Faye is more like a sister to me than a subject, but I can’t allow her behavior to continue.
It’s too dangerous.
Pointing to the exit, I stare her down, willing her to obey, and that’s when Mr. Bordeaux rises beside me.
“You’re out of line, Novalee. It’s not your place to punish her. It’s mine.” His ire wraps around me, and I sense the scowl on his face rather than witness it because my attention fixes on Faye.
“Then I’ll take her punishment. Please send her away. I beg of you.”
My words send Faye scrambling from her chair, mouth twisted in outrage. “No!” Her gaze seeks Liam. “Chancellor, please do something. She’s not safe with him.”
I don’t know how she came to that conclusion, since she’s barely spent two minutes in the same room with Mr. Bordeaux, but something about him has pricked at her intuition.
She felt the same way about my uncle when he arrived six years ago.
Liam pushes a hand through his coppery hair, revealing his stressed state of mind. “Your disobedience isn’t helping the queen.” Pausing, his eyes narrow. “For the next month, Novalee is the subject of Mr. Bordeaux.”
The man in question closes the short distance to where she stands, hands on her hips despite the sharp lines of anxiety on her face. He grabs her by the chin. “If you know what’s best for your queen, you will keep your mouth shut while she takes your punishment. Is that clear?”
She doesn’t answer at first, prompting him to shake her chin until the sought-after words fall from her lips. “Y-yes, Mr. Bordeaux.”
“Kneel and don’t even think of moving until it’s over.”
Her legs buckle, lips trembling as she mouths an apology to me from her spot on the floor.
“Loren,” Mr. Bordeaux says with a snap of his fingers.
His manservant materializes from the edge of the room. “Yes, Master Bordeaux?”
“Bring me a ball gag.”
He hurries away to do his master’s bidding, and the room falls silent as Mr. Bordeaux reaches for his belt. “Bend over the table and lift your skirt,” he commands me, sliding that thick strap of leather from around his waist. He loops it in one fist, and I know without a doubt he won’t change his mind the way Liam did four days ago.
Just as I know he’ll make it hurt something fierce—far worse than the bite of Pax’s whip in the dungeon this afternoon. Steeling myself for what’s coming, I lean over the table and lift the skirt of my dress above my buttocks, determined not to cry.
Because I can’t let this cruel man win.
Mr. Bordeaux sets the belt on the table long enough to yank my panties to my knees, fingers rough against my skin, and my gaze clashes with Liam’s. He’s far from stoic, his hands fisted on the table, his mouth a severe line as he glares at the man lingering behind me.
Thighs rigid, my whole backside tingles, and I struggle to draw in a deep breath.
“If anyone in this room tries to interfere with my authority,” Mr. Bordeaux says, and by the flare of Liam’s nostrils I know the warning is for the chancellor, “the queen will be the one to pay for your disregard of protocol.”
The color drains from Liam’s face. In the month since I’ve known him, he’s never looked so…helpless. It’s an expression I can’t stand on him, because it doesn’t belong. He’s too strong to be so flayed, vulnerability spilling from his being.
Because of me.
Because he feels the need to protect me, but coming to my defense now will only mean more punishment. Unable to confront the defeat in his brown eyes, I shift my focus to Sebastian.
And that isn’t any better.
At first glance, the lion seems bored, and if it weren’t for the unfailing strength of his stare, I’d think he was unaffected. Loren’s return breaks the tense silence in the room, and Mr. Bordeaux pushes a rubber ball against my lips with a clipped order to open my mouth.
“You and your lady need to curb those sharp tongues,” he says, forcing my lips open. He tightens the strap around my head, testing the gag to make sure it won’t slip out. The contraption does more than gag me—it humiliates me on a level I didn’t know existed. All eyes in the room fixate on my degradation as saliva seeps from the corners of my spread lips.
Mr. Bordeaux shifts behind me, and yet I still don’t expect it; that first strike to my buttocks that stings my eyes. I blink, holding back the pain, and bite down on the gag when he hits me again.
Liam startles with each strike. After the third, he rubs his hands down his face, stricken as he stares at the place setting in front of him. He can’t watch this any more than he could issue such a punishment himself.
But this is worse. The knowledge is instinctual. Liam Castle would never strike me with such force—the kind of sadism that rips apart my defenses until I’m black and blue and too close to bawling for it to stop.
And that only makes me want to smother my reaction more. It’s a stubborn move, full of pride and rebellion, and part of me hopes he’ll hit harder because that will mean my inaction is getting under his skin.
He can make me kneel and avoid eye contact and silence my voice, but he can’t make me cry.
At some point, I detect the agony of Faye’s sobs over the strikes of leather to welted skin. My fingernails gouge my palms through the clutch of the thin skirt, and I turn my head to avoid the sight of Liam’s crumbling composure. That’s when I realize Elise is crying, too.
And in the seat next to her, the man with the green eyes—usually crinkled at the corners with a secret smile—watches with an edge of dark fury that intrigues me. He turns to Elise, distracting her as another horrific blow assaults my backside.
He’s protecting her from witnessing the worst of it, and I cling to the hope it gives me as Mr. Bordeaux metes out the last strikes, using excessive force and leaving me weak and boneless on the table.
After it’s over, I return the stares of the eleven men surrounding the table, one by one, and discover reactions ranging from horror to arousal and everything in between.
Movement sounds behind me. Light footsteps, the slide of leather against fabric, and the unmistakable clank of a belt buckle.
“Loren, return Faye to her quarters,” Mr. Bordeaux says. “And deliver the queen’s dinner to her, seeing as how the queen won’t be able to eat with her mouth gagged.”
Faye lets loose one last sob, and a strangled, “I’m sorry.”
And then she’s gone, and I ache at the thought of not seeing her again for a whole month, of not being able to tell her how sorry I am for the harsh way I spoke to her.
“Need I remind you of your place, my queen?”
I let my skirt fall to my knees, covering my punished ass, then yank my panties up. With a stifled groan of agony, I lower to my haunches. Mr. Bordeaux reclaims his seat, and dinner begins, the aroma of spicy beef shooting hunger pangs through my belly since I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
Is this part of his punishment—forced fasting? Even more disturbing is the thought he has the power to flat out starve me for the next month if I don’t please him.
I’m alone in this, unable to ask for help or leniency. This sadistic man at my side might break me before the month is up, and there’s nothing I can do about it, short of doing something stupid, like trying to escape.
Or towing his line.
And right then I realize where my power lies—in obedience.
Complete and utter, without question, obedience. The rebellious girl in me revolts, claws out and ears steaming with indignant anger. But the smart girl in me knows how to survive.
Halfway through the main course, Mr. Bordeaux calls for Loren again, and the manservant hands his master a velvet bag with a drawstring closure.
“My gift to the queen,” Mr. Bordeaux says, grabbing my attention as he tips the bag and dumps several diamonds onto the table in front of me.
Twelve of them, I’m guessing, and a quick count confirms my assessment.
“As you all know, I’m having her crown designed. These diamonds will go into the final setting…assuming she gets to keep them all.” He scoots in his seat and takes me by the chin, and I stare over his shoulder at the white dinnerware, avoiding eye contact.
“For each transgression you make, my queen, I will take away a diamond.” He pauses, the unwavering weight of his stare making my face flush. “Earning it back will be painful and degrading.”
A collective murmur travels around the table, until Mr. Green Eyes to the left of me—from the House of Gemini—speaks up. “What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t hold her gift over her head like that.”
“I can and I will. It’s my gift to give,” he says, tone soft as his thumb rubs the line of my jaw, “and that means it’s mine to take away.”