He strikes me over, and over, but never in the same place, whatever he’s using to punish me is thin and supple, because it’s on my legs, it’s on my arse, he’s dragging it across my throbbing skin. I gasp for air when he pauses. Has he given me momentary reprieve?
“Why are you being punished?”
Goddamn it, the lecture again.
“I left,” I gasp. I lay still. I’m in too much pain for a snarky reply now.
His hand comes to my lower back. “Very good. And why must you never do such a thing again?”
“Because I’m…” I can’t speak, my throat suddenly clogged with unexpected emotion. I swallow hard. I don’t mean to defy him. It would be foolish to do so on purpose, not when I’m vulnerable like this. He asked a question and expects an answer. So I push myself to speak through tears. “Because I have no choice in this.”
Unbidden tears splash on the table.
“That’s right,” he says, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but is that sympathy I hear? A softening to his tone?
“Easy for you to say,” I say, angry tears rolling down my cheeks. But to my surprise, he doesn’t strike me again but pauses.
“Oh? Is it? You know nothing about me, and yet you believe it’s easy for me to say?”
“You’re a woman with no freedom?” I ask, turning my head to look over my shoulder at him. He stands behind me, holding some sort of wicked-looking black rod in his huge hand.
He scowls at me. I continue.
“You’re to be married to a monster?” For the second time, I wish he didn’t have a mask, that I could see his reaction.
“Quiet,” he snaps. “This is punishment, not negotiation.” And holding my eyes with his, he lifts his arm back, before swinging the whistling tool through the air. I cringe and yelp. God, but it fucking hurts. I’m a fool to snap at him when he wields a weapon against me, but sometimes I can’t shut my mouth.
There’s no more talking, then, and at least I’m grateful he’s stopped the damn lecture. He holds me in place and whips me again, until nothing in my world is in focus but blistering, heated pain.
I’m not sure when he stops. I’m not conscious of the moment the pain ceases. I’m panting, sliding on the table now wet with tears and perspiration.
His voice is hard and sharp when he addresses me. “Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Very well, then. I’ll tell Martin you’ve been thoroughly punished.”
I lay where I am, prepared for him to take a picture or take some such mortifying record of my humiliation, but he doesn’t.
It’s over. The brutality of it is over, anyway.
“Come here.”
Again, the order. I push myself off the table, my body throbbing in pain and discomfort, as I turn to look at him.
His eyes narrow when he looks at me, before he reaches a hand to my face. His fingers are large and rough but his touch gentler than I expect. Cupping my chin, he stares and rubs a thumb lightly over my cheek. On instinct, I flinch, which makes him growl.
“Who did this to you?” he asks.
“What? Who did what?” I don’t know what he’s talking about. Does he wonder who’s made me balk at the touch of a man who just punished me?
“This,” he says through gritted teeth, pointing to my eye.
I lift my hand gingerly upward and feel the swollen, tender skin.
Oh.
“I’m assuming I’m bruised?”
“Aye,” he growls. “Got a fucking black eye.” Does he fear my future husband will think he’s done this to me?
“I’ll… I’ll tell the man I’m to marry you weren’t the one who did this.”
Why do I feel the need to defend him? Why?
He glares at me. My response didn’t placate him at all, apparently.
“Who did this?” he repeats.
It’s almost as if… he’s angry I’m hurt? Why would that anger him, when he’s just whipped me, humiliated me, and my body still throbs in pain?
I don’t respond.
“Your father?” He asks. I shake my head.
“Mack Martin?”
I shake my head again.
He tenses. “Your brother?” When I don’t respond, he curses. “Fucking Blaine.” He mutters something under his breath I don’t catch.
He knows him, then. Of course he does.
“Let’s go,” he says, his gaze still implacable, his tone still granite.
He takes out his cell phone.
“The lass has paid her dues,” he says. “We move on as planned.”
I look at him strangely. Something is odd about this. Something is off.
Who is this mysterious stranger? I don’t know enough about the Clan to know who they send as executioner or punisher, who their strike force may be. It’s unnerving.
The men left, though. They weren’t surprised by his presence at all. And the men of the Clan, especially my brother, would not have left unless ordered to do so.