It was sick the way her pussy clenched in anticipation. She’d fantasized being taken by him—forcibly, passionately—since forever, but the circumstances were all wrong. He was all wrong. Her insides knotted.
Still, she kept her attention on the door, anxiously awaiting his expression upon finding her posed in presentation.
The knob turned, and the door swung open, revealing the golden flames of his eyes, motionless in a sea of crimson.
Blood spattered his face and throat and caked the ink on his forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. His black shirt and pants glistened with wetness, and his hands clenched at his sides as he stared at nothing.
“What happened?” Her heartbeats fell hard, her posture crumbling. “Are you hurt?”
He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge her in any way as he stepped into the bedroom. No noticeable limping. Not a hint of physical pain or visible wounds beneath the smears of blood.
Stopping at a built-in cabinet, he opened the doors to a wet bar and poured a glass of aguardiente, neat, the way Colombians preferred their soft vodka.
She wanted to ask him whose blood he was covered in, hoping with every shuddering breath that the gore didn’t belong to one of the captured women. “Matias?”
His entire body stiffened, the glass hovering midway to his mouth. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to call attention to herself.
He swallowed back the guaro in one gulp, poured another, and carried it into the closet. When he disappeared beyond the doorway, she couldn’t see inside, but the retreat of his footfalls hinted at the extensive depth of the room.
She pressed her lips together and sat back on her heels. Did he get in a fight? Torture someone? Stand too close to a ritualistic slaughter?
Her stomach rolled. Maybe this was just a normal day of work for him. Except the crystallized glaze in his eyes suggested that whatever happened had rattled him.
A moment later, he exited the closet, carrying a fraternity paddle, a cane, handcuffs, and a ball gag. His stony gaze landed on her.
“What’re you doing?” Her pulse went crazy as she scrambled to her feet and shuffled backward until the chain snapped her to a halt. “I behaved while you were gone. I fucking knelt for you!”
Jesus, he hadn’t even changed his clothes, standing there like a blood-soaked nightmare. And his eyes… Something wasn’t quite right in the shadows behind those unmoving flames.
He dropped his bundle on one of the armchairs and dragged the chair toward her, its legs squealing across marble.
Parking it just out of her reach, he stood so very still and silent, intent on watching her while her insides fell apart and her bladder screamed to spill all over the floor.
“I have to pee, Matias.” Her voice wavered. “And you need a shower. I’ll help you clean up.”
He continued to stare, studying her in a detached way. No, not studying. He seemed to have retreated inward, mentally shut down. His hand blindly swept over the chair and picked up the ball gag.
Shit shit shit!
“Matias? Remember when I got this?” With trembling fingers, she parted the hair on her scalp.
His gaze flicked to the jagged scar above her hairline and returned to her mouth without a trace of emotion.
She was seven when she fell out of the orange tree, busting her head open and bleeding all over the place. “Do you remember what you told me?”
“An ounce of bravery is more valuable than a gallon of blood.” His voice was ice grinding against rock. “Andres taught me that. Then he died a coward’s death.”
What did that mean? His uncle had perished in the fire that had taken her family. A conversation for another time.
“The day I got this scar,” she said hoarsely, “you promised me you would never let me fall again.”
If she reached out an arm, she could touch his sticky shirt. But she didn’t dare.
He stood taller, his chin level with her forehead as he lifted the ball gag. “Open your mouth.”
“Don’t do this.” She shook her head, eyes blurring. “Don’t hurt me.”
“If you fight me, what will I do?” His tone held no pitch or fluctuation.
Take it out on someone else.
She tensed with the compulsion to kick out a leg, knock him off balance, and lock him in a chokehold. Then what? She was chained to a fucking pole.
Her attention flew to the cane and paddle. Deep down, she believed he wouldn’t kill her. Probably wouldn’t make her bleed either, no matter how badly this would hurt.
She stretched open her mouth.
His lips curved, but there was no pleasure in his smile. No dimples. No emotion whatsoever as he pressed the rubber ball between her teeth and secured the strap behind her head. Thank God, his hands were free of blood, washed clean up to the wrists. Or he’d worn gloves.
“Face down.” He stabbed a finger toward the floor. “Legs spread wide and pray to hell.”
A punishment position, one that allowed full access to the tender areas of her body. She lost control of her breathing, her tongue pushing against the gag as her skin broke out in a cold sweat.
She must’ve hesitated too long, because he grabbed her hair and forced her to the floor on her stomach. With his knee digging against her back, he wrenched her arms behind her, forcing her hands in a reverse prayer position and securing them in the cuffs. Then he grabbed the long wooden paddle.
Tremors assaulted her arms and legs, and her throat sealed up. Didn’t matter how high her pain tolerance, this was going to hurt like a motherfucker. She might’ve fantasized about Matias spanking her, choking her, and fucking her to near-death, but the truth was, she didn’t enjoy pain. Unless…maybe…it was inflicted with love.
There’s no love here.
Her reflexes begged her to fight him off, but experience had taught her that tensing muscles beneath a strike resulted in days of painful bruising. So when he removed his knee from her back and replaced it with the heat of his hand, she let her body go limp and focused on breathing deeply.
Before she drew her second breath, a whistling scream cracked the air, and the paddle made contact in a fiery explosion of broken skin.
CAMILA HOWLED AGAINST THE GAG, her teeth sinking into rubber as Matias swung again and again. He’d skipped the goddamn warm up and slammed her straight into a body-twitching, skin-burning overload of agony.
Kneeling at her side with his weight braced on the hand at her back, he struck her ass and the backs of her thighs with deep, swift, penetrating thuds. Had she been standing, the first hit would’ve knocked her over. As it was, it felt like he was beating her into the floor.
Stop! Dios mio, es demasiado. It’s too much. Her screams garbled against the gag as every hit vibrated through her like a muscle-thumping bass note, chattering her teeth and blazing fire down her legs. Please make it end. She wanted to curl into a ball, close her eyes, and dream all of this away. And never wake up.
The fucking wooden paddle didn’t let up, its rigid width covering such a huge impact area she felt it everywhere. Each heavy, hard-hitting blow stopped her heart and lingered long after the next thud. Her vision blurred, her lungs wheezed, and her bladder felt like it was going to burst.
No más, por favor. No more!
She attempted to slow down her breathing, but she couldn’t tune out the anguish. So she tried to experience it as an observer, focusing on where each burning sensation originated, where it ended, what shape it was, and how deep it sank into muscle and bone. The exercise pushed her through the worst of it, but eventually, dizziness set in, endorphins flooded her bloodstream, and darkness invaded the edges of her consciousness.
Just when she thought she would pass out, he tossed the paddle in the chair. “If you need to pee, do it now.”
He didn’t move to unchain her. Piss on the floor then? Maybe he got off on that brand of humiliation, but she was in too much pain to give a fuck. Except, when she tried to release her bladder, it wouldn’t relax.
She concentrated harder. Nothing. Was it shock? Stage fright?
She bit down on the rubber ball and glared at him through her tears.
Caked in blood, expression vacant, eyes cold, he was death and hell and the devil that ruled it all.
Hooking a finger through the ring on the collar, he dragged her to her knees. For an ignorant moment, she thought he was finished.
Without meeting her eyes, he arranged her lethargic, aching body against the post. On her knees, back against the column, and shins bracketing the base, she felt a tug at her wrists. Heavy deadness pulled on her eyelids. She blinked, tried to keep hold of awareness, but she had no fight left.
The smack of a hand across her cheek snapped her awake, and her attention fell on his bloody shirt. Oh God, this is still happening.
Her breaths came in asthmatic bursts. She tried to pull her arms forward, but they remained where they were, hugging the post at her back and locked with metal rings.
Saliva pooled around the ball in her mouth and trickled down her chin as her entire body shook beneath a rush of adrenaline and whatever morphine-like chemicals her brain had released. She wished she was drugged or drunk. Or dead.