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 the memory brings me in this terrifying place. 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 dress 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.”
Chapter Three
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.”