Galen swung the whip back and forth, then cracked it in the air. What if he and Zara could affect the same outcome here on Earth? It meant he would have to keep a balance between his passionate needs and the requirement to punish her. Each served a different purpose, but were bound together. Only if he kept the two carefully controlled would he prove what his warrior friend believed to be the truth.
He laid the whip on his desk. Tomorrow would be a challenging day.
Chapter Nine
Bisma said nothing as she prodded Zara awake. She insisted she ate, which was a struggle. Zara wasn’t hungry for anything. Galen’s treatment of her after they’d had sex had damaged her confidence.
“Stand straight,” insisted Bisma, brushing Zara’s hair with long sweeps of her arm. Zara closed her eyes as Bisma tugged on the knots.
“Should I dress, miss?”
“No, the judge wishes for you to be brought to his room.”
“Now?” Zara’s knees knocked together.
“Yes, now. He’s excused himself from duty so he can see you.” Bisma offered no further explanation. Zara suspected her attempts at staving off a whipping had failed.
Bisma led her toward his chamber. Zara tried to walk with tiny steps, as if it would delay the inevitable. Bisma chivvied her along with a frown.
The room was lit by bright sunlight. It created an illusion of comfort and tranquility. She turned to Bisma, her lower lip trembling.
The nurse squeezed Zara’s hand. “You can do this, Zara. You’re strong.” With those words she left the room.
Zara was alone. Where was Galen?
The bedpost appeared ominous. Hanging from a ring near the apex were chains similar to the ones attached to her bed. Soft cuffs connected to harsh rings of metal. Her heartbeats pounded so hard, it felt as if her heart was leaping about in her chest.
The door opened and Galen entered, wearing his full regalia of his office. The black uniform defined him brilliantly, both his impressive physique and his status as judge and lord. The fabric formed a sheen, a skin that hugged his musculature. Her admiration ended when she saw what he held in one of his hands—the dreaded whip. With no prompting from him, she slipped down onto her knees and bowed her head. Perhaps if he saw her so diminutive and weak, he might change his mind.
Unfortunately
, it had the opposite effect.
“Very good. Your acquiescence is pleasing. Crawl here!” He laid the whip on the bed and sat close to it. Patting his lap, he summoned her. She crawled, weak-kneed, toward him. Something compelled her to obey; his formidable presence and humiliating command had triggered a switch inside her head.
She draped herself across his knees with her face down, her legs propped on the other side of the bed. He rested his hand on the base of her spine, then slid it down between her cheeks.
“A hard spanking will prepare you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath.
One, two, three, she counted each smack in her head and after each one she felt a stinging palm print leave its mark on her poor ass. He wasn’t holding back. Numbers blurred, she lost count around fifteen because they came so fast. When she slipped about on his lap, he looped his arm around her waist and drew her closer.
“Keep still,” he warned.
She whimpered, stifling a curse. There was no let-up. He maintained a steady stream of spanks that neither grew harder nor softer in delivery. A tempering—the preparation of her ass—was a precursor to something much harsher.
“Oh, sir,” she squealed. “That’s enough.”
“No, it’s not.” He bounced a few more off her bottom in reply to her pleading. “When I am ready,” he stated clearly, “you will be bound to the bedpost, feet firmly planted. No kicking. No wriggling. My whip will crack against your red-hot ass. Ten stripes for you to wear.”
“No,” she wailed, sniveling into her hands. The heat already burning was nearly too much to bear.
“You’ll beg for mercy. Tell me you will.” He slowed. Fewer, firmer smacks and each one chased on by a brisk rub of his palm.
Zara ceased writhing. He wanted her to beg for mercy? Why?
“I shall.” She would, she was sure she would.