I can’t make that promise, even if I wanted to. Amber and Quinn aren’t the same by any stretch of the imagination. To break Quinn completely, to grind down her will and strip away her dignity — it could take years. I might not even be able to do it — she’s much stronger than any resident I’ve ever worked with at Walker. More importantly, I may not want to. I’ll make sure Quinn receives the punishment she deserves, but it’s not this.
However, that’s not the answer Prescott expects.
“Yes, Mr. Prescott,” I say, handing him the flogger.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about Quinn, but I’d better figure it out soon.
Chapter 11
The slap of a whip against my table stirs me from a daydream.
“You’ve been working on that shirt for fifteen fucking minutes,” barks Reed. “Let’s go, Quinn!”
He’s been like this for days. It doesn’t actually matter if I’m working my ass off or dawdling — at least once an hour he makes a point of chastising me in front of everyone. However, I’m not so sure he’s doing it maliciously. When he doled out whippings in the past, it felt different. Not necessarily harder — he still leaves me plenty sore — but less perfunctory, if that makes any sense. He punished me because he wanted to, and he did what he pleased. Now, his movements are more measured, and he doesn’t taunt me. He swings the whip until he feels I’ve had enough, and then it’s over.
Does he feel guilty, for some reason? If he believes my account of what happened to Lance that night, does that make punishing me a chore? Is it not satisfying for him unless I’m the monster he thought I was? Or is he disgusted with himself for having sex with me, and he can’t be near me without feeling ashamed?
I wish he’d just talk to me about it. There’s so much he’s keeping secret, I’m sure. It’s not fair — he knows everything about me. Who is he, anyway? How did he come to be a torturer in an illegal prison owned by a U.S. congressman?
He’s going to have to talk to me sooner or later. If not, I’m going to push the issue, even if that means doing so in front of everyone and risking his renewed wrath.
However, it’s not going to be today: we go through the entire morning routine escorted by Corbin, Edwin and Hunter. When we arrive at the workshop, he’s not around to patrol. I guess it’s his day off, and within a few minutes my presumption proves correct.
I’m finishing a shirt, lost in a memory of Lydia and me at an eighties night, when Corbin bumps my shoulder.
“Wake up, Quinn. Give me your hands,” he grunts. Heavyset but not lacking in muscle, he looks like he could have played football when he was younger. Now he acts as though his authority stems directly from his bulk, though he’s far more disgusting than he is scary. He stares at us in the shower constantly, winking and grinning, as if the novelty of seeing us naked will never wear off. When he gets an erection, he makes a point of sucking in his gut and strutting through his patrol. A reek of cigarettes follows in his wake; when he coughs, it sounds wet and thick.
I turn around to see not just Corbin: the bitch is with him, glaring at me. Her hands are cuffed behind her back, and a leash has been attached to her shock collar.
“What’s going on?”
“Special assignment,” he says. “Hands. Now.”
What the fuck is going on? What could they possibly want from me? I can imagine what Corbin would like to do, but apparently I’m off-limits to everyone but Reed.
“I won’t ask again, slut.”
Sneering, I lift my foot from my machine’s control pedal and do as he says. I scan the room for the other guards, but they’re either not paying attention to Corbin or pretending very hard to look the other way.
He unlocks my cuffs so I can get up, then quickly binds my arms behind my back. He leashes me and drags me and the bitch away.
This can’t be happening. Reed wouldn’t allow it, would he?
Forced to follow, I try not to let any fear show on my face, at least until we exit the workshop. Corbin leads us to a supply closet full of canned food, plastic cutlery and paper towels. He pulls a drawstring to turn on the light and shuts the door behind us.
“On your knees, both of you,” he orders.
“What the fuck is this?” I growl.
Corbin steps up to the bitch and unzips his pants. “Your cells are across from each other, aren’t they?”
“I guess so,” I say, not sure what that has to do with anything.
“You ever wonder why she has pillows and blankets and all those nice things?” Corbin asks me.
In fact, I did, back when I first arrived. Since then, though, I’ve had bigger concerns.
“Why don’t you tell her?” says Corbin.