by Linnea May
“You didn’t keep your promise!” I snap at him, ignoring the finger that tries to prevent me from speaking. “You didn’t answer my question.”
A deep furrow between his eyebrows tells me he’s not amused with my statement.
“Yes, I did,” he growls, removing his finger from my lips. “You’re Petal. That’s all you need to know. That, and the fact that you belong to me.”
He leans in closer, bringing his face so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath when he adds: “You’re mine, Petal. In every sense of the word.”
I swallow dryly, trying to ignore the warm feeling of familiarity his presence emits. How can I feel close to this man? How come his proximity isn’t as uncomfortable as it should be? For all I know, he kidnapped me, possibly drugged me or did God knows what to me before he locked me in this cell.
And yet, I can’t stop reveling in his divine smell. There’s something about it, fresh and masculine, with a hint of... citrus? It seems familiar in a benevolent way. I have to force myself not to lean in even closer, thus giving him the wrong idea about how I really feel. How I should feel.
I should be scared to death. I should be furious at this man. I should cry for help. I should hit him, kick him, try to hurt him and use every attempt—as futile as it might be—to get out of this damn cell. That’s what a normal person would do.
Am I dumb for not attacking him? Is it pathetic of me to not even try for the door?
Maybe.
But I know it wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t get far, either way. Even if I weren’t weakened from whatever he gave me, he’d overpower me easily. He’s not just a man, but a strong man, a man in control of his powers. He looks so calm and confident, not worried in the slightest that I could cause him any trouble, because he knows I can’t, even if I tried.
I loathe this realization.
But what I loathe even more is the cruel trick he played on me. Promising an honest answer to a single question and then leaving me with such a vague excuse of a response.
“You’re a monster,” I hiss, almost spitting in his handsome face.
A dark chuckle is all he gives me, shaking his head while his eyes remain locked on mine.
“Oh, Petal, you have no idea,” he says, as the smile on his face widens. If I didn’t know any better, I would call the expression on his face loving or caring, but those words don’t fit given the circumstances. Instead, another term comes to mind: condescending.
He doesn’t take me seriously. The smile on his face belittles me more than any gesture ever could. And I’m sure he knows that. It’s all he wants, to intimidate me, to scare me, to put me in a place I don’t want to be in.
“Why—”
“No.” He interrupts me right away, raising his voice for the first time. At least he’s not hushing me with his finger this time. “You’re done asking questions for now, Petal. It’s my turn to talk, and your turn to listen.”
“Bu—”
A croaky sound escapes my throat when he closes his hand around it with such sudden force that I don’t stand a chance to evade his grip. He squeezes, the tips of his large fingers almost meeting as he circles them around my small neck, while I choke under his violent touch. He keeps me in this painful standoff when he places his face right before mine, the tip of his nose touching the skin on my cheek while he snarls at me. “I’m not kidding, Petal. I’m dead serious. You shut the fuck up now or this will become very, very painful for you. I’m talking. You’re listening. I don’t want to hear another word from you until I allow you to speak. Is that clear?”
His grip on my throat loosens just enough to allow me to breathe. It has only been a few seconds, but his grasp was so strong that it leaves a lasting impression on my sensitive skin. The pressure is still palpable when he lets me gasp for air, calmly awaiting my response.
I nod in lieu of words, determined not to give him another reason to hurt me like this.
“Good girl.”
His praise comes as a surprise, but I refuse to believe in the sense of security he tries to convey by planting an unwanted kiss on my forehead before he gets up on his feet.
My eyes follow him, forcing me to tilt my head all the way back as our gazes remain glued to each other. I don’t like feeling this small in front of him and have to fight the urge to get up on my feet myself. Even without saying a word, he lets me know he wouldn’t appreciate that. It’s all in his eyes, in the way he looks at me, locking me down to the floor with his dark and ominous gaze.
“Here’s what’s going to happen from now on,” he begins, crossing his muscular arms in front of his chest and jutting his chin forward. “You’re mine. That means you have no rights, no opinions, no decisions of your own. You do whatever I tell you to, and nothing else.”
I can’t suppress the crease between my eyebrows appearing as he lists his atrocious demands, but he lets it go without comment, even though he definitely notices.
“I want you on your knees just like this every time I enter the room,” he continues. “But with your eyes lowered down to your lap. You’re not allowed to look up at me until I tell you to; understood?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I bite my lower lip to stop myself from yelling at him, to stop myself from talking back to him the way I should. He has no right to talk to me this way, to declare me his possession just like that and to order me around like I’m some kind of animal.
But I’m scared of what he might do. I’m scared that he will hurt me again.
So, I nod. I don’t give him the satisfaction of saying yes out loud, but I still respond in the positive.
It’s not enough for him.
“Say it,” he insists. “That’s another rule, Petal. I want to hear you respond to me when I ask a question. I want you to say ‘Yes, master.’”
He must be insane if he thinks I’m going to do that. I frown at him, narrowing my eyes as I slowly shake my head no.
His face hardens, seemingly feeding off the tension that stretches between us. I try to brace myself for whatever may come next. Will he choke me again? Will he hit me? Will he pull me up by my hair and drag me around the room until I agree to respond in the way he wants me to?
Turns out it’s none of the above. Another warning is all I receive. For now.
“Answer me. Or you’ll regret it.”
The unyielding force in his voice makes me want to obey. The words echo through the room, deep and harrowing, causing my pulse to speed up with fright.
But still, I don’t speak.
I can’t.
“Petal.”
He takes a step forward, and I shiver with fear. “I’ll give you one more chance to speak. Now. Do you understand me?”
I press my lips together, effectively doing the exact opposite of what he’s asking of me.
And he’s not having it.
Chapter 6
J
She tries to evade my grip when I bow down to reach for her, catching her arm as she throws it up, trying to protect herself. She mewls beautifully when I pull her up on her feet, the white gown flying behind her like a cape when I drag her over to the leather bench. I move quickly to make sure she has no time to ponder, no time to even consider fighting back.
“On your knees!”
My command bursts through the room as I let go of her next to the bench, adding a violent thrust that sends her down to the floor. She barely manages to catch her fall by supporting herself on the button-tufted surface of the bench while a suppressed groan escapes her. Just a moment passes before she tries to scramble herself up, completely ignoring my demand.
“No!” I object, placing my hand on her shoulder to push her back down. She continues to struggle, unwilling to get into position.
So, I force her.
Her fight turns desperate, but not effective in the least, as I keep pushing, her arms giving in and her chest meeting the leather bench while her knees are forced on the concrete. Terror is painting a pretty picture on
her blushed face when I use my other hand to lift the gown and expose her naked ass.
A frantic groan escapes her, and it is music to my ears. I can’t help but smile as I watch her struggling underneath my touch, wiggling her perfect body as she tries to get out, like a bug that’s slowly getting squeezed to death. She stretches her legs, trying to gain traction on the floor so she can lift herself despite my strength holding her down, but it’s to no avail.
“I warned you,” I hiss at her, relishing every single moment of her torment. “I told you to answer. Good girls do what they are told and they get treats. Bad girls, however...”
My hand lands on her perky ass for the very first time, and the sound she makes in response isn’t anything less than divine.
Fuck, I knew this would be good. But I didn’t expect her to kill me with this very first gasp.
My hand connects with the curves of her ass for a second time, and a third, a fourth. Slap after slap is raining down on her, and I’m not holding back. The more this hurts, the faster she’ll learn.
“Bad girls get punished!” I finish my sentence, adding another sequence of the hardest bare-hand spanking I’ve ever delivered. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t hurt my hand, but I don’t care. My pain doesn’t matter; hers does.
The porcelain skin on her ass cheeks changes with every strike, moving from white to blush pink to bright red as I put my little Petal in her place. She jerks with every hit, her mewls turning into cries that soon equal jarring shrieks.
I never expected her to be able to evoke such loud noises. She’s always been so calm, even just a few moments ago. She was so quiet, it almost worried me. So collected, so innocent and pure.
Beautiful.
But her beauty doesn’t suffer from her current outburst. Droplets of sweat are gathering at her temple as I continue my strikes against her bare ass. Each slap grows in intensity, and by now I’m not even sure whether I’m doing it to punish her or to treat myself. The view of her slender body curling beneath me as I handle her is almost too much to take. And it only gets amplified by her angelic song as she endures her torment with grace, a picture of complex agony adorning her pretty face.
She alternates between harrow cries and desperate mewls while the first set of tears runs down her cheeks. She’s breaking right before my eyes, already losing her stiff and stubborn attitude as her body turns mellow.
By the time I find it within myself to stop, I’m breathing as heavily as she is, and my face is wet from the exertion. That’s where the similarities end, and there’s one very particular physical response to what just transpired between us that I didn’t anticipate, not this early, not now.
I’m hard. Fucking rock-hard.
Vicious need stretches the fabric in my crotch with such unyielding demand that it’s almost painful.
Fuck.
I let go of her, and the moment I do, she starts wailing, rounding her back as her hands dig into the leather surface of the bench. Her entire body is trembling, still absorbing the pain from what I did to her. Her face is lowered and the long hair falling down on each side covers her from my view.
She jerks away from me when I go down on my knees next to her and gently move the heavy strands of hair aside to be able to see her face. Of course, she tries to evade my gaze, but I don’t let her.
“Look at me, Petal,” I whisper. “Look at me now, or I will use my belt on you. Trust me, that’s going to hurt a lot more.”
She gasps with fear, but takes another moment to gather the strength to do as she’s told. Her lips are pressed together when she turns to face me with narrowed eyes that still leak tears of pain.
There’s nothing but fear and pain in her gaze, drawing deep lines across her face without blemishing the beauty that’s unique to her. I have never seen this expression on her, not even close. Then again, there are lots of things I have never seen on her, never heard from her, never experienced with her.
There’s still so much to discover. The thought is thrilling.
Her watery eyes turn into narrow slits as she slowly regains her strength, and her pain turns into hate. This look isn’t new to me. I have seen it on her before, but it was never directed at me.
She has looked at others while this expression crossed her pretty face. Other men.
She remembers. She remembers hate. She remembers feeling helpless and angry. It’s just an emotion, detached from anything and anyone, but it’s the first piece to rebuild the puzzle that is her mind.
My Petal has a long journey ahead of her.
I can’t fucking wait to guide her through it.
Chapter 7
Petal
He left.
The handsome stranger who stepped into my bleak cell, who barked insolent commands at me and then beat me until I lost all self-control, shrieking and wailing like a victim of torture just left without another word.
I was too distraught to even look up as he moved toward the door, and I flinched in pain when he let the door shut behind him, followed by a loud click that silenced any hope for an impending release.
I remain curled up on the small bench with my feet pulled up to my chest as I lie on my side. The bench is narrow and too short for me to rest on comfortably. My feet were dangling over the edge when I woke up, as were my arms. I couldn’t bear that right now. Everything inside me is yearning for just one thing: comfort.
Safety, clarity, hope. A reassurance that everything will be fine. All those things could provide me with at least a hint of comfort, but as of right now, I can’t hold on to any of it. I don’t feel safe—on the contrary. My mind is still fogged and riddled with obscure images that make no sense to me.
When he forced me to look at him after he was done beating me, there was something there. I felt so humiliated, so ashamed, so hurt—and so incredibly angry. It wasn’t there at first, that exuberant fury. Before he made me reciprocate his cruel gaze, I felt nothing but shame and pain, but as soon as my eyes latched onto his, I was overcome with anger. At him. At the situation. At everything.
It sounds weird, but in that very moment, when nothing but rage filled my confused self, it actually felt good. It felt right.
It felt like I was getting close to the truth that’s been taken from me.
But the feeling didn’t last. And at this point, I’m not even sure it was ever there, or real, for that matter. It was just a few seconds—the time that passed while he made me look into the hazel depth of his eyes.
It could have been a cruel trick, nothing more. Just a little game he’s playing to confuse me even more.
Why is he doing this to me? What have I done to deserve this?
If I could at least have that question answered...
Knowing the reason behind all of this would make it so much easier for me to deal with this situation. If I knew why, I would also know who I am, or at least what kind of person. Maybe I’ve committed a crime? Maybe I got caught doing something very bad and he is some kind of vigilante working in the name of justice? A justice that—for whatever reason—could not be brought upon me by our legal system.
Maybe I do deserve all of this.
But what if my sin is so bad that not letting me know is only a sign of mercy from his side? What if he doesn’t tell me because the truth would destroy?
I close my eyes, subtly shaking my head as I curl up into a ball.
No. Whatever the truth behind all of this is, it can’t be worse than this. It can’t be worse than not knowing anything at all.
An abrupt sound causes me to jerk up, my eyes wide in surprise as I turn around.
The lock. Someone unlocked the door.
He’s back.
Instinct chases me away from the door, seeking solace with my back against the concrete wall opposite to it, as far away as possible. A few moments pass before the door is slowly opened from the outside. Two things are different this time. First, he doesn’t check on me through the hatch before opening the door. Second, there’s no
glaring light invading the room as he steps through.
Just before the door closes again, I realize there’s a third difference to the first visitation.
The person walking through the door is not him. It’s not even a man.
A figure, small and narrow-shouldered, with black curls surrounding a set of equally dark eyes, enters the room in small and deliberate steps, carrying a tray in front of her.
It’s a young woman, wearing a simple black dress that ends shortly below her knees, and matching black ballerina slippers on her small feet. She’s very short, a lot shorter than me, but I’m still intimidated by her presence.
The door snaps shut behind her back, making me flinch, as if the sound of it were painful, while the girl remains standing right in front of it about ten feet away from me, with the leather bench between us.
She looks at me, mirroring my anxious expression. The tray is shaking in her hands, the feeble sound of rattling cutlery echoing through the room while she stares at me with her small shoulders tense and up to her ears.
Is she a prisoner, too?
I remain in my cowered position with my back pressed against the cold stony wall, fixing my gown, as I feel weirdly exposed in front of her. Even if she’s a prisoner just like me, she has the advantage of being properly dressed, placing her higher up in the hierarchy, if there is such a thing down here.
“Who are you?”
My voice is hoarse and croaks like that of a heavy smoker. I didn’t even realize how much my throat is still hurting from all the screaming his punishment evoked earlier. I try to clear my throat, grimacing under the pain it causes.
The girl steps closer, placing the tray on the leather bench so I can see what’s on it. There’s a plate covered with a shallow lid, and a small bottle of water next to it.
I can’t help but lick my lips at the sight of it. I’m so thirsty. But I’m afraid to move. I’m afraid this is just another cruel trick being played on me. Will she beat me too, if I try to fetch the water? Will she tell on me? Will she call for him as soon as I dare to move? My eyes dart back and forth between the tray and her, silently asking questions.
