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One day, hours sped past in a blink. The next, seconds crawled by with an age.
Our mornings were spent on the deck or in the ballroom sharing breakfast with so many other Masters and kneeling, unhappy jewels. Afterward, Henri would leash me and take me for a walk in the gardens. In the afternoons, he’d write or read, and I’d do yoga and meditate.
And our evenings…well.
Those became the bane and highlight of my existence.
Not because of the things we did.
But because those things destroyed us.
Piece by piece.
Heart by heart.
Until we were nothing more than creatures of the same twisted longing.
* * * * *
“Ah good swat, mon ami!” Victor slapped Henri on the shoulder as he delivered another shot of cognac to him. Henri took the glass with a shaking hand, wiping the sweat off his upper lip.
My eyesight faded in and out.
My blood positively burned.
My entire body scorched with fire.
The fourth lash of a tan-and-white flogger that Victor had given us as yet another gift sang through the air and swatted my bare belly.
The meditative intensity that used to be so elusive now found me every time we played. It uncoiled slowly, insidiously wrapping me in its blanketing sensitivity, quietening my mind and making my entire body feel everything.
I felt Henri’s stare as he glowered at the welts left on my belly and breasts from his flogger.
I saw his desire, his despair, desperation, and darkness.
I heard the heavy thud of his thundering heart as if our pulse pounded to the same beat.
You doing okay? His silver gaze asked.
I’m with you. I ducked my chin. I trust you.
The more we played, the stronger our bond became.
It’d been three weeks since Peter and Henri met in the kitchens, and almost every night, Victor had summoned us to his chambers.
Returning here and being forced to kneel on the same carpet where Victor had raped me was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I’d fought the very real urge to dissociate so I didn’t run screaming into memories.
But…Rachel had been there. Henri had been there. And in some twist of normalcy, Victor had indulged in one too many whiskeys and fallen asleep on the couch before he ever laid a finger on Rach or ordered Henri and I to perform.
The next night, Rach and I had been allowed to actually sit on the furniture and eat off plates instead of our Master’s fingers. Victor treated Rachel like his own life-size doll. One currently fragile and in need of smothering so she delivered the healthiest heir.
That was until he tied her to his four-poster bed and whipped her the same way Henri had whipped me in the snuffbox.
While Rachel swallowed her soft screams, Henri had ordered me to blow him on the couch—neither of us watching Victor welting Rachel’s pretty skin. We’d fallen into our own world of depravity and learned to tune out those around us so it remained only us.
The next night, more of the same.
And the next.
